Give and Take

The servant led Ian through winding halls of the manor, their footsteps muted against the polished stone floors.

The luxury surrounding him was almost suffocating in its contrast to the pits—the filth, the blood, the ever-present stench of death.

Here, the air was perfumed with something floral and expensive.

The walls bore depictions of war and conquest, their colors rich, their details painstakingly accurate.

Chandeliers of crystalline splendor displaced fractured light across the halls.

It was a world Ian had never belonged to—and likely never would.

The servant stopped before a door, pushing it open and motioning him inside without a word. Ian stepped forward cautiously, scanning the space as the door clicked shut behind him.

The room was modest by noble standards, but to Ian at the moment, it might as well have been a palace.

A bed, its dark wooden frame sturdy and well-crafted, rested against one wall, adorned with crisp, clean linens.

A small desk and chair sat in the corner, a wardrobe against the opposite wall. A single window allowed the last rays of a setting sun to spill in, offering long golden streaks across the floor.

Ian stood motionless, taking it all in.

He had spent days sleeping on stone, the cold seeping into his bones, hunger gnawing at his insides.

Now, he was given a bed.

A room. A moment of peace.

It was a small luxury, but one he wasn't foolish enough to take for granted.

He stepped toward the bed, running a calloused hand over the fabric before lowering himself onto the mattress.

It was firm, but not unyielding—worlds apart from the unforgiving floor he had known. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself a breath, slow and deep, his body sinking slightly into the unfamiliar comfort.

But his mind didn't rest.

Ian lifted his left hand, flexing his fingers.

The faint scar left by the princess's dagger was still there. He traced it with his thumb, remembering the sharp bite of the blade, the moment his flesh knitted itself back together.

His self-healing was a gift—but one not without its cost.

Soul Essence. The currency of survival.

A shallow cut healed quickly, but a deep wound? A mortal blow? That required more than he could afford to waste. Every ounce of power had to be used wisely.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Ian tensed, his senses sharpening as the door creaked open. A young servant entered, carrying a tray of food. Her eyes flicked to him briefly before darting away, her hands trembling slightly as she set the tray on the desk.

"The princess orders that you eat," she murmured. "Then proceed to the courtyard."

She turned swiftly, not waiting for acknowledgment before disappearing through the door.

Ian stared at the tray.

His stomach clenched with hunger, a raw, painful reminder of how long it had been since he'd last eaten.

He rose, stepping toward the desk, his eyes scanning the meal before him—thick slices of bread, a wedge of cheese, a bowl of steaming stew, and a goblet of deep red wine.

It wasn't a steak well cooked to medium rare, or a bowl of spaghetti and tomato sauce like he loved...but it was food regardless.

He didn't hesitate.

The first bite of bread was soft, warm.

The cheese, rich and sharp on his tongue. The stew was thick with meat and vegetables, its warmth settling in his stomach like an unfamiliar comfort.

He ate quickly, ravenously, days of deprivation overriding any sense of decorum. The wine was strong, bitter but smooth, washing down the meal with a burning warmth.

By the time he finished, the tray was empty, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Ian felt something close to satisfaction.

But the moment was fleeting.

His gaze drifted to the basin of water left for him. He peeled off his torn, bloodstained clothes and washed, the cool water shocking against his skin, washing away the layers of dirt, blood and dried sweat.

He scrubbed harder than necessary, as if trying to erase the remnants of the pits from his very being.

When he was done, he dressed in the fresh garments provided for him—a simple tunic and trousers, clean and well-fitted.

The fabric was soft against his skin, unfamiliar yet comforting. For the first time since he arrived in this world, he didn't feel like a slave.

But he wasn't free.

Ian exhaled, pushing the thought aside as he stepped into the dimly lit halls, navigating the corridors in search of the courtyard.

It took several wrong turns and begrudging inquiries to passing servants before he finally found his way.

Stepping outside, he inhaled deeply.

The courtyard was unlike anything he had expected. Lush greenery surrounded him, the scent of flowers thick in the air.

The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the garden paths, their warm light casting long shadows across the stone walkways. It was a stark contrast to everything he had known in this place—too peaceful, too untouched by the brutality of whatever lay beyond these walls.

But the peace was an illusion.

Here, it always was.

A voice broke the stillness, low and mocking.

"So, you're the one they've sent to die."

Ian stilled.

He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he sought the source of the voice.

The past had taught him one thing above all else.

Nothing was given freely.

And whatever awaited him in this place—it had a cost.