The knife felt heavier than it should have.
It wasn't large. It wasn't sharp enough to inspire confidence. Its edge was worn, nicked from years of careless use, its handle smoothed down by hands that had never owned it. And yet, as the boy stood there in the dim, stale air of the mine, it felt like the weight of a decision he could no longer avoid.
His fingers tightened around it.
All around him, chaos breathed.
Shadows moved. Boots scraped against stone. Voices echoed—angry, amused, careless. The overseers weren't worried. They never were. This place had swallowed hope long before tonight. Slaves didn't fight back. Slaves didn't run. And when they did, they didn't last.
The boy swallowed.
His chest hurt, not from injury, but from how fast his heart was beating. Every instinct screamed at him to drop the knife, to shrink back, to disappear like he always had. That had kept him alive this long.
But then he thought of the tunnel.
Of the girl's trembling hands. Of the taller boy's forced smile. Of the elder's eyes when he realized the truth—when the past had come crashing back.
"Go," the elder had yelled. "Stop them!"
He had gone.
And now, there was no turning back.
The boy moved.
Not forward in a heroic charge, not with skill or grace—but with desperation. He ran low, uneven, feet slipping on dust and stone. An overseer turned too late, surprise flickering across his face as the boy slammed into him.
The knife came up by instinct.
The first strike missed.
The overseer laughed, shoving him hard. The boy crashed into the wall, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain flared through his shoulder, sharp and immediate.
"Look at this one," the overseer sneered. "Got some courage, did you?"
The boy didn't answer. He pushed himself up, barely dodging a swing meant to knock him flat again. He stumbled, rolled, scrambled back to his feet. He wasn't strong. He wasn't trained. Every movement felt wrong.
The boy barely had time to breathe before they were on him again.
Two overseers moved in from opposite sides, cutting off his escape. He shifted his stance instinctively, knife raised, copying what he thought fighting was supposed to look like. His hands shook, but his eyes stayed locked on them.
He struck first.
Too slow.
One overseer slapped the knife aside with ease, the impact jolting the boy's arm numb. The second stepped in immediately, driving a hard kick into his side. The boy crashed to the ground, air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.
He tried to roll away.
A boot stopped him.
"Look at him," one of them scoffed, nudging the knife farther out of reach. "Swinging around like he knows something."
The other crouched slightly, meeting the boy's glare. "This," he said calmly, before striking him again, "is the difference—between pretending to fight… and actually knowing how."
The kick sent the boy skidding across the stone.
Pain rang through his body, dull and overwhelming. He forced himself up on shaking arms, refusing to stay down even as laughter echoed above him. Every movement felt slower now, heavier.
Still, he rose.
Not because he thought he could win.
But because stopping meant surrender.
And surrender meant chains.
The overseers exchanged amused looks as they circled him again, confident, relaxed—certain that this lesson would be learned the hard way.
But he didn't stop.
Another overseer joined in, circling him like this was entertainment. The boy ducked, twisted, barely avoiding hands that grabbed at his clothes. His arms burned. His vision blurred. He could hear laughter, could feel himself slowing.
Then—an opening.
The first overseer stepped too close, confident, careless.
The boy didn't think.
He drove the knife forward.
There was no dramatic moment, no slow realization. Just a sharp intake of breath from the overseer, his expression changing from amusement to shock. He staggered back, hands fumbling uselessly.
The boy froze.
For a second, the world stopped.
Then the overseer fell.
Silence spread through the tunnel, thin and fragile.
The boy stared at what he'd done, his hands shaking violently now. His stomach twisted. This wasn't imagined. This wasn't a dream of freedom. This was real, and it would never be undone.
And then—
"Hah!"
Crass's laughter cut through the moment like a blade.
"Well now," he said, stepping forward into the light. His grin was wide, almost delighted. "Did you see that?"
The other overseers hesitated, glancing between the fallen body and Crass. Unease crept in where confidence had been.
Crass clapped his hands once. "I like this one."
The boy backed away instinctively. Every part of him screamed danger. Crass moved differently—relaxed, controlled, like he wasn't afraid at all.
"You killed one," Crass continued, tilting his head. "Most don't even try. Makes this interesting."
The boy lunged.
It was a mistake.
Crass sidestepped easily and struck him hard across the side. The boy hit the ground, pain exploding through his ribs. He gasped, struggling to breathe, the knife skittering across the stone.
Crass laughed again. "That all?"
The boy forced himself up, vision swimming. He reached for the knife just as Crass kicked it away.
"Shame," Crass said. "I was hoping for more."
He stepped closer.
"This is where it ends."
Something whistled through the air.
Crass's head snapped to the side as a stone struck him near the face. It wasn't strong enough to knock him down—but it was enough.
Enough to distract.
The boy didn't hesitate this time.
He rushed forward, grabbing the fallen knife, driving in with everything he had left. Crass twisted, blocking the worst of it—but the blade caught the side of his face.
Crass screamed.
It wasn't loud, but it was real.
He stumbled back, clutching his eye, fury replacing amusement in an instant. The other overseers froze, shocked into silence.
The boy didn't wait.
He turned and ran.
He grabbed the girl's hand, pulling her with him. She cried out in surprise but didn't resist. Together they sprinted down the tunnel, lungs burning, feet barely touching the ground.
They nearly crashed into the taller boy.
"I—I'm sorry," he said quickly, breathless. "I ran. I shouldn't have—"
"No time," the boy said. "We move. Now."
They ran.
Out of the tunnel, into the open dark beyond the mine. Cold air hit their faces, sharp and clean. They didn't stop until their legs gave out, hiding among rocks and broken terrain, hearts pounding like they might burst.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Far behind them, Crass lowered his hand from his face.
His smile was gone.
"Find them," he said quietly. "I want them alive."
An overseer hesitated. "Should we tell the higher-ups?"
Crass turned slowly.
"Are you stupid?" he said calmly. "If they find out what we do for fun, we lose more than slaves."
He smiled again—but this time, it didn't reach his eyes.
"Quietly," he repeated. "Bring them back."
The hunt had begun.
To be continued.....