Why was I spared?
The question gnawed at Azareal's thoughts as he shuffled forward with the remaining slaves—those not yet condemned, but certainly not saved. His bare feet dragged across stone stained by years of blood and sweat, each step echoing with the quiet resignation of those around him.
And who was that person that spoke to the figure on the platform?
Nothing made sense.
The figure had paused… listened… obeyed. That alone shattered every rule Azareal understood about the slave pits.
"No one gets listened to here," he whispered to himself, voice barely audible over the thick metallic smell of iron that coated the air. The passage around them looked ancient, its pale ash-colored walls scarred by time. Dim amber lanterns flickered weakly, throwing long, trembling shadows that made the hallway feel like a narrow throat slowly swallowing them whole.
His mind raced.
Why would someone with authority above the executioner intervene for me?
The memory flashed again—
those eyes, glimmering faintly with starlight.
A trait belonging only to the Royal Main House.
Azareal swallowed.
If that guess was correct, then only two possibilities made sense:
Either…
they saw something in him others couldn't.
Or…
they wanted a personal servant too weak to rebel.
Both paths led to chains.
Just different shapes.
A bitter laugh almost escaped him.
"In the end, I'll still be treated no better than a livestock animal… just with a prettier title," he muttered darkly, feeling despair press down on his shoulders like wet cloth.
"ONWARD INTO THE HALL AND BE IN UNIFORMED ORDER!"
A deep voice roared from the front, cutting through the groans and muttered prayers of slaves who no longer believed in mercy.
Azareal flinched and moved faster with the line.
But behind him—
hidden in the trembling shadows cast by the dying lanterns—
two eyes watched him.
Starlight flickered within them, but unlike the noble brilliance he remembered, these were…
Broken.
Fractured.
Incomplete.
Like constellations carved into glass and then shattered again.
They didn't blink.
They didn't turn away.
They simply traced the outline of Azareal's back as if memorizing every fragile detail of him—the slow rise of his shoulders, the subtle tremor in his hands, the numb hesitation in his steps.
The figure exhaled softly.
Not out of pity.
But fascination.
Cold, possessive fascination.
And though the passage was filled with bodies, chains, curses, and fear…
Azareal suddenly felt a chilling prickle run down his spine.
The instinct every prey is born with.
The cracked starlight dimmed… then sharpened.
And in the silence between heartbeats, something seemed to whisper through the dark