Days had passed since the heart-wrenching burial.
Nothing had changed, It was still hunger that gnawed at their ribs, exhaustion that dulled their thoughts, and the same choking stench of mud and decay that clung to their skin like a curse.
Only now, the sky seemed to grieve with them. Its endless downpour turned the fields into rivers of filthy brown water. The sound of rain never stopped it was always drumming, always pouring, as if trying to wash away the world's sin.
The rain was merciless. It soaked through rags and skin alike, made the air colder, heavier. The slaves' breaths came out as pale mist, and with each cough, something inside them seemed to break further. The wet earth clung to their feet, pulling them down, as if the land itself wanted them buried.
Their hands, raw and bleeding, sank into the mire with dull, rhythmic thuds. Every shovel of mud was heavier than the last. Every breath was harder to take. By the end of the week, more bodies were dragged away than anyone could count. The sick simply stopped rising the next morning.
The boy, however, was the same.
He moved as if carved from the same mud he worked in expressionless, slow and deliberate. His small frame trembled, but his movements did not falter. His lips were cracked and pale, his eyes faintly glowing crimson through the gray mist of rain never changing, empty and cold watching but not seeing.
Then a harsh voice cut through the storm.
"And this is where you'll work now, you old fox!"
The boy didn't look up. But he heard the thud of a body hitting the ground. Laughter followed a rough, coarse kind that didn't sound human.
He lifted his gaze slightly, just enough to glimpse a figure through the rain.
An old man lay sprawled in the mud, trembling as he tried to rise. His clothes were torn, his body thin and fragile. His gray hair clung to his wrinkled face like wet straw. He coughed hard, gasping for disdain, but the guards only sneered. Their hatred was different this time, it seemed to be more personal.
The old man wiped the mud from his face and started digging. His hands shook with every motion. His fingers couldn't hold anything properly, slipping again and again, cutting into his own palms. He grimaced, but kept going.
The boy stared for a moment then turned away and kept working.
Time crawled.
Rain, mud, digging, coughing and repeat.
Then a faint metallic sound sliced through the monotony.
Clang.
The boy's dull eyes shifted toward the noise.
The old man had fallen again, face-first into the muck. His weak cry was lost under the rain. But something else gleamed where he fell it was a silver knife, half-buried in the mud. The hilt was engraved with intricate, swirling patterns. Even through the grime, it shimmered faintly.
The guards were watching, but none of them noticed. They were laughing again, amused by the sight of the old man struggling to breathe.
The old man coughed, his hands sinking deeper into the mud. His limbs trembled violently as he tried to push himself up, his breath ragged, desperate. Then, with a furtive glance around him, his hand slipped toward the silver knife. Slowly, shakily, after getting a hold of it he immediately covered it with mud and pulled it close, hiding it under his rags.
The boy saw everything but he didn't react. He simply turned back to his task and resumed digging. Mud splattered against his arms with each motion, the rain dripping steadily from his hair into his half-open eyes.
By evening, the storm had worsened. The thunder rolled like an angry beast across the mountains, and the guards shouted over it.
"Back to your cages!"
Chains clinked. The slaves straightened, exhausted bodies moving in unison. Their march was slow and pitiful, feet dragging through the sludge.
The old man was slower than anyone. His legs trembled, his back bent even lower than before. Each step seemed to take everything he had left. He stumbled once, twice, catching himself on a jagged post before nearly collapsing again.
"Kid…" his voice rasped through the rain, barely a whisper. "Would you… please assist this old soul? I feel like my bones will crumble if I take another step." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a series of harsh, wheezing coughs.
The boy didn't move at first. His crimson eyes flicked briefly toward the man...no, toward the faint shimmer beneath his clothes. The glint of the knife.
His expression didn't change.
Then, wordlessly, he stepped forward and took the old man by the arm. His small hand gripped with just enough strength to steady him. The old man blinked, surprised by the gesture.
"Oh," he murmured softly, smiling despite his pain. "What a surprise… you're a kind one, aren't you?"
The boy said nothing. His face was blank, eyes fixed straight ahead.
The two trudged through the mud together one hollow, the other fading. Around them, the others moved like shadows, silent and defeated. Their chains dragged faint lines through the earth behind them.
When they reached the cages, the guards activated the rune sealed metal door. Pale blue light flickered across the rusted bars before dimming again. One by one, the slaves were shoved inside.
---
That night, the storm did not stop.
Thunder rolled endlessly. The cages shook under the wind's weight, water dripping from the ceiling and pooling on the floor. The air smelled of iron, mold, and rot.
The boy sat in his usual corner, knees drawn close, arms hanging limp over them. His breathing was slow, almost imperceptible.
The old man was nearby, curled into himself, shivering. He coughed weakly, covering his mouth with a trembling hand. After a while, his voice came hoarse, quiet, but clear enough to cut through the storm.
"Hey kid," the old man's voice came quietly through the rain, barely more than a whisper. "Are you awake?"
The boy didn't answer right away. His small frame shifted slightly, head tilting just enough to show he'd heard.
A weak chuckle followed. "Ah… I suppose you are. I can't sleep either. The rain's too loud, isn't it?"
The boy's crimson eyes flicked toward him just for a second before turning away again.
"Still...there was a time I used to think rain was a blessing," the old man said. His tone was soft, wistful. "See where I came from, rain meant the skies were smiling. The children would run through the fields barefoot, screaming with laughter. The farmers would thank the heavens. It meant life."
He paused, coughing again.
"But here…" he looked around, at the dripping walls, at the slumped figures too weak to move. "It feels like the sky is crying instead."
His voice trembled not from weakness this time, but something heavier.
The boy didn't answer. His eyes drifted toward the floor, where the reflection of the storm shimmered faintly in a puddle.
The old man looked at him. At those lifeless crimson eyes that didn't seem to belong to a child at all. Eyes that neither feared nor hoped.
"Tell me, kid" the old man said quietly. "Do you have a name?"
The boy's gaze lifted slightly. His lips parted, but no sound came. The silence that followed was louder than thunder.
"I see…" the old man whispered, nodding slowly. "Then maybe that's something we should fix."
For a moment, neither spoke. The storm raged on outside, howling through the cracks, shaking the world.
"You know," the old man continued after a while, his voice faint but steady, "a name… it's not just a word. It's something to remind the world that you were here. That you lived. Even if no one remembers, your name does."
The old man smiled weakly "Though not tonight, I have to wrack this old brain of mine to think of a good one" he said. "But soon. When the rain stops, perhaps. Then I'll be able think of a good name for you."
He leaned back against the bars, his breathing shallow, his face pale. His eyes closed slowly. "For now… rest. Rest while you still can..and I'll do just that too..once this fever of mine goes away....you'll see...I am still strong...."
The boy didn't move for a long time.
He just watched the slow rise and fall of the old man's chest, the small glint of a silver knife and the way his trembling fingers gripped the ground as if holding onto a memory that wouldn't return.
Outside, lightning flashed, casting both their shadows against the cage wall. One small and still, the other thin and fading.
It was going to be another cold night.