His hair was like a cascade of moonlight, stark against the dimness of the room, as he grasped my arm with a startling ferocity. The pain was immediate, a sharp reminder of the raw abrasions left by ropes that had bound me not long ago. He hauled me across the threshold into a chamber that seemed to echo with the ghosts of despair. Chains dangled ominously from above, swaying slightly as if in anticipation of their next prisoner.
Without a moment's pause, the white-haired man drew the chains down, their clatter resonating through the oppressive silence. He shackled me cruelly, my arms stretched upwards, the chains cutting into my skin while my toes strained to brush the cold, hard floor. My shoulder throbbed mercilessly, a relentless ache that bore the memory of Klint's arrow, the one that had torn through muscle and sinew.
The man's energy transformed as he leaned in, his eyes gleaming with a madness that sent a chill down my spine. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be nothing more than a groveling cur, licking my boots clean, I'll break you in," he declared, his voice dripping with malice. My eyes, initially wide with a flicker of fear, quickly narrowed into slits of sheer defiance. I gathered a mouthful of spit and launched it at his face, my act of rebellion clear. If torture was to be my fate, I'd face it with a sneer. I was the one who always bent, always yielded. No more. I'm done. If this is how I get treated then I might as well earn the punishment. With that I heard a sickening laugh and a loud pop from the man's whip. "Oh this'll be fun you damn demon."
(Alex's point of view)
The months have stretched on since Ashton's departure, a void where he once stood beside me and Mom. It's hard not to dwell on the fact that I was the one who pushed him away, fully aware that he had nowhere else to turn. I find myself at my desk, gazing out the window with a heavy heart, wondering where he might be now. I'd like to think he's thriving, using that same resilience and resourcefulness that defined our childhood adventures. A hollow laugh escapes me, a feeble attempt to lighten the weight of my thoughts.
"Hey, you okay, Alex?" Leah's voice breaks through my reverie, tinged with concern. I glance up, meeting her eyes, and then look away, a sigh betraying my inner turmoil as she slips her hand into mine—a gesture of comfort. "Thinking of Ashton, right?" she murmurs, her intuition reading me like an open book. I can only offer a silent nod in response. "He's doing fine. I bet he's out there, seizing life with both hands, just like always," Leah says, her words a soothing balm, trying to mend the ache with hope.
I returned Leah's gaze with a nod, the familiar chime of the bell ringing through the halls, signaling the end of our pursuits for the day, my knowledge has expanded in waves, learning of the energy that fuels our world, learning how to master the intricacies of my mana, and understanding the very fabric of our existence. This journey of enlightenment has not gone unnoticed; my name has climbed the ranks, placing me among the elite of our freshman class, a status that has not only brought me a measure of fame but also the attention of many admirers. An attention that Leah observes with less than enthusiasm.
Lost in these reflections, I'm suddenly pulled back to the present by the approach of my companions. Rose, with her ever-curious eyes; Catalina, with a stride that speaks of untold stories; and finally, Nate, the embodiment of boundless energy. "So, are we hitting the cafe or what?" Nate asks, his grin infectious as he casually drapes an arm around my shoulders. I push aside the remnants of my earlier brooding, clear my throat, and allow a genuine smile to take over. "Yeah, let's do it," I agree, my laughter mingling with theirs, a testament to the camaraderie we share. The prospect of the cafe, with its promise of relaxation and banter, seems like the perfect antidote to the day's heaviness.
(Ashton's pov)
Time has lost all meaning in this place. I tried to track the passage of time, but it's useless. Has it been hours? Minutes? Days, perhaps? The concept of time has become a distant memory. The sun's ascent and descent are mysteries to me here, I miss the sky, the sunsets and viewing the stars.
Numbness has become my constant companion, my senses dulled to the point where I can no longer trust them. My vision remains a hazy fog, and my body is drained of all vitality. Hunger once clawed at my insides, a relentless beast, but even that sensation has retreated, beaten back by my sheer will to ignore its tormenting call.
Suddenly, a voice cuts through the stillness, "Okay okay, that's enough. We need him alive by the end of next week," Frank declares, his tone laced with exasperation as he approaches. The clinking of chains signals a temporary reprieve as he releases me from my bonds. My body collapses, no longer able to support itself, and I crumple to the cold, hard ground. My legs, once strong and sure, now feel alien to me, numb from the prolonged absence of movement.
"Drag him back to his cage," Frank commands with a weary sigh, turning his attention to the doctor who's been a silent observer of my torment. "So, learn anything?" he inquires, his curiosity piqued, eager for some shred of insight from the doctor's evaluations. The indifference in his voice is a stark reminder of my grim reality, where I am nothing more than a subject, a thing to be poked and prodded at their whim.
Lance exhaled a heavy breath, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders like a leaden cloak. He reached out and gave Frank a reassuring pat on the back, a silent gesture of camaraderie in the midst of their dark undertaking. "Yes, actually," Lance began, his voice a mixture of awe and uncertainty, "he has an extraordinary resistance to toxins and pharmaceuticals. His body's ability to heal is remarkable, almost as if..."
Lance's voice trailed off, a shadow of hesitation flickering across his face. He leaned in closer, his words a confidential murmur meant only for Frank's ears. "Before he was overcome by the shocks I administered I wanted to test out his bodies healing, you know how demons are known for it, so I decided to give him a cut on his stomach it was decently deep…but the kid he..he actually smirked... and laughed. It was as if the pain was nothing to him, as if my attempts to harm him were just a child's play his eyes were…glowing a reddish color? I don't know how, we have that collar on him that prevents mana use..it was as if he overloaded the collar" He shook his head, a note of bewilderment lacing his tone. "It was quite...weird, if you ask me." The doctor let out a weary sigh, the sound echoing faintly in the sterile air of the lab.
Meanwhile, I found myself being dragged back to the confines of my cell, the guards handling me with a rough indifference that spoke volumes of their disdain. The door to my cell swung open with a grating screech, and I was thrown inside with little care, my body hitting the floor with a dull thud. They didn't even bother securing me with chains this time, perhaps confident in the knowledge that escape was a distant dream and that I was to weak to even attempt the thought of it. With a clang of finality, the cell door was locked, and their footsteps receded, leaving me with the silence and the darkness once again.
"Kid what happened," the woman's voice was laced with panic, her breaths coming out in sharp gasps as she scurried to my side, the clinking of her chains echoing in the cramped space as they stretched to their limits. Her eyes, wide with alarm, scanned over me, a tumult of worry and sorrow swirling within their depths. Pity was etched into every line of her face, but it was the last thing I desired—pity was a luxury I couldn't afford, not when each breath was a battle I was losing.
"I—I can't remember," I managed to mumble, my voice muffled and weak, barely audible over the throbbing pain that consumed me. She reached out with a trembling hand, her touch gentle as she brushed my fevered forehead, her fingers recoiling at the heat of my skin. "You're burning up," she declared, her voice a mix of concern and fear. "You must have an infection somewhere."
With a sharp intake of breath, she surveyed the damage that marred my shirtless torso—the canvas of my skin painted with the crimson of blood, mottled with the purples and blues of bruises, and scored with angry red cuts. Yet, beneath the signs of abuse, my muscles stood out in stark relief, a testament to a strength that persisted even as I was deprived of sustenance. The stark contrast was a silent rebellion against the cruelty that sought to break me.
As she surveyed my battered form, her expression hardened into one of grim determination, her gaze eventually landing on the jagged wound that marred my shoulder. The skin around it was angry and inflamed, a clear sign of infection, no doubt aggravated by the rough treatment I had endured when they strung me up like a side of meat. Her fingers traced the edges of the wound with a featherlight touch, her breath catching in her throat.
"What in God's name have you been through?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, a rhetorical question meant more for the cruel fates than for me. Her eyes weren't searching for an answer; they knew the tale of brutality all too well.
"How much longer?" I rasped, my voice hoarse and raw from the screams that had been torn from my throat under the relentless wave of torment. Each word was a struggle, laced with the weariness of a soul pushed to its limits.
"Next week," she replied, her voice a hushed promise, carrying the weight of hope and the burden of patience. "Next week we'll be out, just stay strong a little longer." There was a softness in her smile, a tender ray of optimism in the bleakness of our shared reality.
With deliberate care, she tore a strip from her already tattered dress, the fabric giving way with a quiet rip. She used the makeshift bandage to dab at the blood that had seeped from my wounds, her hands steady as she worked to cleanse the grime and gore from my skin, her every move a silent vow to see us both through to the end of this nightmare.
"Kid...I never got your name," Aria whispered, her voice a gentle undertone to the sound of the night around us, as she continued her ministrations on the wounds that crisscrossed my body.
"Ashton," I managed to breathe out, the effort of speaking making my voice scarcely more than a strained whisper. A small, wistful smile ghosted across my face as I added, "But my friends called me Ash." The past tense wasn't lost on either of us, and in her eyes, I saw the reflection of my own nostalgia.
Aria's hands paused for a moment, and I could feel her gaze on me, heavy with empathy. That was it…that's what broke me..thinking about Alex again.
"I can't do it anymore. I just can't," I confessed, the words tumbling out of me like stones, heavy with defeat. My eyes, a wellspring of pent-up emotions, betrayed me as tears began their silent, relentless descent, tracing paths down my dirt-streaked cheeks.
My head bowed under the weight of despair, I let the tears fall freely. In this moment of vulnerability, I was laid bare, my resolve crumbling. No matter the ferocity of my spirit, no matter the fight I put up, this damned world seemed hell-bent on breaking me, piece by piece.
"I miss my family," I murmured, the ache in my heart intensifying with each word. "I miss Alex." The name was a caress, a whisper of better times that now felt like a distant dream, a reminder of everything that had been ripped away from me. Sure we were poor and we went hungry sometimes but atleast we had each other.
Aria's movements came to a sudden halt, her hands hovering in the air as she took in my outburst. The raw intensity of my emotions had caught her off guard, leaving her momentarily frozen as she tried to piece together the events that had led a child—a child like me—to such a state of despair. She could only wonder silently.
"It's all my fault," I continued, my voice breaking under the weight of self-blame. "I was never strong enough, never brave enough to face anything head-on. All I ever did was run, and run, and now... now I've run straight into a dead end. There's nothing left for me here." The words poured out between sobs, each one laced with a lifetime of regret.
My grip tightened around my already bruised arms causing a little blood to draw from my nails. a futile attempt to hold myself together, to contain the pain that threatened to spill out. But it was too much to bear alone.
In that moment, something maternal within Aria stirred to life. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a warm, protective embrace. It was a stark contrast to the cold, unforgiving environment that surrounded us. Despite having just met, her hug felt like a sanctuary, a brief respite from the relentless storm of my life.
I clung to her, the fight within me extinguished. "I just can't do it anymore," I admitted, the words muffled against her shoulder. "I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want to run. I'm just so tired." And in her embrace, I allowed myself the vulnerability I had denied for so long.
"Listen to me, Ashton, and listen carefully," Aria's voice was a soft but firm whisper, cutting through the heavy silence that enveloped us. "I understand that in your eyes, the world still holds the wonder and confusion of a child's gaze. But despite that, it's crucial for you to find the strength within yourself to endure."
Her eyes locked onto mine, willing me to grasp the importance of her words. "You mustn't let yourself break under the pressure. You are strong, stronger than you even realize," she continued, each word deliberate and filled with an unwavering belief in my resilience.
As she spoke, her arms were gentle but steady around me, rocking me back and forth in a soothing rhythm. It was a comforting motion, reminiscent of a lullaby without words, meant to calm the storm of emotions raging inside me. Her presence was a testament to the strength she spoke of—a strength she was trying to ignite within me.
After several moments in the comforting cocoon of Aria's embrace, I felt the tumult within me begin to subside. With a steadiness I hadn't felt in ages, I pulled back just enough to see her face. She released me, her hands lingering for a second before they fell to her sides, and she offered me a sweet, reassuring smile.
"Now, kid," she began, her voice a calm, grounding force in the chaos of my thoughts, "you mentioned you're tired of running, didn't you? The only path to breaking that cycle is to gain strength—to build it, hone it, and wield it. Are you willing to embark on that journey? Are you prepared to endure what it takes?" Her inquiry was gentle, yet it carried the weight of a significant crossroads.
I raised my eyes to meet hers, searching for any hint of duplicity, but found none. Her gaze was clear and honest, devoid of any malice or judgment. It was evident that she wasn't trying to deceive me; she was offering a lifeline.
"Yes," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with determination. "I don't want to run anymore. I want to stand and fight. I want to protect what's dear to me." Images of Alex and his mother flashed in my mind, fueling my resolve. They were the embodiment of what I was fighting for, the reasons I had to become stronger.