The sun sat heavy in the sky, blistering the backs of every soul in the caravan. Sand clung to sweat-slick skin. Boots dragged. Chains rattled. Levi walked beside the slave wagon, each step measured, mechanical. His arms ached from earlier punishment, but he held the supply satchel tightly across his shoulder. He didn't want to give the guards a single excuse to look his way again. The wheels of the cage creaked beside him. Inside it, Sera lounged on the floor like she wasn't trapped at all—legs stretched out, back pressed against the bars. Dust streaked her face, but her eyes were sharp, watching everything. Watching him. Levi didn't look up.
"Nice view from down there?" Her voice was low, barely above the wind. She didn't sound tired. She sounded amused.
He didn't respond. He kept walking.
The cage wheels rolled a few feet ahead, then slowed. She turned her head, following his pace. "Does things like that happen everyday?" She said casually, like she was trying to get information…or she was bored. His jaw tightened. He still didn't speak. Sera tilted her head. "Does it?"That made him glance at her—just for a second.
"Thought so," she said, a bit softer now.
Levi kept his eyes forward, footsteps crunching in rhythm with the wagon wheels. "You ever think about running?" she asked after a beat. He almost tripped. "Don't say that," he muttered. "Why? You think they're listening?" Her fingers curled around the bars as she leaned forward. "They're not. They don't care what we say. They only care if we try."
"Sera," he warned under his breath, glancing toward the guards. "Stop."
She didn't, of course. When she finally spoke again, her voice was different. Not loud. Not sharp.
"You're scared," she said, almost like a realization. Something she's not use to experiencing, she was a noble. A high one at that. She's trained to fight for her people and house name. And she will die proudly fighting. She hadn't really known fear. Starvation. A wrong step and your family could be taken from you.
Levi looked away.He didn't answer her. The moment she said it—"You're scared"—the air between them shifted. Not with comfort. Not with understanding. But with weight.
Levi looked away, jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the shifting sand under his boots. Every footstep beside the cage echoed in his chest like a warning drum. Sera didn't say anything else for a while. Maybe she expected him to snap. Or confess. Or deny it.
But he just kept walking. The guards barked out orders, shouting at the caravan to slow. The wagons creaked to a halt as camp preparations began. Tents would be set up for the slavers and guards, while the rest—like Levi—would sleep in the dust. He shifted his grip on the supply satchel and moved where directed, unloading sacks of grain and dented metal pots from one of the wagons. His arms screamed in protest, raw and bruised from earlier, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Stay useful. Stay quiet.
But his eyes flicked toward the cage.
Sera had shifted to sit cross-legged near the bars, her wrists resting on her knees. She was watching the sky now, the golden light stretching across the sand and catching in her tangled hair. Her expression had changed—no longer smug or playful. Just… still.
Levi turned back to his work. But his hands were slower now.
He heard her voice again later, just as he passed by on his next run with supplies.
"I wasn't trying to mock you."
He stiffened. Didn't look.
"I meant it," she continued, voice low. "You're scared. That's not an insult."
He didn't respond.
"I think everyone here is. They just hide it different." Levi paused for a heartbeat. His hand tightened around the strap of the sack. His voice, when it came, was hoarse.
"You should stop talking to me." Her brows lifted. "Why?"
"Because if they see—if they think I'm listening—they'll beat you. Not me."
That shut her up for a second. Just a second. Then she said, "Let them."
He turned sharply. "What?"
Sera gave him a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. "They already have. They will again. But if I'm gonna get hit either way, I'd rather it be for something that matters." Levi looked at her then, really looked. And in that moment, he realized she didn't get it.Not yet.She didn't know what it meant to be broken slowly. Quietly. Over time. When they didn't beat your body, but your hope. When they made you forget you even had something to fight for.
She wasn't broken.
But she would be. He dropped his gaze and walked away without another word.
As he vanished behind the nearest wagon, Sera watched him go, fingers tapping against the bars. Her expression unreadable. Her mind working.
And the desert wind picked up, blowing a curtain of dust between them.The night was colder than usual, the desert winds slicing low across the camp like a whisper that carried too many secrets. Levi sat with his legs drawn in close to his chest, a shallow wooden bowl balanced between his knees. The stew was watery—more broth than food—but it was hot, and that was enough. His mother sat beside him on a folded wool blanket, her eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, hands curled tightly around her own bowl.
They sat in silence at first, the crackle of the campfire the only sound between them. Around them, the camp quieted. Most of the slaves were huddled in clusters or already asleep. The guards were loud and drunk in their corner, their laughter peeling across the night like bad music.
Levi took a bite, then another. The stew tasted like nothing, but his stomach didn't protest.
"Eat slower," his mother murmured beside him. "You'll give yourself cramps."
He grunted softly but slowed his pace.
A breeze stirred the edge of the fire, kicking up ash. His mother shifted her shawl tighter around her shoulders and leaned a little closer to him. "You were quiet today."
"I usually am," he muttered.
"No," she said, giving him a look. "Not like today." Levi didn't respond. He stirred his stew again. The faint scent of burnt herbs clung to the bowl. He wasn't sure if it came from the food or the pot. She sighed and stared at the fire. "Is it the girl?" That made him pause.
He didn't look at her. "What girl?"
"The one in the cage," she said calmly. "The one who keeps looking at you, the one I said to not talk to the other day." Levi's mouth felt dry. "She doesn't—she's just—" He stopped himself. "I'm not talking to her."
His mother raised a brow. "Didn't say you were currently. But you're thinking about it."
He didn't answer. The silence stretched, filled with the brittle hum of wind and flame. Finally, she reached out and touched his arm, gentle. Her fingers were rough from work, but warm. "Be careful, Levi. The ones who poke at cages always end up trapped in one." He nodded slowly, unsure if she meant Sera or him.
They ate in silence again for a while.
Then, almost too soft to hear, she added, "But sometimes… sometimes the ones in cages are the ones who set the rest free."
Levi glanced up sharply, but her face gave nothing away. She was staring into the fire, eyes unreadable.
Before he could ask what she meant, a bell rang at the far end of the camp—the signal for the final round of guard changes. Dogs barked once. Chains rattled somewhere near the wagons.
Levi turned his head slightly and caught a glimpse of the cages.
Sera was awake. Sitting cross-legged in the far corner of her prison, her back to the bars, her eyes on the firelight. She wasn't looking at him, but he still felt the air shift.
He didn't understand why, but something about tonight felt different.
Like a thread had been pulled, and now something beneath it all was beginning to unravel.The fire had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the sand. Most of the camp had gone still, the guards less rowdy now, their drunken laughter having faded into hoarse murmurs and snores. Levi sat with his knees pulled to his chest, the empty bowl at his side, cooling in the dirt. His mother hadn't spoken in a while, but she hadn't left either. That meant something.
The wind shifted again, carrying with it a gust of sand that made him squint. The stars above looked sharp enough to cut.
"I used to hate this time of year," his mother said suddenly, her voice quiet. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. "Back in the village, before… everything."
Levi glanced at her but didn't speak.
She smiled faintly to herself, eyes distant. "The weather would always turn strange. Hot in the day, cold at night. The wind would howl like it had a voice of its own. Used to say it was the ancestors whispering."
She turned to him slowly. "And you were born on a night just like this."
Levi blinked. "What?"
"You don't remember?" Her smile turned sad. "It's your birthday, Levi. You're six now."
For a moment, all the sounds of the camp seemed to fade—like the whole world had drawn in a breath and held it.
He stared at her, blank. Then looked down at his scratched, dirt-streaked hands.
His birthday.
He hadn't even remembered. The thought felt strange, foreign. He couldn't imagine cake, or laughter, or candles. All he could think about was the ache in his arms, the sting on his back, the taste of weak stew. What did it even mean, to be six, here?
"I forgot," he said softly. His voice barely carried over the wind.
His mother reached out and brushed a bit of dust from his hair, fingers lingering just a moment too long. "That's alright. I remembered for you."
A lump formed in his throat, one he didn't understand. He didn't want to cry. He didn't even know if he could anymore.
She shifted, digging into the fold of her shawl, and then held something out in her palm. A flat piece of dried fruit. Wrinkled and a little dusty, but it glistened faintly in the firelight.
"Saved it from yesterday's rations," she said. "Wasn't much, but… for tradition's sake." He took it with both hands like it was made of gold. It felt warm from her body heat. The sweetness hit his tongue in a way that startled him. Real sweetness. Something that wasn't bitter or burnt or watered down. For a second, he was free. For a second, he wasn't in chains.
He didn't say thank you. He couldn't. But she knew. They sat together a little longer, until the fire turned to embers and the night pressed in fully. Levi leaned into her side, letting the silence stretch.Levi turned the last bite of fruit over on his tongue, letting the sweetness linger, melt slow like honey on his tastebuds. He didn't want it to end. Nights like this—quiet, without barking orders or stifled sobs—were rare. The fire had burned low, casting soft shadows that danced across the sand. He leaned gently into his mother's side, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. Her warmth, her presence… it grounded him. Reminded him that she was still here.
He tilted his head up, squinting at her silhouette outlined in firelight.
"Mama," he asked softly, voice edged with uncertainty. "What was it like… when I was born?"
She turned to look at him, caught off guard. For a moment, she said nothing—then her expression shifted, softening with something bittersweet. Her hand came up, both palms cupping his face as her thumbs brushed gently over the dust-streaked skin of his cheeks.
"You really want to know?" she asked.
He nodded. "I don't remember anything before here. Just… cages. Sand. Chains. I want to know something that was mine before all this."Her smile faltered, worn and cracked at the edges. She looked past him, beyond the fire, into a place only she could see.
"You were born in a cell," she said at last, her voice quiet but unwavering. "Underground. Buried beneath stone and iron, where the air was damp and foul, and the only light came from whatever torch the guards remembered to leave burning. There were no windows. No warmth. Just crying in the dark." Levi swallowed hard.
"There were no midwives. No cloth. No kindness," she continued. "I had nothing but my hands. My strength. My will. The pain came fast, and I screamed until my throat was raw. The guards didn't care. One of them laughed… said it'd be one less mouth to feed. Another slammed the bars with his baton, told me to be quiet or I'd lose more than blood."Her gaze didn't leave the fire, eyes glassy with memory.
"I didn't know how far along I was. I was barely holding on. And when you came out… you weren't breathing. You were so small. Your skin was pale, lips blue. Limp as cloth. I thought…" Her voice caught. "I thought I'd lost you before I even had you." Levi was still, the stew in his stomach forgotten.
"I held you close, pressed your little body to my chest and begged. Not to the gods—" she scoffed faintly, "they don't listen to people like us—but to anything cruel or powerful enough to let you live." Her hands slid down, and she touched his wrapped forearm gently, where the brand was hidden beneath the cloth.
"That's when you got those," she murmured. "That symbol. It burned into your skin the moment you gasped that first breath. No one touched you. It just… appeared. Like the world wanted to mark you." He looked down at the cloth, heart pounding.
"They came when they heard me stop screaming," she continued, voice lower now. "Not because they cared. They thought I'd died. But when they saw you breathing, they dragged me out of that cell. I was still bleeding. Weak. I hadn't even cleaned you. But they made me work. No rest. No water. They threw me into the furnace halls, shoveling coal with you strapped to my chest in my shirt."
Levi's fists clenched.
"That night, when I finally looked up," she said, her voice now no more than a breath, "I saw it through the cracks in the ceiling. The moon. Blood-red. Low and swollen like an omen. I'd never seen the sky look like that. Not before. Not since."
He didn't speak. He couldn't.
"I knew then," she whispered, brushing her hand along his hair. "Your birth wasn't just pain. It wasn't just another horror in that place. It was something else. A warning, maybe. Or a promise."
Levi looked up at her, his voice hoarse. "A promise of what?"
She smiled faintly, fingers resting on his head.
"That even in places full of death… something might still choose to live."