Chapter 3: Dawn of Awakening
The first thing she felt was pain—Not a sharp, immediate pain—but something deeper. A dull, aching wrongness that sat heavy in her bones, as if she had been pulled apart and stitched back together with missing pieces.
Then came awareness. she could feel the frostbiting cold on her bare skin.
The girl's eyes opened slowly, adjusting to dim light filtering through cracks in the stone ceiling. She inhaled, but the air was stale, damp, thick with the stench of sweat, rot, and rust. Her muscles ached as she shifted, her wrists sore from something tight and unyielding.
Metal. Chains.
Her fingers curled instinctively, but the movement felt weak, foreign. Something was wrong. She wasn't outside
She blinked sluggishly, forcing herself to take in her surroundings. Stone walls. Metal bars. Voices murmuring somewhere close.
A prison. A deep, twisting unease settled in her chest, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe.
The realization sat heavy in her chest.
She slowly turned her head. There were dozens of others crammed into the space around her—adults huddled against the walls; children pressed close together in another cell across from them. Some were awake, staring blankly ahead. Others sat with their heads down, whispering to themselves.
She swallowed. Her throat was dry, her body stiff. How long had she been here?
"Where am I?" was her only question that she wanted to be answered.
As she gaze flickered to the iron bars. More questions surfaced.
Where was this? Why was she here? Who had put her here?
Her mind reached for answers, but all she found was fragments.
Pain. Fire. Something bright—too bright. A battle.
Her chest tightened. I was fighting.
But against who?
Her chest tightened. She was missing something. A part of her mind—no, a part of herself—felt distant, unreachable.
But she remembered the rage. The suffering. The betrayal.
And… a name. Her own name. What was it?
The memory was there, just beneath the surface, but when she tried to grasp it, it slipped away.
She squeezed her eyes shut, frustration knotting in her stomach.
Something was taken from me.
She didn't know what.
But the anger sat deep in her bones, simmering beneath the confusion.
A door groaned open. Footsteps.
She opened her eyes again, just as two men entered the prison.
The first one stood tall, clad in red armor, his movements sharp and calculated. His presence commanded the room instantly.
The second was younger, thinner, hesitant. He carried a wooden box, glancing between the prisoners and his companion.
They spoke.
The girl frowned, tilting her head slightly. The words were… strange. Familiar, but not quite right.
She could understand pieces of it. The structure, the rhythm—it was close to a language she should know. But it was different.
"…forty this time?" the younger man asked.
A pause.
Then, the armored man responded, voice like grinding stone. "Fifty."
Her grip tightened around the torn fabric of her sleeve.
Fifty what?
The younger man hesitated. "We don't have that many left."
"Then find more."
A ripple of silent tension spread through the prisoners. No one spoke, but She saw the way their shoulders tensed, the way some of them curled inward.
She glanced at the people around her.
No one questioned it.
No one resisted.
Her stomach twisted.
The armored man turned and left. The younger one, shifting uncomfortably, began distributing food from the box.
Small wooden bowls. Thin broth, stale bread, a few scraps of meat.
The girl took hers but didn't eat.
She stared at the others instead.
Everyone ate in silence. No conversation. No sound except for the quiet scraping of bowls and the occasional cough.
She watched the man next to her—probably in his late thirties, gaunt from hunger. His hands shook slightly as he lifted the spoon to his lips. He didn't meet her eyes.
This isn't right.
Something about the way they just… accepted it made her chest tighten.
She turned to the woman beside her.
"How long have we been here?" she asked.
The woman didn't answer.
Her fingers curled against the bowl. "Where do they take the ones who leave?"
Silence.
She exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling in her chest.
She turned to an older man sitting near the bars, his hands clasped together, murmuring something under his breath.
The girl leaned slightly toward him. "What is this place?"
The man didn't even blink.
His lips kept moving, repeating the same low, broken whisper.
Like a prayer long since forgotten.
She slowly pulled back.
They've already given up.
A strange, sharp ache curled in her chest.
She didn't know what she had lost. But she knew, deep down, that she had never been like this.
She had fought for something once.
But what?
She exhaled sharply, setting the food aside. She didn't need them to answer.
She would figure it out herself.
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Days passed.
The prisoners barely acknowledged her. They sat in silence, waited for food, whispered sometimes, but no one ever looked up for long.
She would listen. Watched. Learned.
The language of her captors slowly began to make sense.
And then there was the water.
She noticed it one night—just a small ripple in her drinking bowl. She had barely touched it, yet the surface trembled, shifting slightly toward her hand.
At first, she thought she imagined it.
The next day, she saw it again.
A single droplet lifted into the air, hovering for just a second before falling.
She tried to do it again.
Nothing.
She stared at her hands.
What am I?
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Then, one morning, everything changed.
The door slammed open violently—not the usual, slow groaning, but fast, urgent.
Then—chaos.
Screams. Clashing steel.
She flinched as thick smoke flooded into the prison.
Then, through the haze, figures emerged—not slavers. Not soldiers.
Hunters.
She didn't know what the word meant, but she felt it.
And then, him.
She barely noticed the others.
Her gaze locked onto one man as he strode forward, leading the charge.
He moved like a soldier—efficient, powerful, unrelenting.
A scar ran across his cheek, partially hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. His presence was heavy, filled with purpose.
His voice cut through the chaos.
"You're free! Follow the others—move!"
The prisoners hesitated.
Then, slowly, they began to run. But she did not move.
Her gaze stayed locked on him, something stirring beneath her skin.
She didn't know his name.
But she knew him.
Somehow.
For just a second, he stared back.
And in that moment—The floor shook violently.
Cracks splintered beneath her feet.
She barely had time to react before the ground gave way beneath them.
Her stomach lurched as she plummeted into the darkness below.