The morning began brutally. The heavy iron cell door burst open with a loud clang, ripping Alex from his sleep. Lyra stood leaning against the wall—already awake. Two guards entered the cell. One of them fixed his gaze on the elf.
"You're coming with me."
The other walked up to Alex and kicked him.
"On your feet!" barked the guard—a massive man with broad shoulders and a face marked by deep scars. His gaze was cold, devoid of any compassion. "Time to get to work!"
Alex glanced around the cell. Damp, gray walls surrounded him. The air was heavy, thick with cold and the smell of moisture. In the corner lay a second bedding mat and an empty bowl—a harsh reminder that he was a slave.
The guard didn't wait for a reaction. He grabbed Alex roughly by the arm and yanked him outside. Alex stumbled slightly, catching his foot on the stone steps, but quickly regained his balance, clenched his jaw, and followed down the corridor. Two more guards were already waiting to escort him to the courtyard.
The morning sun blinded him for a moment, forcing him to squint. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a massive yard enclosed by tall, gray walls. Around him moved other slaves—men with exhausted faces, hunched shoulders, and eyes stripped of all hope. Dust hung in the air, mixing with the stench of sweat and filth.
"Grab a shovel," one of the guards ordered, pointing to a pile of tools leaning against the wall. "You'll be digging drainage ditches for the foundations. And you'd better work hard—or you'll regret it."
Alex didn't dare to disobey. He picked up a shovel and approached the area where several slaves were already deepening the trenches. Every motion hurt—his body hadn't recovered from the days of marching across the desert.
He began to dig. Slowly, trying to conserve his strength—but the guards noticed quickly.
"Faster, you worm!" one of them shouted, slamming his back with a harsh blow. Pain exploded along his spine, but Alex only clenched his teeth harder, refusing to make a sound.
The sun climbed higher, mercilessly burning his skin. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the dust. His hands, unused to such labor, were quickly covered in blisters. With every thrust of the shovel into the packed earth, his arms trembled more. When he paused briefly to catch his breath, one of the stronger slaves shoved him roughly, knocking him into the dirt.
"Don't get in the way, rookie," hissed a man with a scarred face and hostile glare. The other slaves laughed bitterly, as if scenes like this were their only form of entertainment.
Alex got up, cheeks burning with humiliation, but said nothing. He returned to digging, trying to ignore the growing pain with each passing hour.
By the afternoon, he was ordered to carry the dug-up earth across the entire yard. Every step was a tremendous effort. But he couldn't stop—the guards responded instantly, beating him across the back.
In the evening, completely exhausted, he was given one last task: cleaning the courtyard. He lifted heavy stones, dragged piles of wooden debris. Eventually, his body began to give out. His knees buckled more often, his breath became heavy.
When he returned to the cell, he was on the verge of collapse. The guard shoved him inside without ceremony, slamming the door shut with a deafening crash. Alex fell onto the mat, the cold from the damp wall bringing fleeting relief. He tried to steady his breath, but his mind was blank. Pain burned through every part of his body, and his hands were covered in blood and blisters.
He looked around the empty cell—but Lyra wasn't there. Where had they taken her? Would she return? For a moment, fear crept in, but it was soon drowned by another wave—of helplessness and fatigue.
Lying on the mat, he stared into the darkness above. He knew the next day would bring another round of torture, pain, and humiliation. He knew no one would show him mercy. But somewhere deep beneath all the exhaustion and suffering, something was starting to shift. He felt a spark of defiance awaken within him—a budding seed of anger and determination, something he hadn't known he carried.
There was a glint in his eyes now—a flicker of resolve that hadn't been there before. He felt powerless—but only for now.
He was a prisoner, a slave—but not yet broken. Not yet.And he had no intention of giving up.He would escape the moment the opportunity came, he thought.