The world was louder now.
Harsher.
Aren could feel the difference in his body—a few months had passed since the moment he was reborn into this world. He was stronger now, at least by a baby’s standards. He could crawl, fumble, and even pull himself upright when no one was watching. The slave pits were no place for a child, but no one cared.
The walls were made of stone and rusted metal, slick with grime. Smoke filtered down from above, curling through cracks in the ceiling. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and rot. Even as a toddler, Aren could tell this place wasn’t meant for living—it was meant for breaking.
He’d seen others—children older than him, hollow-eyed and quiet. Some worked, others begged, most simply sat and stared at nothing. The adults weren’t much better. Everyone had the same look. Tired. Beaten. Waiting.
His mother never smiled.
She moved like a ghost, thin and slow. But her eyes… when they looked at him, they softened—just a little. She never spoke his name aloud. She whispered it only when she thought no one else could hear.
“Aren…”
That whisper kept him anchored.
He’d begun to understand this world, not through words but through repetition. Hunger was constant. Cold was common. Kindness was rare. The overseers—hulking demons wrapped in black metal—patrolled the upper levels of the pit. Their footsteps sent cracks through the stone. Their voices were like thunder, and their punishments were worse.
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Aren had seen a man dragged off by one of them for collapsing during labor. He hadn’t come back.
There were no cries. No protests. Just silence and lowered heads.
Aren knew better than to cry. Crying drew attention. He had learned that the hard way. A single sob had brought a boot down too close. His mother had shielded him, taken the brunt of it. She hadn’t moved for hours after that.
Since then, he had stayed quiet. Watching. Listening. Learning.
He’d begun to recognize shifts in the pit. The changes in routine. The way the guards moved when something was about to happen. The way the workers flinched when a certain horn blew from above. It was all patterns. Predictable, in its own brutal way.
Sometimes, when he was left alone in the dark corner of their cell, he felt something stir inside him. A warmth, low and quiet, buried beneath the fear. It came strongest when his mother was near—especially when her breath was shallow and her hands trembled.
Once, he reached out to her without thinking.
And something happened.
The air shimmered. A warmth pulsed from his tiny fingers. His mother gasped, just once, and then… she breathed easier. Her fever broke.
He didn’t understand what he had done. He didn’t try to do it again.
Whatever it was, it had made his heart race—not from excitement, but from fear. If someone had seen…
He knew what happened to those who were different.
Aren buried it. Like everything else.
And so the days passed, blurred together in smoke and dust. Survival became routine. And routine meant safety.
Until the day the horn blew three times.
The slaves froze. Work stopped. Conversations died. Even the overseers grew still.
Aren looked around, crawling toward his mother, who had already grabbed him and tucked him against her chest.
The guards descended into the pits. Not for punishment. Not for labor.
Something else.
The gates opened.
And new slaves were dragged in.
Aren blinked, watching their faces. Some were bruised. Others barely clinging to life. One looked around with fire in her eyes.
But what caught Aren’s attention wasn’t the people.
It was the way the guards looked nervous.
Something was coming. Something different.
Aren felt it. In his chest. In that quiet warmth he kept buried.
He didn’t know what it meant. But for the first time since arriving in this world… he felt something close to danger.
Not the everyday kind.
Something worse.
Something that might tear the pit apart.
And deep inside, he knew—this was only the beginning.
