A strange-looking young man — if you could even call him a man — sat in the far corner of the cell he shared with others who carried the same damning title: slave.
Vikhael kept to himself, not out of fear or pride, but because he didn't want to frighten the people around him. He had learned long ago that his silence unsettled others almost as much as his appearance.
He didn't look like most men — not by a long stretch. His skin was pale ash, his hair the same muted shade, as if fire had touched him once and left its mark forever. But it was his eyes that drew the most attention: gold, slit like an ancient beast's.
The others stole glances when they thought he wouldn't notice. Some with curiosity. Most with unease.
Vikhael didn't mind. He had grown used to being looked at like that — as though his existence was something that needed forgiving.
Though there was one slave who softened Vikhael's eyes and steadied his breath.
A young girl — perhaps no older than he was — always met his gaze and, against all reason, smiled.
The gesture confused him. For a moment, he wondered if madness had finally taken him — to think anyone could smile at the sight of him.
He exhaled sharply, the sound low and rough, as if trying to shake loose the foolish thought.
There was no place in this world where he could pretend to be human.
"Avert your eyes, girl!" someone hissed.
"That thing… it isn't human," another spat.
"Our lives are already damned. We don't need a beast at our heels neither!"
Before anyone could speak again, the door slammed open. A slaver barged in, striking the iron bars with the butt of his rifle.
"Quiet, you lot!" he barked.
The weapon clacked — a chambered round echoing sharp in the stale air.
"Unless one of you…" he raised the barrel, sweeping it across the cell, "…has something else to say."
The slaves shrank back, trembling. Some clasped their hands and whispered for mercy.
"Forgive us, sir," one managed.
Others turned on Vikhael — desperate to shift the target.
"It's that beast, sir!"
"Aye — hollow blood runs through his veins!"
"We won't survive the journey if that monster comes!"
The slaver's gaze found him at last — quiet, still, golden beast-like eyes gleaming from the corner.
Vikhael didn't move.
He'd heard this before.
Every word of it.
"Ha! This one's nothing more than a pup," the man sneered, taking a long swig from a flask pulled from his pocket.
"Hollow blood or not, he'll fetch a pretty price."
Hollow blood.
The words always seemed to follow Vikhael wherever he went. Denying them was useless; even he didn't quite understand what they meant.
He'd pondered it before — what it meant to have hollow blood.
But he had no time for thinking.
A gunshot split the air.
Without warning, the slaver fired in Vikhael's direction, the bullet hissing past his ear.
"Don't get any ideas, pup."
The man chuckled, taking another long swig from his flask.
"You and the rest of this lot will soon be on your way to your new homes."
With that, the slaver turned and shut the door behind him. The heavy locks clattered into place, one after another, until there was nothing left but the weak cries and prayers of the slaves.
The silence after the slaver's exit felt heavier than the gunshot.
Smoke hung in the air — thin, acrid, the ghost of powder and iron.
For a while, no one moved. The only sound was the uneven breathing of those who still prayed under their breath.
Then, a small sound — the scrape of bare feet and chains against stone.
The girl.
She rose slowly, one hand pressed to the wall for balance, the other clutching the torn fabric of her sleeve. Step by step, she shuffled across the cramped cell — toward him.
Every movement drew whispers.
Gasps. The rattle of chains as others recoiled.
"What's she doing?"
"Stay back, girl!"
"Leave him be — leave it be!"
But she didn't stop.
Her eyes — pale, tired, but steady — found his. The same faint smile trembled on her lips, fragile but real.
Vikhael didn't move. He didn't reach for her or turn away. He simply watched as she came closer, confusion knotting in his chest where fear should have been.
The others pressed themselves to the opposite wall, whispering prayers or curses — it was hard to tell which.
When the girl finally reached him, she hesitated only once, then lowered herself beside him, her back against the cold stone.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, softly, she spoke.
"You don't scare me."
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but in that silence, it sounded impossibly loud.
Vikhael's breath caught — shallow, unsteady. If he'd had a voice, he might have told her to leave. Instead, he turned his head slightly — not rejection, not acceptance, something in between.
The others stared, wide-eyed. To them, it must have looked like madness. To him, it felt like something worse — hope.
He drew back, the rough clink of his chains breaking the stillness.
He pressed himself deeper into the corner, as if the stone might swallow him whole.
He made himself smaller — or tried to.
Head bowed. Hands tucked close.
A creature pretending not to exist.
But she didn't move away.
"I've never seen eyes like yours," she said softly, her voice trembling but sincere. "They look like a flower I saw in a dream once — golden, growing out of the ash. I didn't think anything could live there."
The words struck him harder than any blow.
He tensed, fingers digging into his forearms until his pale skin blanched. The muscle in his jaw trembled.
He refused to look at her — refused to let the words sink in.
No one spoke to him like that.
Not without fear. Not without disgust.
He gritted his teeth, breath rasping through them in a low, animal sound.
He didn't want this — this fragile illusion that someone might see something human in him.
Kindness was a crueler wound than hatred.
Still, she smiled — small, unafraid, as if she couldn't feel the weight of the others' stares.
And for the first time in a long while, Vikhael didn't know if he wanted to disappear… or to believe he could still be seen as human.
For a moment, the cell was quiet — almost peaceful, even.
Vikhael didn't know if the stillness was born from the girl's kind words…
or if it was simply the world catching its breath before things grew worse.
Then came the sound — deep, mechanical — a great engine humming through the stone walls.
The others turned toward the noise, fear seizing their bodies as they began to tremble.
Vikhael paid them no mind. He was too entranced by the strange girl beside him, her hands now clasped as she whispered a prayer to a goddess whose name he did not know.
Outside, the engines grew louder — a reminder that mercy was not on their route.