The cell once again sank into silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing. Alex sat on the cold floor, his back against the wall, eyes closed as he tried to calm the rapid pounding of his heart. Sparring with Lyra had left him exhausted—but also filled with a strange satisfaction. He could feel every muscle aching from the strain, yet there was something soothing in the pain. Something that gave him the sense he was finally starting to shed his helplessness.
When he heard the door creak open again, he didn't even lift his head. He already knew what to expect—food thrown without a word into the center of the cell. And he wasn't wrong; a moment later, a clay bowl hit the stone floor with a loud thud. The guard withdrew quickly, closing the door with a soft metallic clink.
Alex opened his eyes and stared with distaste at the grayish, thick soup, which looked more like mud mixed with scraps. With a sigh, he reached for the bowl and pulled it closer. The smell was bland and heavy, not at all appetizing, but the hunger gnawing at him was stronger than any revulsion.
He glanced at Lyra. The elf sat motionless on her bedding, staring at the floor, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Her hair had fallen across her face, hiding it almost completely. Despite the clear exhaustion in her posture, she still radiated pride, strength, and a stubbornness that Alex envied.
"You should eat something," he said eventually, breaking the awkward silence. "It looks awful, but it's nourishing. If you're going to keep training me, you'll need your strength."
Lyra slowly raised her head, her gaze shifting toward the bowl. For a moment, she didn't respond, as if weighing whether accepting anything from him was even worth it. But eventually, with a reluctant sigh, she scooted closer and sat across from him.
"Slave food always looks the same," she said flatly, dipping her fingers into the cool soup and tasting it without hesitation. "If you think this is the worst thing that could happen to you here, you're naive."
Alex nodded slowly, ignoring her tone. He knew she didn't say it without reason. The past days had already made it clear—his old life was only a glimpse of the brutality this world had to offer.
"Where are you from?" he asked suddenly, before he had time to consider whether it was a good question.
Lyra froze for a moment, her hand halfway to her mouth, and shot him a sharp look. The cold detachment in her eyes vanished, replaced by sudden alertness.
"Does it matter?" she asked coolly, though her voice carried a trace of uncertainty.
Alex shrugged slightly, trying to show that the question was innocent, without any hidden motive.
"I don't know," he replied calmly, meeting her eyes. "I'm just trying to understand how someone like you—someone who can fight like that—ended up in a place like this."
The elf remained silent for a while, staring into the bowl as if searching for an answer there. Finally, she looked back at him, and in her gaze was something more human, less distant.
"You don't always get to choose where you end up," she said softly, almost in a whisper. "No matter how well you fight. There are things you just can't escape."
Alex felt her words strike something deep inside him—something he couldn't quite name. There was more to her than just strength and defiance. There was pain, too—pain she hid behind a mask of cold indifference.
"But at least you fought," he said, trying to offer a shred of encouragement.
Lyra looked at him again, this time with visible surprise in her eyes.
"Maybe," she muttered reluctantly, then added with a faint, ironic smile, "If you survive the next week, maybe I'll consider teaching you more."
Alex smiled without meaning to. He knew he had just taken a step in the right direction. Despite her reluctance and the distance she kept, Lyra was beginning to see something in him beyond just another slave. She was starting to see someone who might be worth something. Someone who might be useful one day. Though she still didn't trust him, didn't fully open up, Alex felt her attitude toward him was slowly beginning to shift.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. The soup was thick, lumpy, tasted of earth and bitterness—but it filled their stomachs. When the bowl was empty, Lyra slowly moved away, once again leaning her back against the cold cell wall. Her eyelids began to lower, revealing just how tired she really was.
Alex also felt the weight of fatigue pressing down on him. He shifted toward his bedding, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. The dim light in the cell had a lulling effect.
Eventually, sleep overtook them both. The cell fell into complete silence, broken only by the steady, peaceful rhythm of their breathing.