The heavy chains dragged across the rough stone floor of the pit with a constant, grinding sound that filled the air. The large overseer, covered from head to toe in thick metal armor that clanked with every step, pulled Joseph—now trapped in the body of the female demon named Velrith—toward a particular spot in the center of the massive underground space. The overseer's grip was firm and unyielding on the chain attached to the iron collar around her neck. Every pull jerked her forward, making her bare feet scrape against the cold, uneven ground. Small pieces of sharp rock dug into her skin, leaving tiny red marks that stung with each movement. The pit itself was a huge, open area carved deep into the rock of the mountain, with high walls that rose up into shadows where torches flickered weakly from metal holders stuck into the stone. The light from those torches cast long, dancing shadows across the floor, making the space feel even larger and more empty. Dozens of other slaves, all demons with broken horns and scarred bodies, sat or leaned against the walls, their eyes dull and empty from days of hard work and little food.
The overseer stopped at a stained section of the floor where dark marks from old spills and blood had soaked into the stone over many years. With a strong push from a thick boot, the overseer kicked at a hidden lever near the ground. A loud, working sound came from under the floor as a heavy stone slab slowly lifted up, moved by hidden gears that turned with effort. The slab revealed a large iron trough built right into the ground, wide enough for several demons to reach into at once and deep enough to hold a good amount of food. The edges of the trough were rusted and bent from constant use, and the inside was covered in layers of dried slop from past feedings. This trough was the center of everything in the pit right now. All the slaves who had been sitting still, like statues with no life, suddenly came alive. Their heads turned slowly at first, then faster, eyes locking onto the empty trough with a look of pure, desperate need. The air around the spot grew thick and heavy, filled with the sounds of dry mouths opening and closing, ragged breaths coming quicker, and low grunts from throats that had not spoken in hours.
Up on the ledge above the pit, where the overseers walked without chains, another guard appeared. This one was taller and carried a wooden bucket as big as a small barrel, made from thick planks bound with iron rings. The bucket sloshed with every step, and the guard held it with both hands to keep it steady. Without any care or warning, the guard tilted the bucket over the edge and poured everything inside into the trough. The sound was a wet, heavy splish-slop that echoed off the walls, and the grey slop spread out to fill the bottom in a thick, even layer. It looked depressing and plain, like wet mud mixed with scraps. The smell hit the air right away—a strong, sweet-sour odor that made Joseph's stomach turn inside Velrith's body. It mixed with the taste of dried blood still in her mouth from earlier wounds, creating a sick feeling that climbed up her throat. The slop was made from ground-up grains that had gone bad, old vegetables covered in green mold, and bits of meat that were stringy and unclear, maybe from animals that had died long ago. Even in the dim light from the torches, small white maggots could be seen moving slowly through the warm paste, their bodies twisting and turning as they searched for places to hide.
The overseer gave a short, sharp command in a language that sounded like rocks breaking. The word was simple and clear: eat. No one needed to understand the words; the meaning was obvious from the way the overseer pointed at the trough with a thick finger.
That single word started everything. The slaves moved all at once, like a wave of bodies crashing forward. Chains rattled loudly as legs pushed off the ground, and hands reached out to grab at the air. There was no waiting in line or taking turns; it was all pushing and shoving, with elbows jabbing into sides and feet stepping on toes. Some slaves growled low in their throats, warning others to stay back, while a few weaker ones were knocked to the ground and trampled under the rush. The overseers watched from above, their armored bodies still and silent, holding long whips coiled at their sides. They did not stop the fighting; this was part of the rule here—only the strong got enough to eat.
Velrith felt a rough hand on the back of her head, pushing her hard into the crowd. She stumbled forward, her bruised ribs hitting against another slave's shoulder. The pain shot through her side like a hot knife, making her gasp and double over for a moment. She landed on her knees near the edge of the trough, the cold iron rim pressing into her skin. For a second, everything blurred—the smells, the sounds, the press of bodies all around. But then the hunger took over. Velrith's body had gone days without real food. Every part of her screamed for something to fill the emptiness inside. The human mind of Joseph, the one that remembered clean meals on plates and the smell of fresh bread, wanted to pull away in horror from the wriggling maggots and the rotten smell. But Velrith's survival instincts were stronger now. They pushed aside the disgust and said one thing clearly: eat or die.
She leaned forward without thinking, her hands—small and shaking from weakness—diving straight into the warm slop. The feel of it was sticky and soft, like thick mud that clung to her fingers. She scooped up a large handful, feeling the squish between her palms and the tiny movements of the maggots against her skin. Bringing it up to her face, the smell was even worse close up, a wave of rot and old milk that made her eyes water. She paused for just a breath, tasting the sour air on her tongue, then shoved the whole handful into her mouth. The texture was lumpy and grainy, with bits of hard vegetable skin catching between her teeth. The taste exploded—moldy and bitter, with a hint of sweet decay that coated her throat as she swallowed. But the moment the slop hit her empty stomach, a warm feeling spread through her body. It was not pleasure, but relief, like cool water on a burn. The hunger quieted a little, giving her strength to reach for more.
She ate fast, using both hands now, scooping and cramming the grey mass into her mouth without pausing to chew fully. Slop dripped down her chin and onto her chest, mixing with the sweat and dirt already there. Around her, other slaves did the same. One demon with a missing eye slurped loudly, his tongue licking the edges of the trough to get every bit. Another, a female with long scars across her back, used her chained hands to push away a smaller male who tried to reach past her. The smaller one fell back, landing on his side with a thud, but he crawled right back up, eyes wild, and tried again from another angle. Conflicts happened all over for food. Two large males near the far end locked horns—short stubs that had been filed down—and pushed against each other with grunts. Their feet slid in the spilled slop, and one slipped, falling face-first into the trough. The other took the chance to scoop extra handfuls while the fallen one sputtered and wiped grey paste from his eyes.
High above, the overseer who had dragged Velrith let out a loud, rough laugh that cut through the noise. Velrith looked up quickly, her mouth still full of slop. The overseer's helmet hid most of his face in shadow, but his eyes glowed faintly red in the torchlight. He was not laughing at the eating or the fights; his gaze was fixed lower, on Velrith's exposed body. Specifically, on her chest . The cool air of the pit brushed against her skin, making her aware of every curve and mark. The overseer reached down with one large, leather-gloved hand. The glove was thick and stained with old blood, the fingers ending in metal tips for extra grip. He grabbed her left breast roughly, squeezing hard enough to bruise the pale skin. Then, with a quick twist, he pinched the nipple and pulled it outward powerfully. The pain was immediate and sharp, like a hot needle driving deep. Velrith's body froze, her hand halfway to her mouth with another scoop of slop. The food sat on her tongue, forgotten for that moment. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them back. The humiliation burned worse than the pain—this was not about need or even desire; it was a simple show of power, a way to say she was nothing but an object to be handled.
Inside, Joseph's mind raged with hate. He imagined grabbing the overseer's arm, twisting it until bones cracked, or biting down on the fingers until blood flowed. But Velrith's control was iron-tight. She kept her face blank, eyes down on the trough, body hunched in submission. She chewed slowly, swallowed the bite, and reached for more as if nothing had happened. The overseer laughed again, a harsh sound like dry leaves scraping, and let go. The nipple throbbed with a dull ache, red and swollen, but Velrith ignored it. Food was limited; pain was endless. She had learned the rules of this place, called Kravesh by the demons—a world where the strong took and the weak endured.
The feeding went on, but space at the trough grew tighter as more slaves pushed in. Velrith managed two more handfuls, each one smaller than the last as bodies pressed closer. Her stomach felt a little fuller, the warm glow of calories spreading to her arms and legs, giving her a bit more energy. But then a new shadow fell over her spot. A much larger slave, older and broader than most, shoved his way through the crowd. His shoulders were wide from years of lifting heavy rocks in the mines above, and his horn stubs were thick, showing he had been strong once before capture. Scars crossed his arms and chest like a map of old battles. He moved with a tired but sure step, not rushing but not stopping for anyone. Slaves in his path stepped aside or were pushed roughly.
He stopped right next to Velrith, his bulk blocking the torchlight and casting her in deeper shadow. Without a word or even a glance at her face, he slammed one heavy, scarred hand down onto the trough right where Velrith's next scoop waited. The impact made the slop splash up, some of it hitting Velrith's cheek in wet drops. The larger slave scooped up the portion that had been hers, piling it into his own large hand. Only then did he look at her—not at her eyes, but at her body. His gaze moved slowly over the pale skin, the fresh bruises from the drag, the curve of her hips and chest. It was a cold look, like someone checking a tool to see if it was worth using. He saw the weakness in her thin arms, the tremble in her legs, and decided she was no threat.
Velrith's hand hovered near the trough, slop dripping from her fingers. Rage built inside her like a fire, but she kept it hidden. Fighting now would mean pain and loss—she was too new to this body, too hurt from the earlier torture. The larger slave ate her food slowly, chewing with deliberate bites, his throat moving up and down as he swallowed. She watched every detail: the way his jaw worked, the scar that ran from his elbow to wrist, the slow blink of his yellow eyes. This was not panic; this was planning. She pulled her hand back without a sound, letting him take what he wanted. Around them, other small thefts happened—a quick hand snatching from a neighbor, a knee pushing someone away—but the overseers only watched, respecting the strength of those who could hold their place.
The feeding ended as quickly as it started. One overseer cracked a whip high in the air, the sharp sound cutting through the grunts and slurps. "Back!" he shouted in the common demon tongue, a word everyone understood. Slaves scattered from the trough, some licking their fingers clean, others wiping mouths on dirty arms. The trough sat mostly empty now, only smears of grey left on the bottom and sides. Disappointment hung in the air like smoke, thick and heavy. Slaves dragged their chains back to the walls, finding spots to sit or lie down. The stone slab ground shut over the trough with that same working sound, sealing away the source of the brief chaos.
As the torches burned lower, the temperature in the pit dropped. The stone floor, already cool from the underground air, pulled heat from their bodies with a steady, biting cold. Dampness from cracks in the walls made it worse, soaking into skin and chains alike. The only way to fight the chill was to group together, sharing what little warmth bodies could give. Slaves moved slowly toward the walls, forming tight knots of limbs and torsos pressed close. Velrith was pulled into one such group by hands that grabbed her arms without asking. She ended up between a thin, older slave whose bones stuck out under grey skin and the large male who had stolen her food earlier. The older one's ribs pressed into her side with every breath, sharp and uncomfortable. The larger male's bulk took up more space, his arm draping over her shoulder for stability.
The huddle was necessary, but it brought its own problems. Hands rested where they fell—on shoulders, backs, thighs. Elbows dug into soft spots without care. Breaths warmed necks and faces, carrying the smell of rot from the slop. At first, it was just about staying warm. The older slave shivered constantly, his teeth chattering in a low rhythm. The larger male breathed slow and deep, his chest rising and falling against Velrith's back. But as the night wore on and the cold deepened, movements changed. The larger slave shifted his weight, his arm sliding lower from her shoulder to her waist. His hand, rough and calloused from work, pressed against her bare flank. The touch was slow on purpose, testing. Velrith's body went stiff, every muscle tightening. The feel of his skin on hers was wrong, invasive, a line crossed from need to something darker.
She could not pull away. Space was too tight, and any big move would disturb the whole group, maybe bringing the whips down from the overseers who patrolled the ledge. The larger slave's fingers spread out, covering more skin, thumb brushing the curve of her hip. His breath stayed even, but she felt the intent. Around them, similar things happened in the dark—low whispers between some, a hand sliding too far on another slave, a quiet cry cut short by fear. In the next huddle over, two females argued in harsh whispers over a spot closer to a warmer body, their voices rising until a male growled them silent. The overseers walked the ledge above, boots thudding on stone, lanterns swinging to check the groups. They respected power—the larger slaves got better spots without challenge, while weaker ones were pushed to the edges where the cold bit hardest.
Velrith lay still, eyes open in the darkness, staring at nothing. The unwanted touch continued, the hand resting heavy and claiming. Shame and anger mixed inside her, hot and corrosive, but she kept her face calm, breathing shallow and even. She focused on details to stay in control: the exact pressure of the fingers, the rhythm of the male's heartbeat against her back, the way his leg pressed into hers. This was information for later, a map of debts to collect. The night dragged on, cold and close, bodies shifting for comfort that never came. Velrith endured, her mind a cold core of patience amid the violating warmth. Survival meant waiting, learning, remembering every face and touch. One day, the strong would pay, not with quick fights, but with careful, complete ruin.
The pit settled into uneasy quiet, broken only by coughs, shifts, and the distant drip of water from the walls. Torches guttered low, shadows growing longer. In Kravesh, power ruled everything—from the food in the trough to the space in the huddle. Velrith, weak now in body but sharp in mind, began to build her place in this world, one endured night at a time.