The day began with brutal brightness, as if the sun wanted to remind every slave of their place—hot dust, sweat, and endless labor. Alex spent most of the day carrying heavy crates, digging channels, and cleaning the estate yard, feeling every muscle in his body. Despite the exhaustion, he couldn't shake the memory of the vision from the previous night. The goddess's voice still echoed in his mind, and the memory of the gentle green glow on his hands filled him with both fear and fascination.
As he returned to the cell in the evening, a rising tension gripped his chest—one that had nothing to do with physical fatigue. When the guard opened the heavy iron door, Alex's heartbeat quickened. The elf stood in the half-light, leaning against the wall, and the sight of her made Alex freeze.
Her clothing was torn and tattered, and her skin was covered in bruises, scratches, and fresh red scrapes. A blackened eye stared at him sternly, though there was a hint of defiance in it, as if she wanted to prove that she was still strong despite it all. Yet even her pride couldn't fully mask the pain.
Alex stepped inside quickly as the door closed with a dull thud. He approached Lyra cautiously, concern evident in his gaze.
"What happened?" he asked, trying to hide the emotion that tightened his throat.
The elf lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly, but for a moment, hesitation flickered in her eyes. Then she sighed and winced as she straightened her posture.
"It's nothing," she replied coolly, though her voice betrayed exhaustion. "Just another day."
She moved toward the bedding, and the motion revealed deeper damage to her clothing. Through the torn fabric, Alex glimpsed parts of her body—smooth, pale skin on her thighs, taut muscles, delicate curves of her hips. His gaze lingered longer than it should have. The elf noticed and raised an eyebrow.
"Enjoying the view?" she asked with a touch of sarcasm, though a faint mocking smile curled on her lips.
Alex felt his cheeks flush with shame, but he didn't look away.
"Sorry," he muttered, forcing himself to turn. "I just… I'm worried about you."
Lyra sighed softly, and the sarcasm faded from her expression. She sat heavily on the bedding, leaning back against the stone wall and wincing again as she accidentally pressed on a sore spot.
"I fight every day," she said after a moment of silence, no longer looking at him. "Outside the wall, in a small coliseum they use as a training ground for other slaves. Velas's men use me as… a training target."
Alex stared at her in disbelief, feeling both anger and sympathy rise within him.
"What do you mean… training target?" he asked cautiously, afraid of the answer.
The elf pressed her lips together, as if continuing required great effort.
"They throw me into the arena and make me fight other slaves," she explained coldly. "Sometimes they're stronger than me, sometimes weaker. I injure some of them, let others win. That way, they see who's fit for real arena combat."
"But why you?" Alex asked, barely able to contain the growing fury in his voice.
Lyra shrugged, though the motion was clearly painful.
"I'm an elf. That makes me exotic to them," she said bitterly. "Slaves fight harder when they're given the right target. For Velas, it's just a game. He paid a lot for me, now he wants to make sure I pay off."
Alex sat across from her, his fists clenched. Rage pulsed beneath his skin, but he knew he couldn't do anything about it—not yet.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked finally, almost desperately.
The elf looked at him in surprise, but after a moment, she shook her head with a sad smile.
"No," she said softly. "This is a fight I have to survive on my own. At least for now."
They sat in silence for a long time. Lyra began to carefully clean her wounds, tearing strips from her ruined tunic. Alex couldn't stop watching her movements—despite the pain, despite the fatigue, there was still strength and pride in everything she did.
"But why let some of them win?" he asked eventually, trying to understand.
Lyra looked at him intently, but this time her eyes were softer, almost tender.
"Because otherwise, they'd kill me," she said quietly, with bitterness. "I have to play the weaker one. They need to believe they can beat me. That way, I'm not a threat. It's the price of staying alive."
Alex clenched his jaw, feeling his frustration rise.
"That's not right," he muttered.
"Life isn't right," Lyra replied softly. Her voice was filled with pain and resignation, but also determination. "You either accept that—or you break. I made my choice long ago."
Alex looked at her with newfound respect, realizing just how high a price she paid every day for the right to live. He watched in silence as she finished tending to her wounds, then glanced at the shredded remnants of her clothes. Once again, his eyes caught a glimpse of her thigh, the smoothness of her skin making his heart race.
"I'm sorry you have to go through this," he said after a long pause.
The elf looked at him, surprised by his honesty. For a moment, her eyes sparkled with a strange warmth.
"You don't have to apologize," she replied gently, allowing herself a trace of sincerity. "It's not your fault. You're the only one here who even cares."
Alex nodded quietly. Both of them felt a strange connection, something unspoken that made the silence between them no longer awkward.
"Thank you for telling me," he said finally, looking her straight in the eyes. "You don't have to carry this alone. I might not be able to help yet—but at least… you're not alone."
Lyra stared at him for a long moment. Something flickered in her gaze, as if she allowed herself a brief glimpse of hope.
"That's more than I've had in a long time," she whispered softly, almost to herself.
A moment later, a guard entered and tossed a new set of clothing at her without a word, then left.