The morning began brutally. The heavy iron door to the cell burst open with a loud clang, nearly tearing Alex from his sleep. Lyra stood leaning against the wall, already awake and prepared. Two guards entered the cell. One of them fixed his gaze on the elf girl."You're coming with me."The other walked up to Alex and kicked him roughly.
"Up!" barked guard—a massive man with broad shoulders and a face marked by deep scars. His gaze was cold, devoid of compassion. "Time to get to work!"
Alex glanced around the cell. Damp, gray walls surrounded him like a stone grip. The air was heavy, filled with cold and the scent of moisture. In the corner lay a single bedding mat and an empty bowl—a stark reminder that he was a slave.
The guard didn't wait for a reaction. He grabbed Alex roughly by the arm and yanked him outside. Alex stumbled slightly, tripping on the stone steps, but quickly regained his balance, clenched his jaw, and followed down the corridor. Two more guards were already waiting to escort him to the courtyard.
The morning sun blinded him momentarily, forcing him to squint. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw a massive yard surrounded by tall gray walls. Around him moved other slaves—men with exhausted faces, hunched shoulders, and eyes stripped of hope. Dust hung in the air, mixing with the stench of sweat and grime.
"Grab a shovel," one of the guards ordered, pointing to a pile of tools leaning against the wall. "You'll be digging drainage channels for the foundations. And you better work hard—or you'll regret it."
Alex didn't dare defy the command. He picked up a heavy shovel and made his way to the area where several slaves were already deepening the trenches for foul water runoff. Every motion hurt; his body hadn't yet recovered from the days of marching across the desert. Each effort brought sharp, stabbing pain.
He began digging. Slowly at first, cautiously, trying to conserve energy—but the guards noticed quickly.
"Faster, you wretch!" one of them yelled, striking him hard across the back. Pain exploded along his spine, but Alex only clenched his jaw tighter, refusing to cry out.
The sun climbed higher, scorching his skin without mercy. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the dust. His hands, unaccustomed to such labor, were quickly covered in blisters. With each plunge of the shovel into the hard-packed ground, his arms shook more and more. When he paused briefly to catch his breath, one of the stronger slaves shoved him roughly, knocking him to the dirt.
"Don't get in the way, rookie," hissed a man with a scarred face and a hostile glare. Other slaves laughed bitterly, as if such scenes were their only form of entertainment.
Alex got up, humiliation burning in his cheeks, but he said nothing. He returned to digging, trying to ignore the increasing pain with every passing hour.
By afternoon, when his muscles no longer seemed to respond, he was ordered to carry wooden crates filled with rubble across the yard. The wood dug into his hands, his arms pulsed with dull pain, and his legs trembled under the weight he had to haul. Every step took a tremendous effort. But he couldn't stop—the guards responded instantly, lashing his back.
By evening, utterly exhausted, he was given one more task: cleaning the yard. He lifted heavy stones, dragged piles of wooden debris, sifted through mud and dust. Eventually, his body began to give out. His knees buckled more often, his breath grew labored, and the world around him started to spin.
When he returned to the cell, he was on the verge of collapse. A guard threw him inside without ceremony, slamming the door shut with a deafening crash. Alex fell onto the bedding, the chill of the damp wall bringing a fleeting sense of relief. He tried to steady his breathing, but his mind was spinning with a hundred thoughts. Pain seared through every inch of his body, and his hands were covered in blood and open wounds.
He looked around the empty cell, thinking of Lyra. Where had they taken her? Would she return? For a moment, anxiety crept in, but then came another wave—of helplessness. He was alone, with no way to escape, no information, and no hope.
Lying on the mat, he stared into the darkness above. He knew the next day would bring another round of torture, pain, and humiliation. He knew no one would pity him. But somewhere deep inside, beneath all the exhaustion and suffering, something was beginning to change. He felt a spark of defiance stir within him—a growing seed of anger, of determination, something he hadn't known he carried.
He might not have been strong physically, but he was beginning to understand: true strength came from somewhere deeper—from the mind, the soul. He was a prisoner, a slave—but he was not yet broken. Not yet. He intended to survive.
There was a glint in his eyes now—a flash of resolve that hadn't been there before. He felt powerless, but only for now.