That night, the shack was quiet. The rope still lay in the corner, its frayed fibers glimmering in the moonlight. But Kael didn't look at it.
He sat with Tomas pressed against his side, the boy's small frame trembling but alive. Around them, the other slaves whispered, not prayers, not curses—just words of awe. Words of hope.
Kael's body throbbed with pain, his back torn raw, but his spirit felt… different. Not whole, not healed. But alive.
His voice whispered inside me, softer than ever: "I'm not ready to die. Not yet. Not while he still needs me."
And I felt the shift. The choice had been made. The rope no longer held him.
The voice—the one that had bound me to this cursed task—echoed faintly in my skull, almost amused.
"One more soul. One more victory. But six still remain…"
The shack faded. The chains dissolved. Tomas's warmth slipped from Kael's side.
And the darkness swallowed me again.