Pain had texture.
It crawled beneath his skin like barbed wire, burning and throbbing with every breath. His body felt broken—ribs cracked, shoulder dislocated, leg mangled. But worse than the pain was the stillness. The silence that came after the screams.
The silence of the dead.
He could still hear them, though. His mother's voice calling his name. His father's last cry. The squelch of flesh beneath claws. The gurgle of a neighbor's final breath.
And now… nothing.
Except her.
A whisper against the storm. She was a blur of red and black when she knelt beside him, her voice like snowfall—delicate but unyielding. She spoke to him like he was still human. Like he hadn't died with the rest of them.
But she was wrong.
He had died.
Whatever remained was something else. Something colder. Emptier.
He stared at her—the princess who had claimed him. He should've hated her—her polished hands, her spotless cloak, her untouched skin. The Reign had known. They had let it happen. He had no proof, but he didn't need any. That commander, Caelis, reeked of guilt disguised as righteousness.
Still, she stopped him.
She stood between him and death like it meant nothing to her.
Why?
Why would someone like her save someone like him?
He didn't have answers. Only questions and pain. And something deeper.
A hunger.
Not for food or water—those were trivial things, easily forgotten in the shadow of loss. This hunger was for justice, for vengeance, for purpose.
They chained him because they feared he was dungeon-touched—one of those unlucky souls who survived a breach only to shatter afterward, mind twisted by the shock and lingering horror.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe some part of him had cracked.
He should've died then.
Part of him wished he had.
It would have spared him that cruelty.
But he was still here.
And if he was still here, there had to be a reason.
--
They moved him into a cart—a caged, wheeled thing built for prisoners. He didn't fight them. He couldn't. Not yet.
Alisanne rode ahead, her voice occasionally drifting back as she spoke to her maid, to her guards, to the open air. She never looked back, not once. But he felt her attention like a tether. She hadn't let them patch him up fully—just enough to stop the bleeding, to keep him breathing. She didn't want to risk dulling his edge.
Smart.
She understood more than he expected.
He watched the trees blur past. The charred fields. The broken markers that once led home. All gone. All burned. There were no tears left in him.
Only fire.
--
That night, he dreamed.
He stood at the Ridge Wall once more. Blood on his hands. Goblins shrieking. His father's voice—"Stay behind me, Reivo!" And then—crunch. Bone. Wood. Screams.
Then silence.
Then her voice.
"You've lost everything. But I won't let them take what's left of you."
But what was left of him?
He didn't know.
When he woke, the chains were still cold around his wrists.
Her maid—Meria, he thought—stood at the bars with a bowl of broth. She didn't speak. Just set it down and left.
He stared at it.
Did they really think he'd die from starvation before they decided what to do with him?
But then the princess's voice drifted from somewhere nearby—low, steady.
"You should eat. The body cannot fight without fuel."
He didn't respond.
"You don't have to trust me," she continued. "But I kept my promise."
Slowly, painfully, he sat up. His arms screamed with the movement. He picked up the bowl and sipped. It was bland, lukewarm, but real.
She watched him from just outside the bars, arms crossed. No guards. No fear in her stance.
"Why?" he asked. "Why me?"
Her expression didn't shift. "Because you didn't break."
He almost laughed. Or screamed.
"You think I'm strong?" he muttered. "You didn't see me crawl out from a pile of corpses? Didn't you see how they borke my body? You don't even know if I'm Awakened."
"You're right. I don't know. Not yet."
He stared at her, waiting for the suspicion. The judgment. But she simply stood there, calm and deliberate, as if they were discussing weather patterns.
"You don't care," he said quietly. "If I'm Awakened. If I'm cursed. If I'm half-mad from dungeon essence."
"I care," she replied. "But not in the way you think."
"Then how?"
"I care if you still choose." She stepped closer to the bars. "Madness steals choice. Corruption rots it. But if you're still in control—even a little—then you're still worth saving. Still worth using."
There it was. The truth beneath the softness. Not kindness. Not mercy.
Utility.
He almost smiled.
"So I'm not a person to you. Just a sharp piece of iron."
Her mouth tightened. "You think I'm being cruel. But cruel would've been letting Caelis burn you alive. I'm offering you a path forward. You don't have to take it. But don't pretend I saved you just to coddle you."
He forced himself upright, bracing a shoulder against the bars. Fire lanced through his muscles; every breath felt like tearing old wounds open. The chains clinked softly as he inched forward, pushing himself toward the bars one slow, stubborn crawl at a time.
"Then say it plainly," he said. "Tell me what I am to you."
She met his gaze without a flicker. "A survivor. A weapon. A storm that hasn't chosen where to strike yet."
Silence stretched between them.
"Better," he said finally.
She gave a faint nod. "I won't lie to you. Not about this."
"Good." He slid back down to the floor, breath unsteady. "Because if you do… I'll know."
She turned away then, her cloak trailing over dirt and gravel. "We'll reach the outpost by dawn. You'll be examined. Cleaned. Fed. Then we see what the world left inside you."
"You think there's something?" he asked softly.
She didn't stop. Just lifted one hand as she walked.
"I know there is," she said.
And then she was gone.
Left alone with the night and his thoughts.
And for the first time since the Ridge Wall fell, he didn't feel like he was waiting to die.
He felt like he was being forged.