Ko'oni.
A solitary cell.
Stone. Damp. Cold.
She sat curled into herself, as if trying to vanish inside her own shadow.
Silence.
So complete, not even her thoughts dared to break it.
For the first time in a long while—
she wasn't afraid for herself.
She was afraid for him.
For Cain.
And then—
a memory.
Flames.
A child's scream.
"Mommy! Daddy!"
She lay in soot, reaching out—toward the fire, toward voices that were no longer there.
Before her, a house burning down to bones.
Someone had held her back.
Kept her from running in.
But she screamed.
Screamed until her throat tore. Until blood stained her voice.
No one answered.
Only the crackling of fire.
A cry. A sob.
A child's voice—alone in a world already gone.
Tears welled in Ko'oni's eyes.
But she didn't cry.
She simply stared at the moon through a tiny window in the wall.
And whispered—barely audible:
"Survive... please..."
Cain.
A different cell. A different silence.
Stone all around.
And a single torch flickering in the corner, casting trembling shadows.
Cain lay flat on his back, arms stretched out, eyes closed.
A memory.
Darkness.
The mines.
Blood on his hands.
He stood, chest heaving, staring at a body.
His first kill.
A man. Another slave.
It had been an accident. A reaction.
The man had gone to strike—but Cain's body moved on its own.
A blow. A crack.
Then silence.
And Cain hadn't been able to stop.
Blood—thick, hot.
On his fingers. Under his nails. On his tongue.
He looked at it:
With horror.
With disgust.
Heartbeat
Cain opened his eyes.
Stared at the ceiling.
As if seeing straight through it—through the stone, through time.
The door creaked open.
Ombre stood in the doorway.
He said nothing.
Made no threats.
He simply stood there.
Staring.
As if trying to peer into Cain's very soul.
Cain stared back.
The silence between them felt like glass, stretched to the point of breaking.
Ombre stepped forward.
From beneath his cloak, he pulled a simple sword.
He set it down by the wall.
Looked at Cain one last time—
and left, without a word.
Cain remained alone.
He didn't move.
Only his eyes shifted—to the sword.
Then, slowly, he sat up.
Quietly.
As if not wanting to disturb even the dust.
He stood.
Stepped forward.
Closed his eyes and reached out—
fingers brushing the hilt, gentle, almost reverent.
And then—he clenched it.
Hard.
A swing.
Steel cut the air.
The torch went out.
Darkness swallowed the cell.
Cain stood, gripping the blade.
Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, like a bowstring.
He opened his eyes in the dark.
He was ready.