The world was still dark. I could hear faint sounds—soft sobs here and there. For all I knew, they could have come from my own mouth. My body still ached, riddled with pain, but it was manageable now. Yet, something felt… off. My skin didn't quite feel like my own, as though I were a guest in my own body. Perhaps an invited guest, but a guest nonetheless.
The gentle scrape of boots on the floor reached my ears, accompanied by the muttering of an older voice. It had to be Lord Dutchmund. His tone was thoughtful, almost distracted, as he spoke to himself. I couldn't catch all the words, but he mentioned the lack of effectiveness and needing stronger ingredients.
I wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but I had a feeling it had something to do with me.
I gave up trying to focus on what he was doing and instead turned inward, retreating to the dark landscape of my mind—a task that came easily to me. Memories surfaced, clear and vivid, of the books I used to sneak glances at on my old master's shelves when he wasn't looking. I was certain that if he'd known I was reading, his punishments would have been even crueler.
The irony wasn't lost on me. It was his own son who had taught me how to read. Not out of kindness, of course. He was far too lazy to read himself, so he'd force me to do it for him. Still, I couldn't help but feel grateful that his laziness had worked in my favor.
I remembered the books about knights, their techniques illustrated in vivid detail. In my mind, I mimicked the movements, imagining how it would feel to hold a blade, to fight with purpose. I tried to picture myself living as a normal boy, not the son of a slave. A boy with choices, with the freedom to shape his own life.
But reality intruded, as it always did. I couldn't forget the sight of my mother strung up, her body used as a human target. The memory burned like a brand, searing my mind with rage and helplessness. I knew it was wrong to hate, but that was all I felt for my old master. Hate. I wanted to poison him, maim him, anything to make him suffer as I had. To feel powerless as I had.
But deep down, I knew it would never happen. My body, small and frail as it was, couldn't manage it. And to kill a magic caster like him? You'd have to be one yourself or strong enough to outpace their spells. I was neither.
But amidst the despair, I felt a glimmer of hope. The king had said I was to be sent to the pit and taught how to fight. Perhaps… just perhaps, I could learn to be strong. Fast. Powerful.
If I could survive, if I could endure, then one day, I might truly honor my mother's memory—by driving a blade through that fat, disgusting pig of a man who had stolen her life.
As I lingered in my illusions, the shuffle of boots suddenly stopped. Before I could process what was happening, something was poured into my mouth, the liquid cool and sharp against my tongue. My eyes almost fluttered open in surprise.
"I know you're awake, boy," came the gruff voice of Lord Dutchmund. "That little smile of yours doesn't hide it well. Now drink—and don't spill a drop, or I won't bother making another tonic, his majesty be damned. I've already wasted enough on a slave boy."
The words were cruel, biting, yet I caught the faintest undercurrent of something softer—an almost begrudging care, buried beneath his sharp tone. It wasn't much, but it was there.
I did as instructed, swallowing the liquid carefully. Almost immediately, I felt a rapid change coursing through my body. The pain eased, my senses sharpened, and for the first time, I felt… whole. As though I were no longer just a guest in my body but back to the rightful owner at last.
The most noticeable change was in the darkness around me. What had once been an impenetrable void now seemed to shift, becoming a shadow-like murk I could almost peer into, shapes and faint textures beginning to emerge. It was strange yet oddly fascinating.
"My lord, may I remove the bindings on my eyes?" I asked, my voice carefully measured, aiming for as much serenity as I could muster. Perhaps it would play into the care Lord Dutchmund had shown me so far, however grudgingly.
"No."
The single word cut through my tentative hope, cooling my enthusiasm in an instant. Disappointment settled in my chest, though I dared not press further. Still, I couldn't help the growing curiosity gnawing at me. What did my surroundings look like? The desire to see, to understand, was almost unbearable.
As I brooded over my frustration, another thought crept in, catching me off guard. Eating. I realized I hadn't eaten in what felt like a week. Yet… why hadn't I felt hunger pangs? Was I so accustomed to them that my body no longer recognized their presence? Or was it something else entirely?
What felt like an eternity passed in that shadowy landscape. Questions drifted through my mind, but with so few answers, I let them go. Eventually, even the novelty of my shifting vision faded, leaving me to wrestle with an all-consuming boredom.
Just as I began to sink into frustration, the gruff voice returned, breaking the silence.
"Now, boy… Edric," Lord Dutchmund said, his tone measured. "Slowly remove your bindings. Do not rush."
The sound of my name—Edric—sent a thrill through me. Both times it was spoken, it felt strange and precious, like a secret gift meant only for me.
And now, I was being granted something even greater. My heart raced as I reached up, eager yet careful, ready to finally see the world around me.