Chains didn't always clink loudly. Some days, they whispered—soft taps against stone, dull reminders of ownership rather than punishment. Other days, they rattled sharply, answering the crack of whips. The boy had learned to keep them quiet. He walked carefully, steps measured, moving in a neat line with the other slaves.
Ash and dust clung to the air inside the cave, rising with every movement. Torches lined the walls, their weak flames barely pushing back the darkness. No one spoke. They never did. At an age meant for games and laughter, the boy carried an iron pick instead, his hands already rough and scarred. He kept his eyes lowered as overseers passed, their smirks sharp and satisfied, as if the slaves were no more than animals. They worked without complaint, not because they accepted their fate, but because none of them knew what freedom was, only that this life had always been theirs.
The boy had no name. He had never known one.
The boy's dark skin gleamed under the torchlight, long ears framing his face, violet eyes glinting beneath strands of purple hair—undeniably a dark elf, the world's tarnished race.
He mined until his arms burned, gathering pale white stones and carrying them toward the deposit pile. On the way back, his foot caught on a loose rock. He fell hard. The basket slipped from his grip, stones scattering across the floor.
Panic hit before pain did.
"Damn it…" he muttered, scrambling to gather them.
The sound of a whip cut through the cave.
Pain flared across his back as a fat, brutish man stepped forward—Crass, the overseer. His unkempt hair clung to his sweaty face, smaller guards laughing at his sides.
"What was that, you shit?" Crass sneered.
"Kick him again!" one of the men jeered.
Crass turned suddenly and struck another slave nearby, knocking stones from his hands. "Look at this mess," he barked. "Uncivilized animals."
The boy crawled toward his pick, but Crass's boot slammed down in front of him.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"…Sorry," the boy whispered.
Crass laughed and lashed once more before stepping back. "Get back to work. All of you."
The overseer turned away, still chuckling. Around them, the slaves lowered their heads and returned to mining. The boy picked up his fallen tool, hands shaking—not with fear, but with quiet hatred buried deep in his chest.
One day, he promised himself, this cave would remember their footsteps differently, but today... It was not that day.
Finally, a horn sounded, sharp and cutting through the heavy air of the cave. It marked a brief reprieve from the endless labor, and the slaves shuffled toward the broken shade of a collapsed wall. Bodies sagged, shoulders drooping, knees weak from hours of toil. A few muttered under their breath, "Finally… some rest," though the relief that came was thin, fleeting, barely tangible. Bread, stale and hard, was passed around, followed by dirty, lukewarm water. The boy sat quietly among others his age, small in number but enough to give him a sliver of company.
Suddenly, a small girl clung to his arm, her wide eyes filled with worry. "Did they hurt you again?" she asked softly.
The boy shrugged, his face blank but his tone even. "Yeah… but nothing new," he said, as if it were ordinary.
A taller boy nearby leaned against the crumbling wall, his arm over his knees. "Just tough it out," he said with a tired laugh. "Nothing new ever happens here anyway."
The boy tried to lift the mood, pressing a small smile across his face. "That's… a good way to look at it," he said, cracking his neck lightly, trying to loosen the tension that wrapped around his shoulders.
The small girl edged closer, smiling faintly, whispering, "Shh… look, the elder is telling a story again."
The boy's hand instinctively went to his chest, brushing against a bead tied around his neck. It glowed softly with a faint purple hue, pulsating with a warmth that seemed at odds with the harsh, dusty air around him. A strange feeling of anticipation stirred within him, tiny but insistent, as if the story being told and the bead itself were connected in ways he didn't yet understand.
The children gathered closer, huddled beneath the flickering shadows of the cave. Dust drifted lazily in the air, catching the orange glow of torches. The elder leaned forward, his spine curved, hands gripping a gnarled staff. His voice, cracked and uneven, carried a strange power as he began to speak.
"Long ago…" he rasped, pausing as if tasting the weight of his own words, "the angels—sworn to protect this world—were not always what they seemed. Once, they walked among mortals freely, guiding them, shielding them… until a shadow fell upon their hearts." His eyes widened, staring into the distance as though seeing a memory beyond time. "The first inhabitants of this world, pure and untainted, faced a divine punishment they did not deserve. And yet, the very ones who should have safeguarded them… turned against them."
A hush fell over the children, their small faces pale with fear and awe. The elder's voice grew louder, trembling with passion. "But there was one who would not stand by. The Angel of Rebellion… he descended from the heavens, blazing with righteous fire, to oppose his own kin—his brothers and sisters who had abandoned their oath, who sought destruction instead of guidance. He fought them, one after another, piercing the darkness that sought to consume the world."
He lowered his voice now, gravelly and haunting. "Many lives were saved that day, though at a terrible cost. The Angel himself… he fell. Mortally wounded, his life's blood seeping into the soil, his light extinguished. And yet… his legend endures. They say he may return. That in the hours when the world is most desperate, his spirit may rise again, bound to a mortal who carries his divine artifacts—the Beads of Rebellion."
The boy's hand went instinctively to the bead resting at his chest, a soft glow pulsing from within. His heartbeat quickened, the memory of a voice long past echoing in his mind. Keep it close… it will lead your father to you. His mother's words, faint but unwavering, stirred something deep within him.
The elder's eyes gleamed, almost wild now, as he raised his staff. "These beads… forged from the life energy of the fallen angel, contain fragments of his power! Two identical orbs, each imbued with the essence of rebellion itself. Whoever holds them carries the chance… to awaken the Angel's will, to fight tyranny, to lead a revolution the likes of which this world has never seen!"
The children gasped, some whispering among themselves, trembling at the intensity of the tale. The elder's voice grew louder, echoing off the stone walls as he raised both hands to the cavern ceiling. "Legends say that when the time comes, the Angel will rise once more! With his blazing sword of fire, he will cut through oppression, he will defy the unjust, and he will rally all those who have been broken or enslaved!"
A deafening cheer rose from the children. "The Angel! The Angel! The Angel!" they shouted, voices blending into a wave of hope and excitement. But the boy sat in silence, his small fingers tracing the smooth surface of the purple bead at his chest. His mind raced, spinning between awe and disbelief. Could it truly be him? Could he… be the warrior of the rebellion, the chosen one who would carry the fallen angel's will into the world?
For a long moment, he stared into the glowing light of the bead, the flickering torchlight reflecting across his wide, uncertain eyes. The elder's words continued to echo through the cavern: "The Angel will rise again. Through the one who bears his power, the world will see justice, hope, and fire… and rebellion shall be born anew."
And in that silence, amidst whispers of legend and the crackling of torch flames, the boy's heart thumped with a dangerous, thrilling certainty. Perhaps… just perhaps… he was destined for greatness.
To be continued.....