The chains bit into his wrists with every sway of the wagon.
Not just metal — weight made cruel, biting into flesh rubbed raw. Each link groaned with the rhythm of the road, syncing with the dull throb in his skull.
A brutal reminder: he was not free. Not anymore.
Dust stung his eyes.
It caked his tongue.
Clung to the roof of his mouth like ash.
The air was dry — unkind — soaked in the scent of rusted iron, sweat, and something fouler: desperation.
Around him, dozens of other slaves slumped under the weight of the twin suns.
Their backs bent.
Their wills broken.
No one spoke.
Not even the guards.
Only the creak of wagon wheels and the shriek of scavenger birds overhead broke the silence.
He sat with his knees drawn in, shackled hands resting limp across his lap.
His head leaned against splintered wood.
He didn't know how long he'd been here.
He didn't even know if "arrived" was the right word.
He didn't remember being brought here.
Hell…
He didn't remember much of anything.
Just fragments.
A flickering screen glowing blue in a dark room.
A game. A world map. A glowing sword.
The cold of pavement beneath his cheek.
The scream of brakes.
Then — void.
He should've died.
But somehow, he woke up in fire.
A ritual chamber cloaked in red.
Shadows chanting in a language his bones didn't recognize.
Pain — no, disassembly.
As if he'd been torn apart and sewn back together by trembling, unholy hands.
And now… he was here.
Where twin suns hung like angry gods over a desert that had no end.
What the hell happened to me…?
A guard barked.
The wagon jolted forward.
Chains yanked at his arms.
Beside him, someone moved.
He turned.
A beastkin — feline blood.
Humanoid, but not.
Ears twitched atop her head. Her tail curled behind shackled ankles.
Long, silver-white hair drifted in the dry wind like snow caught in a storm.
Fur — pristine white, with silver stripes like moonlight carved into flesh.
Her body was coiled.
Not just beautiful — dangerous.
A blade sheathed in stillness.
Golden eyes peered out beneath her cowl.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Defiant.
She didn't look directly at him.
But she knew.
Had known since the first night.
He'd caught her watching him.
Not curious — suspicious.
She could feel it — the thing buried under his skin.
The mark etched into his chest like frozen fire.
He hadn't shown it to anyone.
Hadn't dared.
But at night, when sleep frayed and shadows crept in...
It whispered.
Not in words.
But in weight.
That evening, the wagons stopped at a ruin.
Some dead place, half-swallowed by the sand.
They were herded out, chained to weathered posts.
He sat alone, staring at the crumbling remains of a stone tower in the distance.
Ancient.
Forgotten.
Like something that had lost a war with time.
Just like him.
"You're not from here."
The voice cut the air.
He flinched.
Turned.
The beastkin stood nearby — still chained, arms crossed, eyes locked.
Her voice was low.
Sharp.
Like a blade pulled from frost.
"You don't smell right. Not human. Not beast. Not even Voidtouched."
He swallowed.
Didn't know what to say.
Didn't have much to say.
"I don't remember who I am," he said, hoarse.
She narrowed her eyes.
"That's a lie."
"I swear—"
"Lies stink worse than piss."
He looked away.
The mark on his chest pulsed — faint, hot.
Like it had heard her.
Like it agreed.
"I'm not your enemy," he murmured. "I don't even know where the hell I am."
She tilted her head.
The wind played with her cloak.
"You're in chains," she said softly. "That's all that matters."
No anger.
No pity.
Just truth.
Then she turned and sat by the fire.
He watched her for a while.
Didn't know why her words stung so much.
Maybe because they were the first ones that felt real.
And far ahead, where twilight kissed the edge of the world,
the black towers of Blackstone Keep began to rise.