The next morning, Kael rose before the whip cracked. His body ached, his wrists bled, but something small had changed.
Tomas stumbled beside him, his frame too weak to carry the load Rourke shoved into his arms. The boy collapsed, dust rising around his thin body. The whip hissed, ready to strike.
But before it landed, Kael stepped forward.
He lifted the burden from Tomas's shoulders and set it on his own. His back screamed in protest, muscles tearing under the weight, but he bore it silently. Rourke sneered, whip raised to lash him instead.
And Kael turned his head just enough to meet the overseer's eyes. For the first time, there was no despair in his gaze. Only defiance. Quiet. Steady. Unbreakable.
Rourke faltered. Just for a moment. The whip lowered, almost uncertain. Then, with a curse, he stalked away, leaving Kael standing tall beneath the weight.
The slaves around us saw. Their eyes flickered—just a glimmer, just a spark.
Hope.
As the day dragged on, Kael's shoulders shook, his body close to collapse. But inside me, his voice was different. Not the whisper of rope. Not the silence of surrender.
It was a promise.
"I will not fall. Not yet."
And I knew, with a shiver, that for the first time, Kael had chosen life.