The sound of metal striking stone echoed in the dim light from the nearby stable. Joker knelt on the cold, damp floor, scrubbing the remnants of dried blood from a knight's blade. His hands, rough and calloused, trembled with fatigue, but he dared not stop. Not with the knight from the Harrow Sect watching from the shadows, his eyes sharp as a predator's- but not as sharp as his sword.
"Faster, Harlequin," barked the knight, his voice dripping with disdain. "You'll earn your bread when you earn your worth."
Joker kept his head low, his black hair hanging like a curtain over his pale, gaunt face. The Harlequin tattoo burned into his back itched under his threadbare shirt—a cruel reminder of his status. Slaves. Tools. Animals. That's all they were to the Harrow Sect. The tattoo itself, an upside-down cross, marked him as one of the "failures" of society- those born devoid of magic and therefore devoid of humanity.
A sharp kick to his ribs knocked him sideways, sending the bucket of dirty water spilling across the floor. Joker stifled a cry, clutching his side as the overseer sneered.
"Pathetic. Clean it up," the overseer hissed, his boot grinding into Joker's wrist for emphasis. "And remember, a blade isn't all that cuts here."
Joker swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he watched the flicker of red light crawl around the knights sword like a snake. He forced himself upright, gripping the rag with trembling hands. As he worked, he couldn't help but glance at the faint light filtering through the high, narrow windows. Outside, he knew, was a world far beyond his reach- a world dominated by knights, nobles, and kings who wielded their power like weapons. A world where magic was the measure of a person's worth. A magic he didn't possess.
The Harrow Sect was the heart of that world, a fortress carved into the jagged cliffs of Gina. It served as a bastion for the Sect's knights, who ruled with an iron fist, their ranks divided by their mastery of aura and magic. Pages trained to become squires. Squires fought for knighthood. Knights dreamed of rising to command and beyond. But for Harlequins like Joker, there was no rise. Only servitude.
The clang of boots on stone pulled Joker from his thoughts. A group of knights entered the armory, their laughter echoing off the walls. They carried the air of those who had never suffered—a stark contrast to Joker's hollow-eyed existence. One of them, a red-haired knight with a cruel smile, stopped in front of him.
"You missed a spot," the knight said, dropping his helmet onto the ground with a deliberate clatter. Joker scrambled to pick it up, but the knight stepped on his hand, pinning it to the floor. The others laughed.
"Careful, Harlequin," another knight said, leaning against a rack of spears. "You might absorb all the filth you're cleaning."
Absorb. Joker clenched his jaw. Harlequins were rumored to have an unnatural affinity for magic, despite being devoid of it. It was said they absorbed the magic that struck them, a useless trick that only served to make them targets for abuse.
"Maybe we should test that," the red-haired knight said, drawing a knife. He waved it lazily, the blade glinting in the torchlight. "Think you can absorb this?"
Joker stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. He had learned long ago that defiance only brought more pain. But the knight wasn't looking for a response. He grabbed Joker by the collar and yanked him to his feet.
"Answer me, Harlequin," the knight spat, raising the knife. The others jeered, their voices blending into a cruel cacophony.
Joker's heart pounded. He knew the game. They would cut him, watch him bleed, and laugh at his suffering. They would call it training—training for them, torment for him.
"Enough."
The voice cut through the air like a blade. The knights froze, turning toward the doorway. A figure stood there, draped in the black and crimson robes of a commander. The overseer straightened immediately, his sneer replaced with a deferential bow.
"Commander Sorin," he said. "I didn't realize you were here."
Sorin's gaze swept the room, cold and calculating. His eyes lingered on Joker for a moment, then moved to the knights.
"Are you so idle that you must amuse yourselves with slaves?" Sorin asked, his tone icy. The knights shifted uncomfortably under his glare.
"Just having a bit of fun," the red-haired knight mumbled, releasing Joker and stepping back.
"Fun?" Sorin's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Then let me offer you a lesson in discipline. Report to the training yard. Now."
The knights hurried out, their laughter replaced by muttered curses. The overseer followed, leaving Joker alone with Sorin. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the crackle of the torches.
Sorin stepped closer, his iron boots clicking on the stone floor. He crouched in front of Joker, his expression unreadable.
"You're a survivor," Sorin said quietly. "But survival alone won't save you. Be smart, keep your head down."
Joker didn't respond. He couldn't. His throat felt like sandpaper, his body like lead.
Sorin straightened, his gaze still fixed on Joker. "Remember this, Harlequin. The world is built on power. And power is taken, not given."
With that, Sorin turned and left, his robes billowing behind him. Joker sat there for a long time, the overseer's words and the knights' laughter still ringing in his ears. But it was Sorin's words that lingered, like a spark in the darkness.
Power is taken, not given.