Chapter 15: Beauty In The Broken

The stench was unbearable.

I could taste it in the back of my throat—the sickly sweet scent of sweat, piss, and rot, mingling with something sharp, something metallic that made my stomach churn. I could feel the wet, sticky floor beneath me, the grime sticking to my clothes, seeping into my skin. The air was thick, heavy, and oppressive. Every breath felt like it might suffocate me. I had been here too long, and it was starting to show in the way my body felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

I glanced around the cage. The others were still, their faces hollow with exhaustion and despair, some of them too weak to even lift their heads. But there was a strange energy in the air now, something new, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A scream echoed through the cage, raw and anguished.

"Nayveen!"

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that voice—the woman who was crying out the name, her hands shaking as she pressed them against the bars. I could see her, her face twisted in grief, eyes wide with panic as she looked at the body of the young woman lying on the ground.

I had seen her before, though I hadn't spoken to her. Her name was Nayveen—she had been here longer than most, always quiet, always withdrawn. She wasn't the type to get into trouble, but I had noticed the way she refused the food they gave her. She hadn't eaten in days, maybe longer. Her face had grown thinner, gaunter, as though she was withering away.

I've never seen a dead body up close before—not like this. Not the way Nayveen is. In the Ashes, death is a constant. People die all the time, but most of them are just passed by. Broken bodies, contorted in ways that make it hard to believe they were once human. They're the drugged-up, the murdered—people who don't get to keep their dignity even in death. You don't linger on them. You can't. It's not real, not when you're so numb to it.

But this—this is different.

Nayveen's body lies there like a doll, abandoned and forgotten, but still with that strange, fragile beauty. The grime on her skin makes her look almost like a painting—her face so pale, a perfect contrast to the filth that stains her. Her auburn hair, usually so vibrant, now lies flat against the dirt. Her yellow eyes, dull now, still have the same light to them they did when she was alive. Beautiful, in the way only the broken can be.

I swallow hard, feeling a lump rise in my throat. This could be me. Or Lyra. Or any of us stuck in this cage. The thought strikes a chord deep in my chest, something raw, and it makes my breath hitch. There's this wave of discomfort that rises inside of me, almost like I want to cry. But it's not because I knew Nayveen. It's because—because I could end up like her.

I could end up like her, with no one to mourn me, just another lifeless body in a cage, with nothing left but the echo of my name.

The woman who screamed for Nayveen—her tears drip onto the cold floor of the cage. She doesn't even notice. She doesn't care that her voice is breaking, that the others are too numb to respond, too scared to say anything. Her grief is a thing so sharp and open that it makes me want to reach out to her, to cry with her. But I can't. I won't.

A part of me wants to let it all out, to fall into the emotion and let the tears take over, but that's not allowed. Not here. Not in this place. It's not safe to show anything. So, I lock it all down and shove it back deep where no one can see. My hands shake slightly as I clasp them together, the rough wood of the bars pressing against my palms.

I look down at Nayveen again. She was beautiful. She could have been beautiful. Even now, in death, she's stunning. Her face, the last trace of her life, was already claimed by grime. The dust, the blood—the marks of everything this place has done to her.

She looks like she could've been someone else. Someone with a different life, a different future. Not like the rest of us, who've already been erased by the world. Her beauty, once a gift, now feels like a mockery in this cage.

I feel the weight of that thought pressing down on me, suffocating me. But then, I push it away and pull my mask back into place. I can't afford to let this in. Not here. Not now. There's no room for softness.

I closed my eyes, telling myself over and over that I was not going to break. I can't.

But the image of Nayveen, still so perfect in death, lingers in my mind like a shadow, refusing to fade.

The others were already gathering around, eyes fixed on the body. The creatures in the other cage were watching too, their unsettling gaze locked on the scene as if waiting for something more.

I couldn't bring myself to look at them, so I focused on the woman who had been crying out. Her face was streaked with tears, her mouth trembling as she whispered the name over and over again. I wanted to reach out, to say something, but I didn't know what. What could I say? What words would matter in a place like this?

The woman's grief was swallowed up by the silence that followed. The world felt still for a moment—like everything was waiting, holding its breath. And in that moment, I couldn't help but feel something cold settle in my chest, a feeling I couldn't shake. I could feel it creeping over me like a shadow. The slow realisation that no one here mattered. Not really. Not to them.

We were nothing but bodies to be used, to be moved, to be traded.

And I couldn't even find the strength to fight it.

I could feel it in the way the cage trembled with each bump in the road, the way the wheels rolled over uneven ground, rattling the metal bars that enclosed us.

The others had fallen into silence—most too exhausted to speak, some lost in whatever hollow place their minds had retreated to. But my eyes kept drifting back to Nayveen.

She lay where she had fallen, her body shifting ever so slightly with each jolt of the truck.

It was subtle, but every time the wheels hit a dip in the road, her limbs would move—her head rolling to the side, her fingers twitching in response to nothing. The movement was slow, sluggish, and unnatural. It made my skin crawl. For a split second, I expected her to gasp, for those dull yellow eyes to suddenly blink and look at me.

I forced myself to look away.

My throat was dry, my hands clenched into fists against my lap. This could be me. The thought gnawed at the edges of my mind, whispering its way into my bones. This could be me. Or Lyra. Or anyone else in this cage. Would anyone scream for me the way that woman screamed for Nayveen? Or would I just be another body, another nameless thing discarded on the side of the road?

The woman who had cried out for her had gone quiet, but she still sat close to the corpse, stroking Nayveen's dirt-matted hair like she could soothe her back to life.

A soft voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

"I've seen worse."

I turned my head. Lyra sat beside me, her back pressed to the cage, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the thick silence like a blade.

I studied her face—her lips slightly parted, her gaze distant. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking past me, into something only she could see.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She was quiet for a moment before she spoke again.

"Vhassir." Her fingers traced patterns against her arm absentmindedly, the same way I had done in the dirt earlier. "That's where I'm from. A city of golden sands, where the sun never stops burning and the wind carries the scent of spice and salt from the sea."

I frowned. I had never heard of Vhassir. Not really. I knew of it in the way people knew of far-off places they'd never step foot in—just a name, nothing more.

Lyra let out a breath, her voice turning sharper, bitter. "It's beautiful. But beauty doesn't mean anything when you live in the lower quarters."

I didn't interrupt. I let her speak.

"You don't get the golden sands there. You get the scraps. The streets are red with dust and blood, and you learn fast that nobody comes to save you." Her gaze flickered toward Nayveen's body, her expression unreadable. "People starve all the time. People disappear all the time. And nobody asks where they've gone because they already know."

I swallowed hard. "You knew someone who—"

She nodded before I could finish. "Yeah." Her voice was flat, but something cracked underneath it. "She was fifteen. A friend of mine. She thought she could steal a pouch of gold from a noble passing through." Lyra let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "She never came back. Some people say they saw her body a few days later, but no one went to check. No one ever does."

I stared at her, my chest tight.

I thought of the Ashes, the people who went missing there, the ones who never came back. I thought of how easy it was to forget them. To pretend they had never been there at all.

A heavy silence fell between us.

"…Do you think we'll ever get out of here?" I asked.

Lyra turned her head, meeting my gaze. For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, she forced a smirk. "What, losing faith already?"

I frowned. "That's not an answer."

She held my stare, her smirk fading. Then, her lips pressed together, and she shook her head, barely perceptible.

I looked away.

The truck jostled again, and Nayveen's body shifted with it.

Lyra's gaze flickered toward it before she spoke, quieter this time.

"You ever been to Veridion?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, but I could hear the edge of it.

I shook my head. "No."

"Neither have I." She paused. "What do you think it's like?"

I let out a breath, staring at the ceiling of the wagon. "Depends on who you ask."

She tilted her head toward me, waiting.

I exhaled sharply. "Back home, people say Veridion's where the rich go to be gods. Nobles with magic, merchants drowning in gold, soldiers with armour so polished you can see your damn reflection." My voice felt hollow. "People from the Ashes don't go there. Not unless they're in chains."

Lyra was quiet for a moment. "That's not what I heard."

I glanced at her. "Yeah?"

"My city, Vhassir, is a place of trade. We get travellers, merchants, and people passing through. They talk." Her fingers traced over the rusted bars absentmindedly. "They say Veridion is full of wonders. Magic is woven into every brick, lanterns that burn without oil. A place where the streets shine like silver, and the nobles wear gowns stitched with real gold thread." Her lips quirked up at the corner. "Maybe even prettier than the palaces in Vhassir."

I scoffed. "You believe that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But it was nice to imagine."

I studied her for a second. "You still think it'll be nice after… this?" I gestured around us, at the cage, at the prisoners too exhausted to lift their heads.

Lyra's expression faltered. "No," she admitted.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The sound of the wagon's wheels grinding against the dirt filled the silence.

Then the world tilted.

The cage lurched violently as the wagon hit something—a rock, a ditch, I didn't know. My stomach flipped, my body jerking forward. My shoulder slammed against Lyra's, and for a second, everything blurred.

A dull, sickening thud sounded beside me.

Nayveen's body had shifted.

My breath caught in my throat. The way she had fallen—it was wrong. Like a marionette with its strings cut, her limbs bending too loosely, her head lolling to the side. But just for a moment—just a fraction of a second—she looked like she had moved on her own. Like she had sat up, ready to open her mouth and speak.

A breathless, strangled sound left my throat before I could stop it.

Then someone screamed.

The panic spread fast. A woman near the back of the cage lurched forward, banging against the walls, her fists slamming against the metal with desperate, ragged force. "LET US OUT! LET US OUT!" Her voice cracked. No one answered.

She pounded harder, nails scraping against the rusted surface, but the walls absorbed every sound. It was soundproofed. We were the only ones who could hear her.

The realisation settled like a stone in my gut.

It doesn't matter how loud we scream. No one outside will hear us.

The woman's sobs turned to broken wails, her body shaking. Lyra looked like she wanted to say something and do something, but what was there to do?

For one split second, I almost reached out.

I watched the grieving woman, her body hunched over Nayveen's, her hands shaking as she stroked the dead girl's matted hair. Her sobs were raw and unfiltered, and something in me—the part that hadn't been completely crushed—wanted to move toward her. Maybe offer comfort, maybe just touch her shoulder, let her know she wasn't completely alone.

But the thought was gone as quickly as it came.

My hand hovered, just inches from where she sat, my fingers curling into fists before I could even register the urge. My chest tightened, something deep and painful stirring inside me, but I shoved it down.

No.

I couldn't. I wouldn't.

The weight of the cage, the weight of the eyes on us, kept me still. I couldn't afford softness here. Couldn't risk it. Not with the danger of what it would mean.

I let my hand drop back to my lap. The gesture was small, but the absence of it felt huge. I stared at the floor, locking the urge away, burying it in the same dark place I had buried so much else.

Then—

The truck jerked to a sudden stop.

Bodies were sent sprawling. My stomach flipped as I lost balance, my hands scrambling against the ridged metal floor. Someone slammed into my side, their elbow jabbing hard into my ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs. A sharp clang rang out as one of the prisoners crashed against the bars, a choked cry escaping their lips.

The entire cage rattled with the force of the stop, the metal groaning under the sudden shift. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, thin clouds of it swirling in the dim light, filling my nose and throat. The air became thick with the scent of rust and sweat as if the very walls were exhaling with us.

Nayveen's body slid.

It wasn't much—just an inch, maybe two—but the motion was wrong. The way her limbs jerked with the sudden movement, her head rolling, her empty eyes staring at nothing. My stomach twisted.

Somewhere, someone coughed, sputtering from the dust. Another prisoner groaned in pain, cradling their arm where they had hit the bars. A murmur of unease spread through the cage, a shared breath of confusion, of fear.

The woman's screams had died instantly.

For a breathless moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

Just silence.

Tense, expectant silence.

I swallowed hard. Whatever was waiting for us outside…

It was here.