I hear her break down in the tiny cell across from mine, her sobs echoing against the cold, unforgiving walls. Then I hear her cries fade into hiccupped gasps, then sniffles, and finally, silence.
A day and a half has passed since I was brought to these cells for the third time. This is the first time I've had company, but I don't want to speak to her.
She's the one who betrayed Tsuki and me—the one who drugged us, knocked us out, and handed us over to this hell. I knew something was off from the moment we met. I should've trusted my instincts. Now, my anger burns in my chest like a fire that refuses to die. I hate her. Maybe her being my next opponent in The Game is karmic justice. Maybe I could let my hatred carry me through the fight…
But I don't hate her.
The warden's words creep back into my mind, uninvited. Her betrayal wasn't born of malice. It was survival. She lured us here because she had to. Her village depended on the lifespan she earned by delivering travelers like us to The Game. And that lifespan wasn't for herself—it was for the people she protected.
I raise my head and glance toward her cell. She's slumped against the wall, her golden eyes dull and rimmed with red, staring blankly into nothingness. Her ears droop low, her entire body radiating exhaustion. Whatever fight she had is gone, replaced by quiet resignation.
I don't want to talk to her.
But I have to.
"Dezirae," I manage to say, my voice cutting through the oppressive silence.
Her ears twitch, but she doesn't look at me.
"Dezirae," I repeat. This time, her golden eyes flicker toward me. They're empty, lifeless. She doesn't speak, but I push on. "Chichien told me to tell you… that he always loved you."
Her breath hitches, and her shoulders begin to shake. She buries her face in her hands, dry, guttural sobs breaking through. Her tears are spent, but her grief is not.
"I'm so sorry…" she whispers, her voice trembling. "I want you to… no, I need you to understand. I didn't do this because I hated you two. I did it because…"
"I understand," I interrupt, my head resting against the cold, hard cell wall.
Her ears perk slightly, but her voice remains fragile. "Chichien… He did love me, but we couldn't act on it. We couldn't, no matter how much we wanted to. He, an inuman, and me, a nekoman. The world decided we were meant to hate each other." She gives a weak, bitter smile.
Then she continues, as if the words are spilling out of her uncontrollably. "We met eighty years ago in the King's Guard. Back then, the kingdom was desperate for strength. They created the Serviteur branch to recruit from the lowest of the low—slaves, prisoners, people like us. They promised us freedom after fifty years of service. A lie, of course. But back then… we believed it."
The weight of her words sinks in. The Serviteur branch wasn't a noble endeavor—it was exploitation at its cruelest. Slaves turned into soldiers, fighting to protect the very kingdom that enslaved them.
"Chichien led our unit, and I served under him. For two and a half decades, we fought side by side. We trained together, bled together, survived together. And when the work was done, we'd sit under the stars and talk about our dreams—about the plot of land we'd share when we were finally free, away from everyone and everything." Her voice softens, tinged with a bittersweet fondness.
Her smile fades, replaced by a hollow expression. "But the promises were lies. When the kingdom no longer needed us, we became disposable. The nobles, ever hungry for amusement, turned us into pawns for their entertainment. The remnants of The Serviteurs—once trained and disciplined warriors—were thrown into the colosseum as the first participants of The Game."
She pauses, her voice tightening. "At first, it was just us, the Serviteurs. Friends, comrades, lovers—all forced to fight to the death for the jeering crowd. Day after day, we killed each other, not out of hatred, but because we had no choice. The nobles cheered while we bled, calling it 'sport.'"
My fists clench, trembling with rage. My breath catches in my throat as the full weight of her story crashes down on me.
"But as more of us died, they needed more participants. The Game was too profitable, too entertaining to let it falter. So they expanded it. Winners were given new 'roles.'" She spits the word like it's venom. "Some of us became scouts. We were tasked with luring travelers into the kingdom under false pretenses and delivering them to the warden. Others were made hunters, forced to capture monsters to add variety and danger to The Game. Anything to keep the nobles entertained."
Her golden eyes, dim and haunted, meet mine. "I was one of the lucky ones, Solice. I won. But my reward wasn't freedom—it was a lifetime of servitude in a new form. I became a scout. If I didn't bring enough people here, my village would pay the price. Lifespan, resources, safety—it would all be stripped away."
Her voice cracks, and she looks away. "I didn't have a choice, Solice. I did what I had to, to survive. To protect the people I care about. I didn't want to hurt you or Tsuki, but…" Her voice falters, her frame trembling as she grips the cold bars of her cell. "But I did."
I take a slow, deep breath, turning her words over in my mind. The revelation feels like a blow, not because it's shocking but because of the clarity it brings. Dezirae was no weak nekoman playing the damsel in distress when we first met. Her fear, her pleading—they weren't fabricated. They were calculated. A survival mechanism honed over decades of navigating this cruel, unforgiving world.
The realization sinks deeper. Back in the rocklands, when Tsuki and I dealt with those guards, Dezirae had a choice. She could've turned on us then, taken her chance to eliminate us outright, and claimed victory. But she didn't. Despite everything, she gave me a chance to live, however twisted that opportunity might have been.
Perhaps her actions weren't entirely selfless; perhaps she thought leaving me alive could serve her village in some way, that I might somehow contribute more in The Game than as a body left in the dirt. Or maybe she hesitated because, even in this hollowed-out world, a fragment of her soul still sought something more than survival—something human.
She continues, her voice a fragile thread of resolve, "And that's why I'm not mad that you won your game against Chichien. I know you both just wanted to live…"
Her words cut through me, raw and unflinching. There was no hatred in her tone, no bitterness. Just resignation and understanding. And in that moment, I realize she's right. There was no hatred in me for Chichien either. And I can't bring myself to hate Dezirae. We're all just pawns in a bigger game.
Funny, those words feel familiar.
Her golden eyes, dim but steady, hold mine for a moment longer before she looks away, curling into herself against the cold walls of her cell.
I don't respond. There's nothing left to say.
The faint cheers of the nobles seep through the stone walls, a distant, mocking echo of their depravity. It's a sound that clings to the air like a specter, a haunting reminder of what awaits us both.
I lean back against the unforgiving wall of my cell and close my eyes, letting the noise fade into the background. There's no room for regret, no room for fear. Not now.
For now, I rest. Tomorrow, I fight.