The boy sat quietly beneath the broken wall.
Around him, other slaves murmured and shouted—half in belief, half in desperation—whispers of freedom rising like sparks in dry grass. He didn't hear any of it. The elder's words still rang inside his mind, heavy and relentless.
The angel… the beads… the chosen one…
The noise around him swelled. The girl beside him noticed the distant look in his violet eyes and gently nudged his arm.
"Hey… are you okay?" she whispered. "Are you still hurting?"
He didn't answer.
The taller boy leaned back on his hands with a tired sigh. "Haaah… this isn't enough," he muttered. "I already finished my bread. After all that work, this?" He scoffed. "It's nothing."
The boy nodded faintly. Too little, he thought. For all we give.
It wasn't right. None of it was.
His fingers brushed the bead beneath his shirt. Warm. Steady.
(If I'm chosen…) the thought formed slowly, frightening in its weight. (Then shouldn't I do something?)
Before he could speak, a sharp horn cry tore through the cavern.
The moment shattered.
Whips cracked against stone—loud, deliberate, not yet striking flesh but close enough to make every spine stiffen. Overseers laughed as they strode forward.
"Up!"
"Back to work, you maggots!"
Another voice sneered, "Huh, legends again? As if fairy tales will feed you."
One overseer, broader than the rest, stopped near the elder. His voice was low, cruel, meant only for him.
"Old man, all you do is fill their heads with false hope," he said. "Focus on surviving instead."
The elder lowered his gaze.
The slaves hurried to their feet. Pickaxes were grabbed. Lines reformed.
The boy stood with the others, the weight of iron settling into his hands. As he walked back into the tunnels, his violet eyes still burned with unanswered questions.
(What should I do?)
The stone ahead waited, silent and unyielding.
The pick struck stone again and again.
Each impact echoed through the tunnel, but the sound slowly faded beneath the surge of memories that rose uninvited, dragging him backward in time.
He had been smaller then. Weaker. His hands soft, unscarred, fingers trembling around tools too heavy for him.
His mother worked beside him, her steps uneven, her breathing shallow and strained. She tried to hide it—always tried—but the overseers noticed everything.
They circled like vultures.
When she stumbled, they struck her. Not hard enough to kill. Never that. Just enough to remind her where she belonged.
He remembered screaming.
Running to her. Being kicked aside like trash, his body hitting stone as laughter followed. That night, she pulled him close despite the pain, her body trembling, her arms thin but firm around him. His tears soaked into her clothes.
"When will it end?" he sobbed. "I want to go home."
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached into the folds of her worn clothing and took out a small necklace. Her hands shook as she placed it in his palm.
"Listen to me," she whispered, forcing her voice to stay steady. "This… this is for you. You must treasure it. For the rest of your life."
"What is it?" he asked through tears as she lifted it and placed it around his neck.
"A family heirloom," she said softly. "One of two beads passed down for generations. No one knows what it truly does… only that if one person carries one bead, and their partner carries the other—no matter how far apart they are—they will find each other again."
She hesitated.
"The other bead," she continued, "is with your father."
He froze. Then suddenly grabbed the necklace, yanking it free.
"I don't want it!" he cried, raising his hand as if to throw it away. "I don't want to meet him! He left us!"
She caught his wrist, her grip weak but desperate. "He didn't abandon us," she pleaded. "Please—"
"I only need you!" he shouted, tears streaming down his face. "I don't need anyone else!"
Silence followed.
She sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion and love. "Then… keep it," she said quietly. "For me. If nothing else, keep it for my sake."
She placed the bead back around his neck. This time, he didn't resist.
Relief softening her tired face. Seeing that real smile warmed his heart.
"Mother…" he whispered, hopeful. "What is father's name?"
Her eyes softened.
"…Ardan."
Later, she smiled—truly smiled—and spoke of his father. "Did you know," she murmured, "he was the most respected farmer in our village…"
The memory shattered.
Stone cracked beneath his pick as the present returned. Years had passed. His mother was gone—her heart waiting until her final breath for a man who never came.
The bead still hung warm against his chest.
"I waited," he thought, striking stone again.
"For her. For him."
By the time night fell, his arms felt like stone. He returned to the narrow space he called a bed—cold ground, thin cloth, chains loosened just enough to sleep. Around him, breathing filled the dark. He closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging him under.
And he dreamed.
He stood tall beneath open sky, chains shattered at his feet. In his hands burned a sword of living fire, its heat gentle to him, merciless to his enemies. Crass stumbled backward, face pale, whip slipping from his fingers.
"P-please—!" the overseer begged, crawling.
The others dropped to their knees, crying for mercy.
The boy raised the blade—not in anger, but resolve—and the fire roared.
Cheers erupted behind him. Slaves rushed forward, crying, laughing, free. The elder stepped through the crowd, tears in his eyes.
"The chosen hero has come," the old man whispered. "The angel's will lives on."
Then someone stood apart from the others. A man. Strong shoulders. Familiar presence.
"Father…?" the boy said.
The man opened his arms. His face was blurred, like it hadn't been decided yet—but the warmth was real. They stepped toward each other—
"Hey! Wake up!"
The dream shattered.
Rough hands shook his shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath, fire fading to darkness. The taller boy crouched beside him, eyes wide. The girl stood just behind, wringing her hands, nervous but excited.
"You were smiling in your sleep," she whispered. "We thought something was wrong."
The taller boy leaned closer, voice low, urgent. "We didn't wake you for nothing."
The boy sat up, heart still racing. "What is it?"
They exchanged a look.
Then the taller boy spoke, barely containing himself.
We found an exit.
To be continued.....