They herded us, food-level slaves, toward the feeding pit. The stench hit first—blood, sweat, iron, and something fouler, lingering from Muck and Scar. Sand scraped my skin. Cramped bodies pressed against me. Pain, heat, and terror pressed from every side.
Shadows flickered at the edges of my vision. They twisted along the walls, sometimes seeming to whisper my name. I blinked. They vanished. A pulse ran along my scalp where the Veined Sigil pressed faintly, sharp and cold. I didn't understand it, didn't want to. My body obeyed, but my mind was blank.
I stumbled, trying to keep pace with the others. Guards laughed, prodding us forward. Some slaves whispered, others sobbed. I heard nothing clearly, saw little, understood less. Every step was survival. Every breath was reflex.
Above, shadows flickered again, moving just beyond my sight, shaping corridors that seemed to twist impossibly. A whisper echoed faintly in my skull. "Villar…" It ran into another corridor, and suddenly I felt the world twist. I was somewhere else, somewhere impossible. Then a sharp tug. I was snapped back by the guards, shoved along with the rest.
The guards shoved us along the narrow corridors of the slave building, bodies pressed tight together. Every step scraped my skin raw with sand and bruises, every shove made me stumble. The stench of the pit grew thicker with each step—iron, sweat, blood, and something fouler lingering from past meals. Some slaves sobbed quietly. Others whispered incoherently to themselves. I kept my head down, moving only because I had to, not because I wanted to.
Shadows flickered at the edges of my vision. They stretched and warped as if alive. For a heartbeat, one seemed almost humanoid, leaning toward me and whispering, "Villar…" I blinked, and it darted down another corridor, melting into darkness. My pulse jumped. I stumbled, nearly falling over another body. The guards shoved me forward again, their laughter harsh in the tight hallways.
The corridor twisted unnaturally, or maybe it only felt that way. My legs trembled. My arms scraped against the walls and the other slaves. Each movement felt automatic, my body carrying me along without permission. Panic pooled in my stomach, hot and choking. I wanted to scream, to run, to stop—but there was nowhere to go.
We reached the feeding pit. The space was cramped and oppressive, sand mixed with blood and refuse underfoot. Walls rose high, scarred and shadowed from past fights. The air was thick, clinging to lungs, tasting metallic and sour. The other slaves pressed around me, pale and trembling. Their fear made the pit feel alive, pressing down from every side. I pressed myself smaller, wishing I could vanish.
Shadows twisted along the walls and floor. Sometimes they seemed humanoid, curling toward me before dissolving into the darkness. They whispered, soft and distant, almost inaudible. Each step, each shove of the guards, made the walls bend and stretch in my perception. I could feel the pit itself closing in, alive and hungry for terror.
I stumbled over a body, scraping my hands against rough stone. Blood ran into the sand, mixing with sweat and grime. My nails tore, my muscles burned, and still the guards pressed us forward. The whispers of shadows brushed the edges of my mind, just beyond understanding, just beyond reach. My head ached. My chest burned.
We were pushed into the center of the pit. The smell hit me fully here—blood, iron, and decay. Bodies pressed from all sides. The guards laughed, prodding and shoving, calling names I didn't recognize. Some of the weaker slaves collapsed, moaning, but they were dragged to their feet. I couldn't stop moving. I couldn't fight. I could only survive.
A shadow flickered at the edge of my vision. I froze, heart hammering. It moved faster than my eyes could follow, curling around the walls, stretching, bending the stone. For a split second, it felt almost alive, almost sentient, whispering my name again. "Villar…" My stomach clenched. I stumbled forward, pressed against the others, unable to escape the weight of the pit.
The guards herded us closer to the center, and the smell of roasted flesh, ash, and iron hit me fully. Some of the slaves whispered about who had been eaten before. I couldn't bear to listen. My hands shook, my stomach turned, but I had no choice. Hunger and survival demanded I move.
I crouched among the others, sand and blood caking my skin. Every sense screamed, yet I was powerless to act beyond instinct. The shadows lingered at the edges, curling and twisting, whispering, never coming fully into form. I swallowed hard, trying to force down bile and fear.
I ate. Every bite felt wrong. Ash and iron mixed in my mouth. I could taste the weight of survival. Around me, others did the same, trembling, silent. Every sound—the clank of chains, the shuffle of sand, the guards' laughter—echoed inside my skull. The shadows seemed to lean closer, curling in the corners of my vision, watching, waiting.
I wanted to stop. I wanted to disappear. But I couldn't. The pit didn't allow it. Survival demanded motion, demanded obedience. My body obeyed while my mind shrank, empty, haunted, trembling.