In the eyes of the scorned, vengeance is the only salve for their hatred. Vengeful souls find no rest until their pain is repaid tenfold. Pain morphs into strength, and with that strength, dynasties crumble. So enjoy your peaceful slumber while it lasts, for a time will soon arrive when sleep becomes but a forgotten luxury.
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Blood-curdling screams claw at my eardrums, begging to be acknowledged, but it bothers me none. The chilling cries would have once pierced my heart, but after eleven years in this godforsaken prison, I've become numb.
The relentless routine around me pays no heed to the distant sounds of torture. We've become accustomed to it, an omnipresent backdrop to our pitiful existence. The clang of metal on stone tries, and fails, to drown out the screams. There's no comforting chatter to soften the harsh reality; as slaves, we're meant to be seen, not heard. We're merely tools for the rich, discarded here to serve their purposes.
In this sunless abyss, it's every man for themselves. After years of oppression, you learn to obey, to silence your defiance. Only the new ones dare to rebel, but their spirits are soon crushed.
My fingers clench around the icy surface of a rock. My skeletal limbs tremble with each step I take, a grim testament to the divine mercy that keeps me alive.
As prisoners, our sustenance is pitiful, just enough to keep us on our feet, yet not enough for true nourishment. They maintain our weakness, hindering any potential rebellion. They don't care that the very deprivation that subdues us also hampers our ability to work.
My gaze settles on a woman ahead of me, buckling under the weight of a stone she's hauling. A part of me, a naïve fragment still clinging to hope, implores me to help her. But experience has taught me the grim realities of intervention.
Like bloodhounds on the scent, the guards materialize from the shadows, watching our section with predatory eyes. Alcohol-soaked whips dangle from their hands, and their faces stretch into malicious grins as they circle their prey. Their taunts slice through the air.
"What do we have here, boys?" Luthier, a regular guard for our unit, jeers first, his voice thick with mockery.
"Looks to me like a mule refusing to do its job." A face unfamiliar to me retorts, landing a kick on the womans side.
The woman curls into a ball on the ground, arms shielding her head. Her body quivers with fear, yet she only whimpers, knowing pleas for mercy will fall on deaf ears. It's clear to everyone around that she may not survive this onslaught.
Swallowing my horror, I silently turn back to my work, forcing myself to block out the chilling sounds of her punishment. I may not know her name or her story, yet it doesn't stop me from whispering a silent prayer for her soul to find peace in the realm of Keasix.
They should count themselves lucky I'm merely human. If I were a witch or any superior being, they would have met a gruesome end long ago. Unfortunately, even if I were, the implants they insert upon arrival suppress all magical and superhuman powers.
The sound of the bell resonates, signaling a shift change. Informing us that the night workers are preparing to take over. Collective sighs of relief punctuate the stale air, echoing the universal yearning for rest. Tools are returned to their rightful places in a race to escape this hellish landscape.
"You better move quickly unless you fancy a night shift, too!" Luthier bellows, spurring the already frantic pace. A single shift is torment enough; enduring another is akin to a death sentence.
We form a straight line to be patted down before being allowed to return to our cells. As I inch closer to the front of the line, dread tightens its grip when I see Monroe, the guard assigned to today's search. His crooked teeth form a sinister smile that I know all too well. His rough, calloused hands traverse my dirt-stained skin, lingering distastefully over my chest. It's in moments like these that I yearn for more than a thin cloth for protection.
"Nothing on this one." Monroe's hand slaps my rear after a minute of his groping, the impact echoing like a clap of thunder, and I wince from the stinging pain. Undernourished and fragile, my body reacts more intensely to the blow. This was his twisted signal that I could leave. Despite my resolve not to, I find myself glancing back at the fallen woman. Her lifeless form meets my gaze and, unexpectedly, a rare smile tugs at my lips. I then turn to follow the procession back to our quarters.
Navigating the damp, narrow tunnels that have been a major part of my life doesn't take long, and soon, I find myself outside my cell. We wait in front of our respective cells, the audible click of the unlocking mechanism a familiar sound. Pushing open the door, I step inside.
Though I wouldn't consider myself obsessively neat, I do prefer a modicum of order. Yet, the current state of my room would hardly meet even the most lenient standards of cleanliness. With a shake of my head, I resist the urge to sigh at the mess left by the night workers I share my space with. It might seem pointless in our grim situation, but maintaining a clean area is the one semblance of control I have.
"Dinner time," The booming voice of a guard interrupts my thoughts.
The inmates stir at his words, but I remain motionless. It's not my turn for food. Instead, I set about tidying the chaos, my attention firmly focused on my task. Only when I hear the sound of my cell door opening do I go on high alert.
Fear floods my senses, my heart pounding like a drum, as I consider all the reasons someone might be entering my cell. I pivot as swiftly as my weakened body allows, having long learned to never turn my back to anybody here. The fear recedes as soon as I see them throw someone else into my cell.
"Looks like you've got a new roommate." The sneer in Denis' voice is unmistakable, although my attention is solely on the newcomer. "Hopefully, this one will last longer than the others."
I study her out of habit, a skill I developed soon after my arrival here. Trust is a luxury one can't afford. My rigid posture relaxes as her dark grey eyes, brimming with innocence and fear, meet mine. It isn't unheard of for children to be thrown into this prison. I was only eleven when they captured me, dragging me kicking and screaming into this hellish place.
She trembles under my gaze, the practical part of me knows it would be safer to ignore her and let her fend for herself. Oh Goddesses do know that. But as I take in her tear-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes, a dormant kindness within me resurfaces, stirring a long-suppressed ache.
"Here, let me help you." I whisper, as soon as the guards are out of sight, and extend a hand towards her. She merely stares at it. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Thank you," Her voice, hoarse with emotion, finally breaks the silence as she hesitantly accepts my hand.
It drains a good portion of my strength to haul her to her feet, but I manage to get her upright. Now standing face-to-face, I can see her more clearly. Despite being a child, she's tall, and even under layers of grime and dirt, her beauty is undeniable. If she survives into adulthood, her allure will be hard to ignore. My gaze fixates on her straight, shoulder-length black hair, as dark as mine, undamaged yet by this place. There's a hint of freckles dusting her rosy cheeks, although I'll only know for sure if she ever gets the chance to clean up properly.
"You should get some rest," I suggest, spreading my tattered old blanket on the floor for her. "You'll be doing a lot of heavy lifting tomorrow, and you'll need your strength."
The girl nods in acknowledgement, though she doesn't speak. Her earlier words had been unexpected; I'm well aware of the paralyzing fear and confusion that can accompany a new arrival here, especially one so young. She complies with my suggestion, attempting to find comfort on the thin sheet. I can see, however, that it will take time for her to adjust to such meager provisions for rest.
For a while, I observe her twisting and turning, telling myself that I've done enough. My strength is already ebbing, and I can't predict how much longer I'll survive in this God-forsaken place. I don't want her to become reliant on me, only to be left alone in the end. But eventually, her restless tossing becomes too much to bear, and my sense of mercy overrides my pragmatism. I move towards her, placing my hand gently on her petite shoulder. She jumps at the unexpected contact, but relaxes when she realises it's me.
"Come here," I instruct, maneuvering her so that her head rests on my lap. I'm painfully thin, and the pressure of her head on my thighs sends an ache through them that I know will linger come morning. But if I can provide her even the smallest measure of comfort, it's worth it.
At first, her body is rigid, but it gradually relaxes as I stroke her hair and hum a lullaby I thought I'd long forgotten. She gazes up at me, seemingly puzzled by my actions, a sentiment I share. I don't have an answer for her, or even for myself, but I attempt to smile, hoping it will provide the reassurance she needs.
"M... my name is Fleya," her soft voice shatters the silence that had descended upon us.
Her declaration halts my comforting motions, my hand frozen mid-stroke in her hair. As a prisoner, I'm not entitled to a name. It's been so long since anyone has called me by mine that I'm not sure I remember it. The seconds tick by as I lose myself in the storm swirling within her eyes.
"Nadya," I finally whisper, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I say the name aloud. "My name is Nadya."