The Demon and the Burning Girl

Chapter 1

Valentina

I press my back against the cold stone wall, trying to keep my body from trembling. The alley reeks of rot and sewage, underscoring the reality of my existence here in Lowtown—the underbelly of Vhoig where human slaves sleep on dirt floors or cramped cots and wake each morning to sharpened whips. My breath rasps in my lungs; the humid heat of the city clings to every pore, intensifying the foul odors. I rub my arms to chase away the chill that still haunts me, an internal shiver leftover from my most recent punishment.

I can’t forget the weight of the lash or the sneering grin of the dark elf guard who delivered it. My back is a patchwork of scabs, each a testament to how deeply they resent even the smallest sign of disobedience. But it doesn’t matter how often they beat me. I refuse to show them fear. If they see it, they’ll never stop.

I steel my shoulders and step away from the wall. Even though pain nags at every movement, I refuse to let it define me. Tonight, a hush seems to cloak the alley, the silence broken only by the distant moans of the wind over the harbor. The port city seldom sleeps. In the wealthier districts, where the dark elf merchants revel in their shimmering clubs and decadent estates, music and laughter spill into the streets at every hour. Here in Lowtown, only misery remains.

Candlelight flickers from behind boarded windows, revealing slender silhouettes and exhausted faces. For an instant, a pair of wide eyes shines back at me through the gaps in the planks—another captive, likely a child, caged in one of these makeshift dormitories. Something twists in my chest. Anger, yes, but also a lingering sadness I can’t eradicate.

A shuffle of small feet echoes from behind a corner. My pulse reacts, and I tense, ready for trouble. When a child stumbles into view—barefoot, ribs showing through a tattered shirt—I let out a measured exhale. Another human, no more than nine or ten. Her tear-stained cheeks glisten in the faint light. She lifts her gaze, sees my scuffed boots, and jerks as though ready to run. But she’s so weak she only manages a few staggering steps.

I drop into a crouch and raise a hand, palm outward. “Easy,” I murmur, keeping my voice gentle. A piece of me hates acting meek. But scaring this little one will achieve nothing. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s all right.”

The child stares, eyes huge. Dirt smudges her cheeks and frayed braids cling to her neck. She trembles so badly I’m afraid she might collapse. There’s not a soul in this place who would help a human child, save another human. So I reach into the threadbare pocket of my worn trousers and pull out the stale bread crust I saved from my paltry meal earlier. I extend it to her.

“This is yours,” I say.

Her gaze darts to the bread, then back to me, suspicious. It’s a rational response; we exist in a world where every scrap might come with strings attached. “Thank you,” she whispers at last, voice cracking from thirst. She edges forward, still poised to flee. I watch her weigh her hunger against her mistrust, and in the end, hunger wins. She snatches the crust with shaking fingers.

I stand slowly, mindful not to loom over her. “Where are your parents?” I ask quietly.

She bites the inside of her cheek, eyes downcast. “Gone,” she croaks. I notice the faint bruise across her forearm. A swirl of sickness churns my stomach at the thought of how many children get swept away—lost to disease, sold to the highest bidder, or just snatched for “amusement” by bored dark elves. Rage knots in my throat.

“I see,” I reply gently. Once upon a time, I might have promised her safety or tried to keep her at my side, but I can barely look after myself, let alone a child. “You should keep moving before the patrols come through,” I advise, wishing I had more to give. “If they find you out here—” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. We both know the penalty for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She nods and glances down at the bread, hugging it like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen. “Thank you,” she says again, the words shaky yet earnest. Then she darts off, slipping between the broken slats of a nearby crate, disappearing deeper into the labyrinth of Lowtown.

For a moment, I stand in the alley with my heart pounding. I clench my fists so hard my nails burrow into my palms. Anger throbs behind my eyes. The cruelty here never ends. The dark elves spin every law to keep us on our knees. They punish us for minor infractions, turn a blind eye to real atrocities, and reward sadism with coin or prestige.

I force myself to move. Lingering too long will invite scrutiny—maybe even a baton to the ribs if I’m discovered after curfew. Gritting my teeth, I navigate the uneven pathways, stepping over puddles of filth and avoiding the rotted beams that protrude from the collapsed shanties. Candlelit windows flicker, revealing glimpses of the haggard faces within. Sometimes, I hear muffled crying from behind locked doors. It pushes me onward; I can’t help them right now, not in my condition. Not with the sting of my own wounds still fresh.

Occasionally, I catch my reflection in the shallow pools on the ground. My dark hair is braided tight, though strands cling to my sweaty face. Shadows deepen the hollows beneath my cheekbones. A fresh bruise mars my jaw, courtesy of a dark elf guard who caught me “stealing” scraps of rotting fruit. I see the bitterness in my eyes, the unwavering refusal to be cowed.

I turn a corner and come upon a central thoroughfare in Lowtown—an arching pathway that slopes toward the docks. The overhead walkway is riddled with holes, and broken railings precariously teeter near the edges. Beyond that, the murky silhouette of the harbor expands, dotted with tall ships bearing cargo. Vhoig, a port city of searing wealth in the upper rings, has monstrous ships that glide in daily, delivering everything from spices to unfortunate humans captured elsewhere on Protheka. They funnel through these docks, then are dragged to Lowtown or sold off to the highest bidder.

Cries from the wharf reach my ears. Another shipment might’ve just come in, meaning more slaves or so-called “livestock” to be sorted. My gut twists at the memory of my own arrival here. I was fourteen, newly purchased after my previous master died. A bag was yanked off my head, and I looked up at the spires of Vhoig in terror. That was six years ago, but it may as well have been a lifetime. My heart hardens at the recollection.

Shouts ring out close by, jarring me back to the present. I press myself against a crumbling wall, straining to see who’s making all the ruckus. Up the road, a cluster of human workers—hunched, gaunt men—try to haul crates onto a battered cart. Overseeing them stands a dark elf overseer. He’s clad in a sleek black tunic with silver embroidery at the sleeves, and a whip dangles from his belt. Two more guards lounge behind him, bored but clearly ready to strike if any worker falters.

One of the men, older and trembling, stumbles, sending his crate tumbling to the ground. Pottery shards and cloth scatter across the cobblestones. I watch from the shadows, every nerve screaming at me not to intervene. My chest tightens. I know what’s going to happen next.

“How dare you?” the overseer hisses, stepping forward. A swift crack echoes in the air as the whip unfurls. The older worker tries to cower, but the lash scythes across his shoulders. He emits a choked cry, collapsing to his knees. Blood seeps through his tattered shirt. The other men keep their eyes fixed on the ground, knowing better than to protest.

I can’t tear my gaze away. My body coils, wanting to leap in, to break that whip in half. But I don’t move. One wrong step, and I’m as good as dead. My fists tighten at my sides, nails biting deeper. I can taste iron in my mouth from biting my tongue so hard. The older worker’s agony wrenches at me, but there’s nothing I can do.

The overseer curses, pressing the heel of his boot against the worker’s back. “Pick it up,” he commands, voice humming with cruelty. The worker struggles to gather the broken cargo, tears sliding down his cheeks. The overseer raises the whip again, prompting him to move faster.

I force myself to slip away before I become the next target. Fury lances through me, fueling that small spark of defiance I’ve kept alive all these years. One day, I vow to myself, we won’t have to cower. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not this year, but eventually. I keep that hope banked, a tiny ember in a sea of ash.

Continuing down the winding lanes, I eventually reach a lean-to shack I call home—if I can even use such a word for this pit of despair. Inside, half a dozen humans of varying ages sprawl on straw pallets. It’s a communal arrangement set up by our shared master, a mid-level merchant from the K’sheng caste who owns multiple workers. The place smells of mold and stale sweat. Most of the occupants are asleep, too exhausted from backbreaking labor to notice my arrival.

A single candle flickers on a splintered table. Beside it, a frail woman coughs into a rag. Her skin is pallid. I recognize her as Mirena, a plantation worker from the outskirts of Vhoig who was recently sold into the city’s labor force. She spots me, lips parting to greet me with a hollow smile, but a coughing fit cuts her short.

“How bad?” I ask, voice hushed. I don’t know if I want the answer.

She gives a brittle laugh that quickly turns into another spasm. “I’ll be fine, just a cold,” she whispers, eyes shuttered in pain.

I know it’s probably more than a simple cold. There’s a sickness that roams these cramped quarters. If it doesn’t kill you, it weakens you enough that the dark elves have reason to discard you. I kneel beside her, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. She’s burning with fever.

“Stay strong,” I say softly, though we both know words alone won’t chase the infection away.

I rummage through the corner where I stashed a ragged scrap of cloth and a tiny jar of medicinal herbs I salvaged by scouring the refuse behind a local apothecary. The herbs might help reduce her fever if steeped in hot water, but firewood is a luxury. I press the jar into her trembling hands.

“Try to find a way to brew this,” I suggest. “Maybe ask around the courtyard. Someone might have leftover coals.”

Mirena’s lips quiver with gratitude, though I see how exhausted she is. She coughs again, this time managing to stifle the sound. I hover a moment longer, ensuring she’s settled, then drift to my own corner—a threadbare blanket on the floor, a small wooden box for personal items.

I lower myself gingerly, back muscles screaming. Each movement is a fresh wave of pain where the whip tore into me last week. The memory is still vivid—my face pressed into wet cobblestones, my mouth filling with the tang of blood, my body on fire. All because I tried to defend another slave from a beating. My own sense of justice earned me a dozen lashes, which left me incapacitated for days.

I close my eyes, inhaling as slowly as possible so the sting in my lungs remains bearable. A thousand images race through my head—the child from the alley, the older man whipped in the street, the stench of hopelessness saturating these cramped quarters. It’s enough to suffocate any weaker spirit. But I refuse to be broken.

When I was younger, I believed in stories of human resilience. Tales whispered by my mother of how our ancestors once lived freely, how one day we might find a path to something better. Even though she’s gone, I cling to her words. Hope is a thread I can’t bring myself to sever.

I drift into a light doze, lulled by throbbing aches. Sleep in Lowtown is never deep because danger lurks in every shadow. It might be a guard checking for runaways, or a slaver looking for easy prey to amuse some noble’s twisted desires. Yet, the body demands rest. My eyes flutter closed.

A scream shatters the silence outside. My eyes snap open, and I scramble upright. Others in the shack bolt awake too. I exchange glances with Mirena, who looks panic-stricken. The sound continues, piercing the air—a high, anguished wail that abruptly cuts off.

My heart pounds. That scream wasn’t far. Steeling myself, I push off the floor and head outside. A few battered humans are already gathered at the end of the alley, their expressions tight with alarm. A pair of dark elf soldiers stand at the entrance to a cramped courtyard. The first soldier has midnight-blue hair braided in an intricate pattern, his armor polished and sleek. The second soldier is taller, clad in black-lacquered plates that reflect the dim torchlight.

Between them lies a sprawled figure—a human man, face mashed against the dirt, blood seeping from a head wound. He doesn’t stir.

“Clear away!” the first soldier snaps at the onlookers. Some recoil, while others linger, too stunned to move.

The second soldier tilts his head, scanning the gawking slaves. “Which one of you filth attacked our sentry?” he demands, voice dripping scorn.

A hush descends. The man on the ground likely did nothing beyond being in the wrong place. If he truly attacked an elf, he’d never have lived long enough to scream. Still, the soldiers need a scapegoat.

My pulse quickens. I keep to the edge, hoping they won’t notice me. But the second soldier’s gaze lingers on my face—on the bruises and scars. He points at me with two fingers, as if I’ve suddenly become a prime suspect.

“You, come here,” he orders.

I ball my hands into fists at my sides and step forward, each movement measured. The crowd parts. My scalp prickles under the force of his scrutiny.

I meet his gaze—briefly, but it’s enough. Dark elves despise insolence. I drop my eyes to the ground, feigning submission, ignoring the way my gut twists in revulsion.

“You will confirm there was no attack,” he commands, brandishing a sword that hums with arcane energy. “Explain to the others that we dealt justice to a traitor.”

Inside my mind, I spit curses. They want me to lie and quell any rebellious spark. I sense every pair of eyes on me, especially the trembling humans who’ve formed a circle around the scene. My pulse drums against my ribs. If I don’t comply, I’ll be next on the ground. If I do comply, I’ll help them keep everyone in line.

“I...didn’t see him attack anyone,” I say slowly, choosing each word carefully. “He must’ve—he must’ve tried to fight back.” The words taste like poison.

The soldier snorts, satisfied. He gestures at the prone figure. “Dispose of that,” he barks to a nearby pair of slaves. Then he spins on his heel and strides away, his companion following. The knot of onlookers dissolves like smoke, everyone eager to escape scrutiny.

My cheeks burn with shame. Despite all my defiance, I ended up spouting the official lie. I hate it. I clench my palms once more, the sting a reminder I’m still here, still alive—and still powerless.

I slip back into the shack. The others stare at me, some in pity, others in relief that they weren’t forced to speak up. Eventually, they return to their corners, resume their nightly attempts at rest. Adrenaline pumps through me. If I try to sleep now, my mind will devour itself. I decide to step outside once more, needing air to clear my head and keep me from drowning in resentment.

The night sky over Lowtown is starless, swallowed by a haze of soot and the faint glow of arcane lamps from Vhoig’s higher tiers. Each tier of the city ascends in steps, from Lowtown’s squalor to the lavish palaces near the apex. I’ve glimpsed them only from afar—dazzling spires that radiate magic. I wonder if the dark elves up there care that humans die in alleys, or if they actually delight in it.

I pass a flickering lantern, pausing to study the battered posters plastered on a nearby wall. Most are old proclamations—warnings against rebellion, announcements of new taxes for the merchant class, and occasionally a call to arms for the Miou soldiers. Another poster features a stylized silhouette of a demon’s face, horns curling behind its head, proclaiming a “Grand Gladiatorial Exhibition” next week. My stomach churns. The demons employed as enforcers amuse themselves by seeing humans thrown into the arena like bait.

In Vhoig, the line between demon and dark elf cruelty is often blurred. But I know enough about the demon who enforces the elves’ rule—Malphas, they call him. Rumor says he stands eight feet tall, devours rebellious humans whole. He is a living weapon in the service of King Grymlock, or so the whispers go. The overlords occasionally mention him in hushed tones, like an invocation of fear itself.

I turn away from the poster. My footsteps echo on the damp street, each step accompanied by the distant crash of waves. In the quiet hush, my mind wanders to the last real conversation I had with my mother, years ago. She told me to stay true to myself, to never lose hope. That single memory is a fragile lifeline in this sea of despair. I silently mouth the words she once said to me: We endure. One day, we find a way to break free. My throat constricts at the thought. She’s gone now—taken, lost, I don’t know. But her words remain.

I find my way toward an alcove beneath a sagging balcony. It overlooks a narrow canal that runs out to the harbor. The water below is murky, churning with refuse. I breathe in the briny wind that wafts through, ignoring the stench of rotting fish. When I close my eyes, I can almost pretend there’s a wide ocean out there, an endless horizon. Freedom might lie just beyond. I cling to that notion, letting it bolster my resolve.

A scraping sound at my back alerts me. I twist around to see Riven, a fellow human thrall. He sidles close, glancing about nervously. He’s a bony young man, bruised around his jaw from a recent altercation, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. He lifts a hand in silent greeting.

“Thought I heard you come out,” he says, voice subdued. “You all right?”

I give a curt nod. We’re not friends, exactly, but we’ve shared a few scraps in the past. That counts for something in Lowtown. Riven shifts from foot to foot. “Nasty business earlier,” he comments, referring to the soldiers. “They’ve been snatching folks this week. Heard they’re planning something big. Maybe something to do with that gladiatorial spectacle.”

I grit my teeth. The gladiatorial games are infamous in Vhoig. Humans are tossed in to fight each other, or sometimes savage beasts. The crowd roars with excitement, placing bets on who will last longest. Most die. Some vanish afterward, never to be heard from again. My chest tightens. “Why now?” I ask.

Riven shrugs. “Could be they’re bored, or maybe this is a special event for the nobility. Either way, it’s not good for us.”

He glances over my shoulder at the canal. “I was thinking…maybe we should try our luck at the cargo ships,” he mutters. “Sneak onto one heading across the seas, see if we can slip away.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s a desperate plan, yet I can’t fault him for hoping. “The ships are heavily guarded,” I say. “We’d be caught in a heartbeat.”

“I know,” he replies with a humorless smile. “Doesn’t stop me from dreaming.”

Silence stretches between us, thick with shared despair. After a moment, Riven pats my shoulder awkwardly. “Take care of yourself, Val. I…I don’t want to see you end up in the pits.”

His concern resonates in my chest. “Same to you,” I manage to say.

He slips back into the shadows, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The hush envelops me again. My eyes drift to a vantage point of the higher city. Magic orbs hover in the distance, illuminating spires that pierce the sky. Between the labyrinth of buildings, I spot a flicker of movement—a silhouette perched on a rooftop. My heart hitches. The shape is too large to be an elf, and two curved horns reflect the glow of the orbs. A demon, maybe.

I’ve heard Malphas prowls the city at night, sniffing out rebellion. An involuntary shiver crawls up my spine. Though I’ve never witnessed him up close, rumors of his brutality echo through Lowtown like a curse. Some humans claim they saw him incinerate five slaves for insubordination, while others whisper that he can harness shadows to devour a man from the inside out. I don’t know how much is true or if any of it is exaggerated. But any demon under the dark elves’ rule can’t be good.

I step back into the gloom, letting the balcony above hide me. The silhouette shifts, seeming to peer across the city. For an instant, I imagine those eyes lock onto me—two pinpoints of glowing red in the dark. A chill washes over my skin. Slowly, I sink down, pressing my back against the wall. My pulse hammers so loud I’m certain he can hear it. After a heartbeat, the figure leaps, disappearing from view behind the next tier of rooftops.

I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. That brief glimpse was enough to confirm he exists beyond whispered tales. A real monster. The knowledge leaves me rattled.

Eventually, I rise to return to the shack, bones aching with each step. By the time I step inside, the others are asleep once more or feigning rest. I slump onto my thin blanket, shoulders protesting. The candle on the table sputters, then gutters out, plunging the cramped space into darkness. My mind whirls, replaying the night’s events—my forced lie, that child with haunted eyes, the possibility of more humans being taken. I also see the faint silhouette of a horned figure on the rooftops.

I press a hand over my pounding heart, trying to steady myself. This world devours the weak without mercy, and we humans have so few options. I think about my mother’s voice again, that steadfast ring of courage. I can’t let my spirit crumble. Because if I lose hope, if I let them break me, then everything I’ve suffered was for nothing.

I drift into fitful sleep with my fist curled tight against my chest. Even in slumber, I sense the city’s oppressive presence bearing down on me—a weight that threatens to crush my lungs. Behind my lids, I picture horns against the night sky, a demon’s silhouette overshadowing everything. The memory sends a jolt of apprehension through my dreams.

Still, a flicker of defiance burns within me. As I slip into uneasy dreams, I clutch that spark like a hidden blade. One day, I tell myself, I will use it.

Morning comes in Lowtown with a shrill whistle from the main thoroughfare. A signal for all human laborers to present themselves. My eyes snap open, throat parched, body stiff. I grit my teeth, rolling to my feet. Outside, the sky is a bleak gray, the sun hidden behind Vhoig’s upper terraces and constant smog. The whistle blares again.

All around me, the others stir with the same exhausted dread. Mirena barely manages to stand, leaning on a younger man for support. I brace her elbows gently. Her feverish skin concerns me, but I can’t linger. The city demands we show up for daily tasks, or we invite swift punishment.

I trudge onto the street. Dark elf overseers stand in a row, scanning the crowd. One checks off a list on a scroll, barking out instructions. “You lot—warehouse district. Unload the morning ships,” he commands, pointing to a group. “You—clean the stables in District Three.” On and on, they distribute assignments with brisk efficiency.

My name is finally called. I step forward. The overseer flicks his gaze over me. “Kitchen duty in the Northern Estate,” he snaps. “And keep your head down this time, or you’ll lose it entirely.”

I say nothing, though fury flickers in my gut. They assign me to the Northern Estate because they think I can handle heavier tasks. They prefer to keep the rebellious ones close, within sight of armed guards. The Northern Estate is a sprawling mansion belonging to a minor noble. Its kitchens are massive, feeding both the family and their many guests. My presence there is more about menial labor than cooking. I’m to chop vegetables, scrub floors, endure the sneers of the dark elf staff.

We’re herded into lines, trudging through Lowtown’s gate into the mid-tier districts. The transition is jarring as crumbling shacks give way to sturdier structures. A faint sparkle of arcane lanterns glimmers along the neatly paved streets. It’s not the opulence of the upper city, but everything here looks significantly better than the slums we call home.

Dark elf merchants bustle about, leading caravans or negotiating deals. Some wear fine robes with swirling motifs, others don simpler attire. Occasionally, I spot a noble traveling in a palanquin with embroidered curtains, carried by human slaves. The entire sight makes me sick.

We eventually arrive at the Northern Estate’s service entrance, a tall archway carved with swirling elven glyphs. A pair of armed guards waits, scanning the newly arrived laborers. “Any trouble, and your heads roll,” one guard warns, voice sharp. The other guard smirks, as if hoping for an excuse to draw blood.

We’re ushered inside a courtyard. The estate’s grandeur is blatant even from the servant’s area. Tall columns flank each side, covered in creeping vines that produce violet blossoms. A wide fountain occupies the center, water dancing in an artful display powered by subtle magic. It’s a far cry from the squalor outside these walls.

I’m directed into a side corridor that opens into the kitchens. The room hums with activity. Pots clang, steam hisses, and an acrid smell of burning onions hovers in the air. Several humans scurry around, heads bowed as dark elf cooks bark orders. I approach the station where a squat older woman—another human—positions herself. Her face is lined with worry and half-healed bruises. She hands me a chipped knife and points to a stack of root vegetables.

“They want these peeled and chopped,” she murmurs without meeting my eyes. “Hurry, or you’ll regret it.”

I settle in and begin slicing, body operating on autopilot. My mind drifts, scanning every detail of this place. The tile floors, the racks of shining utensils, the magical flames that dance under cast-iron cauldrons. Arcane crystals set in sconces provide a steady glow. It’s all so clean and organized that it feels surreal compared to Lowtown’s squalor.

A dark elf cook strides past, pausing briefly to appraise my work. He’s tall, with angular features and slick hair pulled back, eyes narrow with distaste. “Faster,” he sneers, tapping the hilt of a dagger at his belt. “You worthless creatures can’t even handle a simple task without daydreaming.”

I stop the retort that surges to my lips. Instead, I keep slicing, letting the rhythmic motion quell my fury. The overheated air thickens with spices, baking bread, and the bitter tang of authority pressing down on me.

Time crawls. My arms soon ache, but I refuse to slow down. Another human worker approaches to carry away the chopped produce. She avoids my gaze. Interaction between slaves is discouraged—any sign of solidarity can lead to accusations of conspiracy. So we all function like cogs in a machine, silent and efficient.

At midday, the clang of a bell signals a brief pause. I straighten, stretching my back. Sweat drenches my brow, and my shirt clings uncomfortably. My gaze drifts across the kitchen. The dark elf staff cluster at a side table, enjoying a meal of fresh bread, roasted meat, and cool drinks. They talk and laugh while we stand in the corners, waiting for permission to have scraps.

One of them, a high-ranking servant, by the looks of his elegant uniform—glances around. “Humans,” he calls out in a bored tone, “eat outside. You have five minutes.” He waves a dismissive hand.

We file into the courtyard, where a trough-like table is set up for us. A single loaf of hard bread and a watered-down stew wait in a large tin pot. I quietly spoon some into a battered bowl, ignoring the taste of rancid fat. A few mouthfuls is all I manage, but it’s enough to keep me upright. As I swallow, I scan the courtyard.

A hush falls. A trio of dark elves steps into view from a grand hallway. Their robes are rich velvet, embroidered with shimmering threads. They carry themselves with haughty grace. The one in the center, a stern-faced male with silver hair, addresses a caretaker who rushes forward to greet them. I catch fragments of their conversation—something about “the King’s Court,” “entertainment,” and “sacrifices.” A cold blade of dread pierces me. Sacrifices typically mean humans.

Before I can glean more, a harsh voice barks from behind, “Get back to work!” The moment is lost. We scramble inside, the next round of labor waiting. Anxiety gnaws at me. The mention of sacrifices lingers in my mind, stirring an unnamed terror.

Still, I bury it down. I can’t afford distractions that might get me whipped again. So I return to my station, pick up the knife, and continue. Slice, chop, peel. Over and over, mechanical, mindless, determined to survive another day.

My thoughts won’t let go of that single word, sacrifices. I don’t know who they plan to pick—or if it’s just a rumor. The memory of that horned silhouette on the rooftops slips back into my mind. My hands tighten on the knife, knuckles whitening.

I will not kneel to fear. My life is my own, even if circumstance disagrees. And if they choose me—if my fate collides with whatever monstrous entity they worship—then I’ll be damned if I go quietly.

I push the thought aside, burying it under the dull repetition of chopping. One more day. One more small victory. I’m still alive, and so is the small child I helped last night. That has to be enough for now.

Deep in my chest, the ember of defiance continues to glow, unextinguished. I cradle it, feed it my anger, my frustration. One day, it might burn bright enough to break these chains. One day, the darkness smothering Vhoig and its oppressed might face a reckoning. Until then, I endure.