The nights were the worst.
The day's labor broke the body, but the nights broke the soul. In the shack, pressed against other slaves, every breath thick with sweat and sickness, Kael's thoughts burned louder than the hunger in his belly.
"Another day tomorrow. And another after that. Until I collapse and they bury me in the dirt I've bled into. That's all there is. That's all there ever will be."
His despair wrapped around me like a shroud. My own chest ached with it, my ribs tightening with every whispered thought.
I stared at the rope in the corner. The frayed fibers gleamed faintly in the moonlight slipping through the boards. It was waiting. Patient. Promising silence.
I whispered into the darkness, my voice trembling but firm. "No. That isn't all there is. Tomorrow can still change."
Kael laughed bitterly inside me, a hollow sound. "Change? Out there? You've seen them, the overseers. Their whips, their boots, their dogs. Men have tried. They all failed. All died."
His truth was sharp. I couldn't deny it. Every scar in this place told the same story: rebellion crushed, hope extinguished.
But I leaned closer to the boy beside us, no older than fifteen, his skin stretched thin over bone. His breaths rattled like old paper. And I whispered again, this time for both Kael and him:
"Not all fires are meant to burn bright. Some just need to spark. Enough to outlast the night."
The boy stirred, his eyes flickering open for a moment, as if some part of him had heard.
And in that flicker, Kael hesitated.
Not victory. But not surrender.
Not yet.