Claude woke up. His body ached with every breath. Bruises, cuts, and dried blood clung to him like a second skin. His black hair hung in greasy clumps over his face, filthier than usual, caked in dirt and sweat.
He stirred slowly, his eyes adjusting to the pale silver light leaking through cracks in the stone walls. It wasn't much—just enough to make out his surroundings.
A prison.
The air was cold and damp. Crumbling bricks surrounded him on all sides, sealing him into a grimy cell. The only break in the walls was a heavy iron door with a small barred window at its center. Thin beams of moonlight pierced the gloom, casting eerie patterns across the floor.
Claude's stomach growled, long and loud. He groaned.
"…Perfect. Of course I'd wake up starving."
He forced himself upright, staggering toward the corner. A torn, lice-ridden rag lay there, which he assumed was his bed. Aside from that, the cell was empty.
Well, not entirely.
Rats scurried in the shadows. Insects clicked in the cracks.
'Wonderful company.'
Then—metal groaned outside.
A sharp, echoing scrape. A door opening somewhere down the hall.
'I doubt that's food… but a rat can hope.'
A few footsteps echoed before a bandit peered into the cell through the little window in the iron door. Torchlight invaded the poorly lit space, revealing Claude's hunched figure.
Claude looked nothing like a normal kid should. Small, frail, and disheveled, his black hair was as filthy as one would expect. But his deep purple eyes reflected nothing—as if they hid an empty void that could consume the whole world.
He was a stark contrast to the happy, cheerful, hope-filled life a normal child should have had.
But Claude wasn't normal.
He had been raised in arguably the worst environment possible—extreme poverty, with no friends or caretaker. His entire life had been about survival: you either die or get sold as a slave.
The bandit lingered for a moment as if lost, then finally his eyes landed on Claude who was sitting in a corner.
He stared at Claude, shocked to see him awake.
"You aren't a zombie, are you…?"
Claude frowned. What the hell is a zombie?
"Huh? What are you talking about, you lunatic?"
His voice was squeaky, as if he hadn't spoken in days.
"Who the hell are you calling a lunatic?!" the bandit snapped. "I wasn't the one who killed three guards for no reason!"
Claude stiffened.
'What the hell is this idiot talking about...?'
He raised a brow. "I killed three guards? When?"
The bandit gaped at him. "You killed Edgar and both his men! Which, honestly, is unbelievable."
Claude's confusion deepened.
'Edgar? But I passed out right after finding Edwin's corpse…'
The bandit continued, "We found Edgar's body lifeless on the floor of your hut—with you unconscious beside him, blood all over your hands and clothes. There were clear signs of a struggle."
Claude knew he had been unconscious the whole time.
"How long was I out?"
The bandit lowered the torch slightly, adjusting his view. "Almost two weeks. If you hadn't woken up just now, I'd be hauling your corpse to the pits."
'Two weeks?! How is that even possible?!'
Claude's gaze flickered—
"Huh…?"
The bandit narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with your eyes? I could barely see them before, but now they're… flickering?"
But Claude wasn't listening.
Because behind the bandit stood a tall young man with black hair and purple eyes—a striking resemblance to Claude, but older, more refined.
Edwin.
Somehow, the bandit hadn't noticed him.
"Whatever," the bandit grunted. "I'm telling the boss you're awake."
As he turned to leave, Claude shouted after him:
"Hey! Do I get no food?! I've been out for two damn weeks!"
Without looking back, the bandit snapped, "Shut it, kid. You'll eat when the boss says so."
------------------
A few moments later…
Claude still stared through the little window, fixated on Edwin—who he had seen dead two weeks ago.
"So, Claude… you got yourself in trouble again. How unexpected."
Claude's mind reeled. Why is Edwin talking like this? Why isn't he helping me? And most importantly—how is he alive?
"E-Edwin…? You're alive? How?"
Edwin ignored the question.
"Look at you. A rat in a cage, just like always. I knew you'd end up like this. You were nothing but trouble." His mocking laugh was laced with venom. "You did this to yourself, Claude. No one's saving you now. You're alone."
Claude's throat tightened. Something felt wrong—like he was forgetting something crucial—but his desperate longing for his brother drowned out all else.
"E-Edwin! What are you—? We can still escape! Leave the outskirts, start over—together! Like broth—"
"Shut up!" Edwin snarled.
Claude flinched into silence.
"You really think we could've left this hellhole?" Edwin's voice dripped with contempt. "Of course you do. You're just a stupid, naïve child. You actually believed determination was enough? Pathetic."
Claude's gaze dropped to the floor, guilt crushing him.
"I never wanted to protect you," Edwin hissed. "I only kept you around out of obligation—our parents' last wish. And what did it cost me? My life."
Claude's hands trembled. "S-She promised to help us…"
Edwin let out a twisted laugh.
"You fool. Nobles don't keep promises unless it benefits them. Did you really think some rich woman would save us? We're outskirt rats, Claude. Our lives mean nothing."
Claude's breath hitched. He hadn't thought it through. Hope had blinded him.
"I… I didn't know. I just wanted us to escape… Please, believe me…"
Edwin scoffed. "You never think."
Then—he began to fade.
"E-Edwin?!"
Claude lunged forward, but his brother was already dissolving into the shadows.
------------------
Half an hour later…
Claude sat curled in the corner of his cell, drowning in despair—until the screech of the metal door interrupted his thoughts.
"Move it, brat."
Another bandit. Claude frowned.
'What now…?'
Then—a second voice. Small. Trembling.
"P-please… I don't understand what's happening…"
The cell door swung open. Torchlight flooded the room as a boy was thrown inside, landing hard on the filthy floor.
Claude studied him.
This boy wasn't from the outskirts.
He was around Claude's age, dressed in fine, clean clothes. His golden hair practically gleamed, and his wide blue eyes brimmed with terror.
"Get comfortable, kid," the bandit sneered. "You're staying awhile."
The door slammed shut, leaving the two boys alone.
Claude eyed the newcomer with disdain.
'This is no place for rich children.'
He knew exactly why this boy was here.
He was a future slave.