Zelaes's vision wavered, a disorienting dance of blurred shapes and sharpened outlines that pulsed in sync with the pounding in his skull. Each painful throb sent a wave of dizziness through him, as though the world were spinning beneath his feet.
Gradually, the fog lifted, and with it, the sting of awareness settled into his limbs—his senses snapping back into place like the final pieces of a shattered mosaic.
Voices reached his ears, loud and muddled, their tones sharp and impatient, scraping against his raw nerves. As his vision cleared, a sharp glint of gray metal loomed before him, the cold, lethal curve of a blade pointed directly at his throat.
It was no ordinary blade; it resembled a kitchen knife but was warped and menacing, its edge keen and wickedly serrated. The sight of it ignited a spark of panic in Zelaes, his survival instincts roaring to life.
He tried to move, to fight back, but his body betrayed him—his muscles tensed and spasmed, struggling uselessly against the tight ropes binding him to a sturdy wooden chair. He glanced down, confirming what he already feared: his arms were secured behind his back, the coarse rope biting into his skin, cutting off any hope of escape.
A low growl rumbled in his throat as he lifted his gaze to face his captors, defiance simmering beneath the surface of his fear.
"Eris, give the boy a break," a deep, masculine voice interrupted.
"Save your words, Kerion!" the woman snapped back, her voice a snarl of barely contained fury. "Newcomers are not welcome under my nose!" She glared down at Zelaes, her grip on the knife tightening until her knuckles turned white.
Her long, red hair, a fiery cascade that fell like molten lava, swayed as she moved, each strand catching the light and glowing with a menacing sheen. Her eyes were the same searing red as her hair, blazed with a wild, untamed anger that made Zelaes's heart pound in his chest.
"Who… are you people?" Zelaes rasped, his voice weak but edged with defiance.
"Shut it," Eris snarled, not bothering to mask her disdain. She lunged forward, her hand shooting out to grab a fistful of Zelaes's gray hair, yanking his head back as she pressed the blade against his throat.
Zelaes could feel the sharp edge prick his skin, the cold length of steel a hair's breadth away from drawing blood. Her proximity was suffocating; he could feel the heat of her breath, the pressure of her chest against his, her frame wrapped tightly in a sarashi and black, billowy pants that clung to her movements.
"Who do you serve?" she demanded, her voice full of suspicion.
"Myself," Zelaes spat, his voice steadier now, hate lacing each syllable. "And nothing else."
Eris's eyes narrowed, her expression darkening with disbelief. "Bullshit!" she hissed, her grip tightening painfully on his hair. "In what fiery pit of hell do you think someone would just be waltzing around with black steel? Slabs of it, at that!" Her voice rose, each word cracking like a whip in the small, oppressive space of the room.
"Eris—" Kerion interjected, stepping forward and reaching for her wrist. His eyes were a deep, unyielding black that met her furious red ones with a look that spoke volumes without a word exchanged. Something passed between them in that charged moment, a silent conversation that only they understood.
Eris's posture stiffened, her expression caught in a battle between anger and restraint, before she finally pulled away with a grunt, tossing Zelaes's head aside as if he were nothing more than a discarded toy.
"Hmph… Well, we have the slabs. There's nothing to this man anymore," she said coldly, her voice clipped as she turned her back on him.
"So, we'll take it?" Kerion asked, straightening to his full height, towering over Eris. His tone was carefully neutral as he glanced from Zelaes to Eris.
"Yes. Kill him or let him go. I don't need more unwanted liabilities under my belt," Eris replied sharply, her words cutting through the air like a knife.
Without waiting for a response, she stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her with a resounding thud that made Kerion flinch. The sound echoed in the small chamber, leaving Zelaes alone with the man who now held his fate.
"Well," Kerion sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "If you aren't insane by now, you probably caught that my name is Kerion." He spoke with a resigned casualness, as though the whole situation were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
"I did," Zelaes growled, his voice thick with irritation. He studied Kerion closely—the man's short, spiky black hair, his bulky build clad in a black leather tunic.
"Don't be so uptight," Kerion said slowly, his voice measured and calm. "I'm not killing you. I get nothing out of it." His tone was level, almost disarming, but Zelaes could hear the underlying currents of practicality in his words.
"But you'll take my valuables and leave me out to die?" Zelaes challenged, his fists clenching behind his back as anger flared within him. "You're no better than that woman." His voice was laced with venom.
"Calm down. I won't do that either," Kerion replied, his tone still annoyingly calm. "On one condition." He leaned in, his face closer now, the light casting shadows that danced across his sharp features.
Zelaes could feel the tension between them, the unspoken challenge that hung heavy in the air. He didn't trust Kerion, not one bit. But he also knew the precariousness of his own position—this was the first human contact he'd had in months, the first glimmer of a society, however flawed.
"What are they?" Zelaes asked, his voice softer now, resignation and caution mingled in his tone.
"Simple," Kerion said, a slow smile curling at the edges of his lips. "Just help us hunt and gather." He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly as if the offer were as casual as asking for a favor from an old friend.
He scooted closer to Zelaes, his hand reaching for the ropes that bound his legs. "Deal, or no deal?"
Zelaes weighed his options. Eris's hostility had been expected in this hostile world—distrust was the norm, and any stranger was an immediate threat. But Kerion's approach, his willingness to negotiate rather than kill, was a surprise, and Zelaes found himself reluctantly intrigued.
Despite the tumultuous start, Zelaes knew that his odds of survival would be vastly improved if he stayed within the camp's confines. To venture out alone again was a death sentence. He couldn't afford to let his pride or his initial misgivings guide his decision. He took a slow, steadying breath, his eyes meeting Kerion's as he nodded.
"... Very well," Zelaes said, his voice firm despite the uncertainty that churned in his gut.
Kerion nodded, a sharp glint of excitement flashing in his eyes. With a swift flick of his wrist, a small, concealed blade shot out from the cloth wrapping his forearm. He raised his arm high and brought it down in a clean arc, slicing through the ropes binding Zelaes's legs with effortless precision.
The tension that had held Zelaes captive fell away, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt his legs move freely beneath him. A small, fleeting sense of relief washed over him.
Zelaes looked up at Kerion, who had already moved to work on the ropes at his waist. "That black steel…" Kerion muttered as he carefully cut through the bindings, his voice thoughtful as he worked. "It's very high quality. With the right skills, it could be reforged, repurposed."
Zelaes watched as Kerion freed him completely, then sat back in his wooden chair, studying Zelaes with a curious gleam in his dark eyes. "I'm aware," Zelaes replied, his voice steady, though his hands still gripped the chair's arms.
Kerion leaned forward, his gaze intent as he spoke. "I could, theoretically, turn it into plated armor," he proposed, his tone filled with confidence.
"Armor?" Zelaes repeated, his interest piqued as he straightened in his seat.
"Real, authentic armor," Kerion confirmed, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "I've done it before. Lady Eris refuses the armor because it slows her down, but a good number of our warriors here are equipped with it."
Kerion's offer lingered in the air—a possibility, one that seemed almost too good to be true. Zelaes considered his options. Armor meant protection, a shield against the dangers that lurked beyond the camp's gates. But it also meant commitment, a pledge to fight for these people, to stand as one of their own.
"If you're willing to fight for this camp and protect the people here, I'll make the armor for you," Kerion proposed, his voice steady as he extended the offer.
Zelaes considered it carefully, a flicker of hesitation sparking in his eyes. The deal was sound, almost tempting in its simplicity. But Zelaes knew better than to commit himself fully to anything without a way out. "Fine," he agreed at last, his voice firm. "I'll remain here. I'll do what you wish of me. But if I deem it fit, I won't hesitate to disappear."
Kerion clapped his hands together with a resounding boom, his laughter echoing through the room. "Heh! Very well! What's your name?"
"So, we'll take it?" Kerion asked, straightening to his full height, towering over Eris. His tone was carefully neutral as he glanced from Zelaes to Eris.
"Yes. Kill him or let him go. I don't need more unwanted liabilities under my belt," Eris replied sharply, her words cutting through the air like a knife.
Without waiting for a response, she stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her with a resounding thud that made Kerion flinch. The sound echoed in the small chamber, leaving Zelaes alone with the man who now held his fate.
"Well," Kerion sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "If you aren't insane by now, you probably caught that my name is Kerion." He spoke with a resigned casualness, as though the whole situation were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
"I did," Zelaes growled, his voice thick with irritation. He studied Kerion closely—the man's short, spiky black hair, his bulky build clad in a black leather tunic.
"Don't be so uptight," Kerion said slowly, his voice measured and calm. "I'm not killing you. I get nothing out of it." His tone was level, almost disarming, but Zelaes could hear the underlying currents of practicality in his words.
"But you'll take my valuables and leave me out to die?" Zelaes challenged, his fists clenching behind his back as anger flared within him. "You're no better than that woman." His voice was laced with venom.
"Calm down. I won't do that either," Kerion replied, his tone still annoyingly calm. "On one condition." He leaned in, his face closer now, the light casting shadows that danced across his sharp features.
Zelaes could feel the tension between them, the unspoken challenge that hung heavy in the air. He didn't trust Kerion, not one bit. But he also knew the precariousness of his own position—this was the first human contact he'd had in months, the first glimmer of a society, however flawed.
"What are they?" Zelaes asked, his voice softer now, resignation and caution mingled in his tone.
"Simple," Kerion said, a slow smile curling at the edges of his lips. "Just help us hunt and gather." He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly as if the offer were as casual as asking for a favor from an old friend.
He scooted closer to Zelaes, his hand reaching for the ropes that bound his legs. "Deal, or no deal?"
Zelaes weighed his options, Eris's hostility had been expected in this hostile world—distrust was the norm, and any stranger was an immediate threat. But Kerion's approach, his willingness to negotiate rather than kill, was a surprise, and Zelaes found himself reluctantly intrigued.
Despite the tumultuous start, Zelaes knew that his odds of survival would be vastly improved if he stayed within the camp's confines. To venture out alone again was a death sentence. He couldn't afford to let his pride or his initial misgivings guide his decision. He took a slow, steadying breath, his eyes meeting Kerion's as he nodded.
"... Very well," Zelaes said, his voice firm despite the uncertainty that churned in his gut.
Kerion nodded, a sharp glint of excitement flashing in his eyes. With a swift flick of his wrist, a small, concealed blade shot out from the cloth wrapping his forearm. He raised his arm high and brought it down in a clean arc, slicing through the ropes binding Zelaes's legs with effortless precision.
The tension that had held Zelaes captive fell away, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt his legs move freely beneath him. A small, fleeting sense of relief washed over him.
Zelaes looked up at Kerion, who had already moved to work on the ropes at his waist. "That black steel…" Kerion muttered as he carefully cut through the bindings, his voice thoughtful as he worked. "It's very high quality. With the right skills, it could be reforged, repurposed."
Zelaes watched as Kerion freed him completely, then sat back in his wooden chair, studying Zelaes with a curious gleam in his dark eyes. "I'm aware," Zelaes replied, his voice steady, though his hands still gripped the chair's arms.
Kerion leaned forward, his gaze intent as he spoke. "I could, theoretically, turn it into plated armor," he proposed, his tone filled with confidence.
"Armor?" Zelaes repeated, his interest piqued as he straightened in his seat.
"Real, authentic armor," Kerion confirmed, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "I've done it before. Lady Eris refuses the armor because it slows her down, but a good number of our warriors here are equipped with it."
Kerion's offer lingered in the air—a possibility, one that seemed almost too good to be true. Zelaes considered his options. Armor meant protection, a shield against the dangers that lurked beyond the camp's gates. But it also meant commitment, a pledge to fight for these people, to stand as one of their own.
"If you're willing to fight for this camp and protect the people here, I'll make the armor for you," Kerion proposed, his voice steady as he extended the offer.
Zelaes considered it carefully, a flicker of hesitation sparking in his eyes. The deal was sound, almost tempting in its simplicity. But Zelaes knew better than to commit himself fully to anything without a way out. "Fine," he agreed at last, his voice firm. "I'll remain here. I'll do what you wish of me. But if I deem it fit, I won't hesitate to disappear."
Kerion clapped his hands together with a resounding boom, his laughter echoing through the room. "Heh! Very well! What's your name?"
"Zelaes," he answered.
"Nice to meet you, Zelaes," Kerion said, standing and gesturing for Zelaes to follow. The two men stood side by side, roughly the same height, though Kerion had a slight edge in stature.
Kerion led Zelaes to the heavy iron door, he twisted the knob and pulled it open, allowing a wave of thick, smoky air to flood in. The acrid scent of burning wood and metal stung Zelaes's nostrils as he stepped outside, blinking against the sudden glare of the campfires that dotted the landscape.
Outside, the camp sprawled before them, a rough-hewn collection of makeshift structures and tents, each one bearing the marks of survival and resilience. Children darted around a central bonfire, the few houses that dotted the camp—small, patched-together structures of wood and metal—seemed huddled against the encroaching darkness, their doors barred and windows shuttered against the cold.
Zelaes took a tentative step forward, his gaze sweeping across the camp. There was a certain life here, a sense of community forged in the fires of adversity. It was raw, imperfect, but undeniably real.
"Welp, feel free to explore our humble abode," Kerion said, stepping up beside Zelaes.
Zelaes nodded absently, his mind already drifting as he took in the scene. He started toward the fire, drawn by its light and the quiet murmur of voices, but a flash of memory halted his steps. Odessa. Marchel. The two prisoners who had shared his fate.
He turned back to Kerion, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "I… have a request," Zelaes said, his eyes locking onto Kerion.
Kerion paused, glancing back with mild curiosity. "Yes?" he prompted, stopping short of the blacksmithing tent where the anvil and forge.
"There are two prisoners—Odessa and Marchel…. free them. Please," Zelaes asked, his words clear and direct.
Kerion hesitated, his expression shifting as he considered the request. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, though it was devoid of malice. "Well, I'll try my best to convince Lady Eris," he said, his hands resting on his hips.
Try? Zelaes thought, a flicker of doubt creeping into his mind. It wasn't the assurance he had hoped for, but it was something. He nodded to Kerion, accepting the response before turning away.
Zelaes descended the worn wooden steps of the building, his boots thudding softly against the planks. He was surrounded by people, yet he felt a strange dissonance, as though the entire scene were a mirage, a fragile illusion that might vanish at any moment.
Still, as he stepped closer to the campfire, the warmth of the flames brushed against his skin, and for the first time in a long while, the heat felt warm rather than cold.