Chương 9: Until Sunset (1)

"Up, boy. We've arrived." Teren opened his eyes with his teeth already clenched. He was in the wagon. Again. For one breath, he did not move. He stared at the iron bars in front of his face and felt the phantom weight of the yard-master's hand crushing his fingers around the assay grip. He could still remember the cold metal under his hand, the purple flash, and the white fire that followed. The memory did not fade when he woke. It never did.

After every death, he came back whole, as if his mind had been dragged through fire and force and stone, then thrown into this cage with all the pieces still sharp. His hands tightened into fists. The chain between his ankles scraped against the floor.

"Ya awake, boy?" the older man across the cage asked. Teren looked at him. Nothing had changed: the wagon, the road, the old man across from him, even the stink of sweat, dirt, and fear. Karthane still waited ahead with its crystal lights and the killing yard.

"Yes," Teren said. The older man studied him for a moment.

"Then stop lookin' like ya wanna bite someone." Teren gave a short, humorless laugh.

"Is that obvious?" The old man's face changed slightly.

"Obvious enough." Teren looked away. He did want to bite someone. The thought was stupid and childish, but it still sat there under his ribs. He felt tired even though his body had only just woken. His muscles still felt strong enough and his breathing was steady. The bruises, burns and shattered bones from the previous deaths were gone. But he was exhausted in a way sleep would not fix. He had died by white fire in the first loop. He had died by white fire again.

Then he had died after learning the handle caused it. Then, after Edras pulled him out of the yard and told him he carried the blood of the dead imperial house, he had died to a red trap waiting in the old mage's own research rooms. Then he had died because he had hesitated and a scarred bastard had forced his hand on the device anyway. And now the wagon rolled on the dirt road again as if none of it mattered, as if the world had all the patience he didn't. Ahead, Karthane rose beneath the morning light.

The walls were immense and gray. The faint shimmer of the barrier curved over the city, visible only when the sun caught it at the right angle. The first time he had seen it, he had stared like an idiot. Now he wanted to spit at it. Near the rear of the cage, the broad lizardfolk captive sat with his thick shoulders hunched and his eyes fixed on the guards outside. Teren remembered warning him in the last loop. The man had snorted and attacked anyway. He had changed the first blow, perhaps, but not the ending.

This time, Teren said nothing. He was not the man's keeper. He could barely keep himself alive past the first hour in the city. The drawbridge came and went. The guards checked the caravan. The bronze token passed through the bars. The portcullis rose. The gatehouse swallowed them. Orange lights glowed inside glass containers along the stone passage. Karthane opened around them but Teren barely looked at it. The streets blurred past.

Carts, soldiers, merchants, scaled beasts, shouting drivers, narrow alleys, distant towers. Somewhere beyond the roofs stood Edras's research compound. Somewhere on the hills, the duke sat in his palace, unaware that a dead imperial bloodline had returned in a slave wagon. Or perhaps not unaware. Teren's jaw tightened. He still did not know who had set the red trap in the basement room. The wagon entered the intake compound. The smaller wall closed behind them.

Cheering came from the left, from the fighting enclosure he had barely glimpsed in the previous loops. This time, the sound no longer felt like some distant cruelty happening to other people. A hard cheer rose, followed by laughter and the dull thud of something heavy hitting flesh. Teren turned his head toward it. The wagon moved on before he saw anything useful. Of course. The cage wagon stopped. A guard outside struck the bars with the end of his spear.

"Out!" The door opened and the first captives climbed down. The broad man surged forward almost as soon as his feet touched the ground. Teren watched without surprise like he was seeing a live trainwreck. He knew exactly what was going to happen, yet he didn't have the means to stop it. This time, the broad man got one guard by the front of his leather armor and smashed his forehead into the man's face. Bone cracked. The guard fell with blood across his nose and mouth.

The broad captive had barely taken another step, when a spear haft slammed into his ribs. He twisted, still standing. Then a cudgel struck his shoulder. Another hit his back. A third guard swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard and tried to rise with his chained hands under him. The guards beat him down before he could. Teren's fists clenched. He did not look away this time. He watched until the broad man stopped moving. Not dead. Probably not.

The guards had use for bodies that could still work, fight, or suffer. That was the only mercy this place understood.

"Move," a guard snapped. Teren climbed down from the wagon. The yard smelled of dust, old blood, sweat, and wood smoke. Captives shuffled forward. Guards shouted. Somewhere behind the timber halls, the fighting crowd roared again. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Teren stepped into line. His wrists were unlocked. The iron bands came away from his skin, leaving pale marks and old dirt. His ankles remained chained.

It gave him enough freedom to walk, though the ankle chain still made running impossible. The clerk sat at the same table beneath the same strip of shade, ledger open, pen ready. He looked bored. Teren hated him for it. The line moved. Names were read, trades were asked. Some captives lied, others begged. Some answered too softly and were forced to repeat themselves. Teren reached the table when his turn came. The clerk lifted the wooden tag hanging from his neck.

"Teren Marr."

"Yes," he growled back. The clerk looked up at his tone. Teren glared back. The clerk's pen hovered over the page with a frown.

"Any trade?"

"No."

"Experience with tools? Animals? Field work?"

"No." The clerk's mouth tightened.

"You know your letters?"

"Yes."

"You always answer like that?" Teren leaned forward as far as the ankle chain allowed.

"You asked three questions. I answered three questions." The guard beside the table shifted his grip on his spear. The clerk's expression became colder.

"Careful, boy!" Teren knew he should stop. He knew it very clearly. But something in him had been stretched too far. He had been burned, crushed, trapped, shoved, tested, named, killed, and returned to this filthy line again. And again. And again. The clerk's warning landed on top of all of it like one more hand pushing his face down into the dirt. Teren smiled without warmth.

"Will careful get me out of the chains, huh?" The guard moved before the clerk answered. The spear haft struck Teren across the stomach. Air burst out of him. He doubled over, coughing, and would have fallen if the guard had not grabbed the back of his tunic.

"Stand straight, or I might not be so careful next time." Teren dragged in a breath. Sharp pain spread through his abdomen, almost welcome for how simple and real it felt. He straightened. Slowly. The clerk watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Literate. No listed trade. Bad temper." Teren swallowed against the ache in his gut.

"Make sure to put that in neat handwriting, old man." The guard hit him again. This time, the blow landed across his shoulder and spun him half sideways. His ankle chain scraped across the ground, but he somehow stayed on his feet, stubbornly refusing to give the guard the satisfaction of knocking him down. Instead, he gave the man a lopsided smirk. A few captives near him went very still. The clerk dipped his pen and spoke as he wrote." Very bad temper."

Teren tasted blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. He almost laughed, mostly because he needed some way to drag himself out of his dark mood before he did something even stupider, like ram his head into the guard's face. He could predict its ending easily enough. He forced himself to move when the guard shoved him toward the assay line. The cloudy crystal waited inside its brass cage. Teren's anger did not vanish when he saw it. It twisted into something colder and worse.

This fucking handle had killed him! No. Not the handle, his own ignorance had killed him. His imperial blood had killed him. The people hunting that blood had killed him. The yard-master's hand had killed him. Everything in this damned city had killed him! The young man ahead of him produced the same weak yellow glow and was sent toward Master Edras. Teren watched him go. For a moment, he thought of forcing a heavy rush of mana again. Edras would come. Edras would take him away.

Teren could warn him about the red trap. They could avoid the threshold. Perhaps they could reach Duke Ordaan this time. Perhaps. Or perhaps there were more traps. Perhaps the white-fire attacker would choose a different moment. Perhaps warning Edras still would not be enough. The goblin woman ahead of Teren touched the grip. Nothing happened. She was sent to labor. Then Teren stepped forward. The scarred yard-master pointed at the handle.

"Hand around it." Teren looked at him. The man's hand was large, scarred across the knuckles, and far too close. Teren's own fingers flexed once. The yard-master noticed. His eyes narrowed.

"Problem?"

"No," Teren said.

"Then grip it." Teren did not move. The yard-master took one step closer. Teren's breath caught. He remembered that hand coming down over his. Cold. Purple. Fire. The yard-master's lip curled.

"Do I need to put your hand there myself?" The words struck like a slap. For one disorienting moment, it felt like the man remembered. Teren's whole body went rigid. The scarred man could not know. Of course he could not know, or Teren would have found multiple hints of it by now. To the yard-master, this was the first time anything was happening. Just one stubborn slave being difficult in the line. But Teren knew. He knew what happened if he waited. He knew what happened if someone else made the choice for him.

Before the yard-master could reach out, Teren grabbed the handle. Cold sank into his palm. His body tried to recoil in fear, but he held on to the grip somehow. The assay pulled. Teren felt it. Not with his skin. Not exactly. Something inside his arm shifted toward the handle, like water tugged by a current. A familiar wrongness moved beneath his flesh. Panic slammed down over it. No... No! Not again!

His fingers tightened around the brass until his knuckles hurt, anticipating the horror of being burned alive again. His breath stopped in dread. His muscles locked from raw terror rather than any skill or a deliberate control over the mana. The pull of the current toward the handle continued for one heartbeat. Then another. Then it stopped moving. Nothing reached the crystal. The cloudy stone stayed dark. Teren stared at it. The yard-master grunted.

"Useless, then." Teren barely heard him. He had followed the orders. He had gripped the damned handle, and the crystal had not lit. His heart pounded hard enough to hurt. He had not known he could do that. That this was even an option. He still did not know how he had done it. The scarred man reached for his arm. Is he going to put my arm on the handle again? Teren pulled back instinctively.

"Don't touch me." The yard seemed to pause around him. The yard-master's face shifted. A smarter man would have lowered his eyes, or apologized. A smarter man would have remembered that he was chained at the ankles, surrounded by armed guards, and one bad decision away from being beaten into the dirt. Teren knew all of that, but he still did not lower his eyes. He feared the white fire far more than he feared the guard. The yard-master's hand closed on the front of his tunic instead of his arm.

He yanked Teren forward until they were almost face to face.

"What did ya say?" Teren's stomach still hurt from the spear haft. His shoulder throbbed. His cheek stung where he had bitten it. He tried to smile anyway.

"I said don't touch me." The yard-master hit him. Not with a weapon. With the back of his hand. Pain exploded across Teren's face. He stumbled sideways and nearly fell, ankle chain jerking tight. The world tilted for a moment before he caught himself. The scarred man looked him up and down. His gaze lingered on Teren's shoulders, his arms, the way his body had absorbed the blow without collapsing.

"He's got spine," one of the nearby guards said.

"Or no sense," another muttered. The yard-master spat into the dirt.

"No magic. No trade. But has a damned mouth like a gutter dog." He glanced toward the sound of cheering from the enclosure.

"Send him to the pits."