The hours stretched. Perhaps days? Lucas couldn't be certain. The Khar'Vael ship had no windows in this part of the vessel. No markers of time. Only the hum of machinery, the hiss of vents, and the rhythmic clanking of chains echoed through the corridors. Each sound pressed down on the prisoners, a constant reminder that they were not masters of their own bodies—or their own fates.
Lucas moved through the labor decks like a ghost. Crates heavier than he thought possible scraped across the metal floors. Machines, designed less for function than punishment, demanded precision he could barely afford. A misstep, hesitation, the faintest sigh of complaint—any flaw drew the sharp gaze of a Khar'Vael guard. Pain followed mistakes swiftly. Unforgivingly.
He ate scraps—blackened, cold, barely enough to fill his stomach. Water pooled in shallow, grimy basins. He drank without thought to taste, only to swallow, only to survive. And he did survive. Quietly. Carefully. Never questioning. Never whining. Survival was not about courage—it was about patience. Knowing when to bend, when to endure.
It was during one of the endless shifts, amidst the scraping of crates and hiss of machinery, that Lucas first noticed him—a fellow prisoner.
He was older, just a few years ahead, but his face carried far more than age alone. Wiry, with eyes sharpened by exhaustion and the relentless weight of loss.
He moved with the same careful precision Lucas had learned to adopt. Each step measured. Each motion guarded.
And when their eyes met across a crate, a faint spark flickered—not recognition, not past familiarity, but shared misery. Silent understanding passed between them. They were both trapped in the same merciless machine.
"You're new," the slave said, his voice hoarse—raw from days of shouting, crying, and fear.
He glanced sideways, then back again, as if measuring who might be listening.
"First time on the labor deck?" he asked.
Lucas nodded, unsure if speaking too freely would mark him as weak.
"This ship we're on…" he whispered. "I heard it's headed to Khelt."
A breath. Heavy.
"That's where slaves go… to end their lives."
Another pause, thinner this time.
"At least most of them do," he added.
A shiver crept along Lucas's spine. Khelt. A place where hope died in chains. The name alone seemed to corrode the air around him. He swallowed, tasting grit, blood, and fear.
"But…" the man continued, lowering his voice as he leaned a little closer to Lucas.
"There's something else. A story. Old. Older than any of us."
A breath escaped him, short and shallow.
"They say there's an ancient temple. Where monks still live."
"Not far from where they make us dig."
His voice thinned, hope barely allowed.
"And if you're lucky… maybe… maybe you'll be fortunate enough to see it for yourself," he added, barely above a whisper.
Lucas's stomach tightened. Monks? Something living.
He breathed the word under his breath, afraid the guards might hear.
The steel. The fear. The presence of the Khar'Vael was everywhere.
And yet, in that darkness, beneath the weight of slavery, it felt like a fragment of another world. Wild. Untamed. Alive.
"Maybe… I'll see it," Lucas whispered.
The thought surfaced in his mind with quiet, aching yearning—less belief than a whispered wish he barely allowed himself to hold.
The work went on. Crates. Chains. Machines. Overseers watching every movement. Hunger gnawed at him. Thirst, sharper still. He drank from the grimy basins, swishing bitter water over his tongue. He ate the scraps—blackened and cold—swallowing quickly, quietly, without complaint. To complain was to invite pain. To cry was to invite death.
Lucas searched, of course. Not for relief. Not for escape. But for Rin. Every corridor he passed, every glimpse of prisoners hauled along in chains, every faint echo of voices—he looked for him. But there was nothing. No sign. No touch. No whisper of presence. His brother, the one connection he had left, was somewhere out there. Somewhere beyond his reach.
Then the guard came. Black-gold armor gleaming under the dim lights, a figure of absolute authority moving among the prisoners like a predator among frightened prey. He raised his voice—amplified, metallic, unyielding.
"Prepare yourselves," the guard barked, his voice cutting through the hold like a blade. "We will arrive at Khelt shortly. Those not ready will be left behind." A pause, deliberate, merciless. "That means they failed." His gaze swept the prisoners, cold and final. "Failure means death. Do not fail."
Lucas felt the words settle like lead in his chest. The moment was near. Soon, he would step onto that cursed planet—step into the furnaces, the pits, the endless toil designed to crush both body and spirit.
He glanced at his fellow prisoners, some nodding mechanically, others staring at the floor as if willing themselves not to breathe. And beside him, the new friend's eyes met his. A silent understanding passed between them—fear, yes, but also a spark of something else. Hope? Maybe. Or simply the stubborn refusal to give the Khar'Vael the satisfaction of seeing them broken entirely.
"If you survive the landing," he murmured, "and if they let you, you might… you might see it. The temple. Not many do. And fewer return to speak of it," he added with a weak sigh.
Lucas swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. Every nerve screamed for rest, for escape, for something—anything—beyond the walls of steel and cruelty. He wanted Rin. He wanted freedom. But for now, all he had were scraps, chains, and the promise of a shadowed story whispered by a fellow slave.
The ship's engines hummed and flared faintly. The cargo compartments shifted. Tubes and turbines rattled with energy. Every vibration, every pulse, reminded the prisoners that the vessel was alive, moving, relentless. It would soon land. The moment of truth approached.
Lucas's hands shook as he tightened his grip on a crate. Not from weakness, but from anticipation, from fear, from the small, defiant spark of something he could not name. Somewhere out there, Rin existed. Somewhere, the temple might exist. And here, Lucas remained—forced into labor, forced into silence, forced into waiting.
The corridors were dark. The air heavy. The machinery breathed. The prisoners moved, a chain of shadows, silent and broken yet somehow unbowed.
Lucas took a sip of grimy water, felt the grit scrape his throat. He swallowed anyway. He ate scraps, cold and blackened, and thought of Rin. Thought of the temple. Thought of the possibility that the world had not ended entirely, that there was still a story to live, a defiance to hold onto—even in this abyss.
The guards moved among them, inspecting, ordering, reminding. Every moment was a test. Every breath a small victory. And above them, the ship rumbled, engines flaring as it prepared to descend.
Soon, they would arrive at Khelt. Soon, the prisoners would be thrown into the furnaces, into the pits, into the endless toil of a planet built to erase hope. Lucas tightened his hands on the crate once more.
Somewhere beyond the steel and engines, beyond the smoke and hunger, shadows of a temple stirred. Somewhere, far across the void—or perhaps closer than he realized—a brother waited. Lucas did not know if Rin was alive or broken. But he would find out. And maybe, just maybe, he would survive long enough to see the temple with his own eyes.
The first lights of Khelt began to pierce the darkness of the ship's corridors. The ground trembled beneath the hull. The moment of descent was near. The abyss waited. And Lucas, weary but unbroken, felt the weight of fate pressing down, ready to test every ounce of his endurance.