Morning broke with no kindness.
The sun rose like a blade, cutting through the sky, scorching everything beneath it. The overseer, Master Rourke, strode into the yard with the swagger of a man who believed he owned the earth. His whip coiled in his hand like a snake, his boots polished even though the soil clung to everything else.
"On your feet, scum!" he barked.
Chains clattered as bodies scrambled upright. Kael's legs groaned with stiffness, but he rose. Always he rose. To disobey meant death, and death by whip was slower than the rope.
We were marched back to the fields. The ground burned underfoot, the air shimmered with heat, and the smell of dust filled every breath. The sun beat down, merciless.
As I dug into the dry soil with a rusted hoe, my hands blistered, splitting open to bleed into the dirt. Flies gathered instantly, feeding on the wounds. The sting was sharp, constant, but the greater pain came from Kael's voice inside me:
"Look around. This is life. Day after day, chain after chain. Do you call this survival?"
I looked.
Rows of slaves bent double, their backs striped with scars. Some coughed blood into the soil. Some stumbled, only to be lashed until they staggered back into place. None spoke of freedom. None dared.
I had no answer for him.
And then Rourke's whip cracked across the back of a boy no older than twelve. The child collapsed, choking on dust, but Rourke struck again and again, grinning through his yellowed teeth. The boy's cries cut through the field, high and thin.
Kael's fury surged through me. His hands tightened on the hoe until the wood groaned. "One swing. One blow to his skull. End him. End all of it."
For a heartbeat, I almost gave in. Almost raised the hoe.
But I forced it back down, my chest heaving. "Not like this. Violence won't free us. It'll only damn us further."
Kael spat his despair into me. "Then what will? Tell me, stranger—what will?"
I had no answer. Only the silence of the fields.