The pit

The pit swallowed Renan in silence. The moment the guards tossed him inside, the impact sent a fresh jolt of pain through his back. His knees hit the damp stone floor, and he barely had the strength to stop himself from collapsing completely. The scent of sweat, blood, and decay clung to the air.

He wasn't alone. The pit was never empty.

A cough echoed from somewhere in the darkness, followed by the faint rustle of movement. Renan forced his breathing to steady, even as his body screamed for rest.

"New one?" A voice, rough with exhaustion, cut through the gloom.

Renan didn't answer. He pressed his forehead against the stone, letting its cold surface numb the fire on his back.

"No," another voice murmured. "That's the boy who stood against Ralek."

A shift in the air. More rustling. Someone came closer.

"You're the one who took the lashes without screaming?"

Renan turned his head slightly. In the dim glow filtering through the iron grate above, he saw them—half-starved men and women, their bodies lean from labor, their eyes dull from suffering. Yet now, those eyes held something else. Curiosity.

"Why did you do it?" a younger voice asked, barely more than a whisper.

Renan forced himself upright, leaning back against the wall. His limbs felt like lead, his wounds raw, but he met their gazes. He knew why they were asking. He could hear the unspoken words beneath their question.

"Because someone has to." His voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

The pit fell silent. The only sounds were the distant murmurs of guards outside and the occasional shifting of chains.

Then, a scoff. "Foolish boy," an older man muttered, shaking his head. "Defiance gets you killed. Hope gets you killed faster."

"Maybe," Renan rasped. "But obedience hasn't saved any of us either."

Another silence. He could feel the weight of his words pressing against them. Some looked away, as if afraid to acknowledge what he was saying. Others stared at him longer than before.

Time blurred in the pit. The only way to track it was the brief moments when a guard tossed in a scrap of food or a bucket of stale water. Renan barely touched his rations—his stomach churned too much to eat, his wounds made moving too painful.

The others kept their distance at first, but they watched him. When he shifted, they noticed. When he winced, their gazes lingered.

On the third day—or what he assumed was the third—one of them broke the silence.

"You're from the outer village, aren't you?"

Renan lifted his head. The speaker was a young man, maybe sixteen, with sharp eyes and bruised knuckles.

"Yes," Renan answered.

"They say your people are stubborn," the young man muttered. "That they don't know how to bow."

Renan huffed a weak laugh. "If we did, we wouldn't be here."

That got a few looks. A few smirks, even.

By the time the grate above clanked open and the guards returned for him, the others were no longer avoiding his gaze.

They didn't speak, but their silence was different now.

The guards yanked him to his feet, dragging him toward the exit. As he passed the others, he caught glimpses of their faces. The old man who had mocked him before didn't look away this time. The younger ones studied him with something close to admiration.

And when Renan finally stepped into the light again, he knew.

He had planted something in the pit.

A spark.

Now, he just had to make sure it burned.