The sun had risen, but the sky remained a dull, ashen gray. Light filtered through a thick veil of smoke drifting from the forge-fires of the noble estate. Dawn meant nothing here—not to the slaves. It only marked the beginning of another day of toil.
The boy stood barefoot in the mud, the earth cold against his skin. His tunic was little more than a rag, crusted with old blood and ash. His ribs showed clearly through his skin, his legs stick-thin and bruised. Around his neck hung a rusted iron collar, too tight to be comfortable, too loose to strangle. It was engraved with a single rune that glowed faintly—a slave brand, not just of ownership, but of silence.
He had no name.
None of the overseers had ever given him one, and the other slaves never bothered to ask. To them, he was simply "the boy," or when they were cruel—or worse, indifferent—"it."
He did not remember his parents, only fire and screaming, the sound of chains clinking in the dark. His earliest memories were of a cage, cold soup, and a voice barking numbers, not names. He had been sold three times before he could walk properly. Names were for people. He was property.
His eyes were sunken, dull, and gray like the sky. He had not spoken in years—not since he was taken. The rune burned his throat if he even tried. He couldn't even recall the sound of his own voice. And why speak? No one listened. No one cared.
The morning bell rang.
It was not the chime of hope or prayer—it was a shrill, metallic clang that meant labor. It meant chains. It meant pain. The kind of pain that dulled the mind and hollowed the soul. The kind that made boys into ghosts.
The boy shuffled forward with the rest of the morning line. Their eyes were the same—lifeless, tired, resigned. None looked up at the sun. The sun brought no warmth, only heat and burns.
Today, he was assigned to the kennels. The guard who read the slate didn't even look at him—just jabbed a thumb toward the east yard and muttered, "Mutt duty."
He obeyed.
The kennels were worse than the forge or the fields. They housed the war hounds—brutal, half-wild beasts bred for hunting escaped slaves and tearing rebels to shreds. Feeding them meant losing fingers, sometimes more. The smell was overwhelming: a blend of wet fur, rot, feces, and old blood.
The boy entered the stone-floored kennel, dragging a bucket of scraps behind him, his thin arms trembling with the effort. The hounds howled and snarled, slamming against the bars of their cages. Some paced, foam dripping from their mouths. Others just stared—intelligent and cruel.
He didn't flinch. He never flinched.
He moved with practiced, mechanical precision, tossing chunks of raw meat into cages, keeping to the edges, never making eye contact with the beasts. He had seen what happened to those who slipped up. One boy had tripped—just once—and was torn apart before the guards even reached him. His screams had lasted less than a minute. No one remembered his name. If he even had one.
By midday, his arms ached, his stomach growled, and sweat stung his eyes. He hadn't eaten since yesterday—half a crust of bread for hauling three barrels of water. Not enough. Never enough. Hunger was a companion, like the collar around his neck.
Still, he did not complain.Slaves who complained didn't last.
He scrubbed dried blood from the kennel floor with a stiff-bristled brush, knuckles scraping the stone. His fingers were raw, the skin peeling. The bristles were soaked with filth. The water in the bucket was black. It didn't matter. It never got clean. Not truly.
A guard passed by, laughing with another. They were discussing a festival in the upper city, oblivious to the stench and suffering around them.
"Going to see the flame dancers?" one asked.
"Only if I get to see another rebel burn," the other replied with a chuckle.
Then one of them stopped and looked at the boy.
"Still alive, rat?" the guard sneered.
The boy did not respond.
The guard kicked over the water bucket."Clean that again. And if I see even one drop of blood left, I'll have the dogs lick it off you."
The boy bowed his head and got to work again, kneeling in filth, fingers numb and raw. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried since the first night he arrived, when he learned tears earned only laughter—or worse. Pain didn't earn mercy here. It earned amusement.
Evening came.
The slaves were herded back into the holding sheds—bare wooden boxes with straw and chains. They were not given food. The guards were drunk, and drunk guards forgot things. Sometimes they forgot to unlock the cages. Sometimes they forgot which slave they beat to death the night before.
The boy curled into a corner, resting his head on the wall. A rat scurried past. He watched it—not out of fear, but curiosity. The rat was free.
He had a memory, flickering like a candle in the dark. A woman's voice. A lullaby. A field of red flowers. Fingers combing through his hair.
It faded.
The door creaked open.
A new girl was shoved into the shed—young, maybe his age. Her eyes were wide with fear, her clothes too fine for a slave. Silk stained with ash. She must've been punished for something. Perhaps her family had fallen. Or maybe she had just angered the wrong noble.
She sat across from him, staring at him.
He ignored her.
Then, she spoke."Do you have a name?"
His breath caught.
It was the first time anyone had asked him that. The first time anyone had spoken to him in... years.
He said nothing.
She tilted her head."I'll call you Ash. Your eyes look like ashes."
He blinked.
She smiled. A real smile.
In that moment, something stirred inside him—a flicker, faint and strange. Not quite hope. Not yet.
But something.
Later that night, as the others slept, Ash found himself unable to rest. He kept glancing at the girl curled in the straw. She had fallen asleep quickly, her breathing soft, her small hands wrapped around her knees. Her presence unsettled something in him—a curiosity he had buried long ago.
He shifted, trying not to make a sound. The moonlight filtering through the cracks in the wooden slats painted faint stripes across her face. For the first time, he realized how young she really was. As young as him. Maybe younger.
In his mind, he named her Lily.
He didn't know why. It just fit. Something about her seemed fragile yet defiant, like a flower pushing through stone.
Ash closed his eyes.
Sleep did not come easily. When it did, it brought dreams.
He was back in the field of red flowers—but they were burning. Petals curled into ash, carried on the wind. The sky was black, full of smoke and falling embers. He stood in the center of it, unscorched, untouched, yet surrounded by fire.
He saw chains—broken ones—falling from his wrists. He heard screaming. Not of pain, but of rage. His own voice, roaring out of him, though his throat still burned with the slave rune.
Then a shadow appeared in the flames. Tall, cloaked in black armor, face obscured, but its eyes glowed crimson. The figure raised a sword made of fire and pointed it at Ash. No words. Just a gesture.
Ash woke with a start, sweat dripping down his back. His heart pounded. His hands trembled.
He didn't understand the dream, but he knew what it meant.Fire was coming.
And he would no longer be a slave.Not forever.Not anymore.
He sat up slowly, careful not to wake the others. The scent of straw and sweat hung heavy in the shed. But for once, it didn't weigh him down.
He looked over at Lily, still asleep, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Ash felt a strange protectiveness curl inside his chest—sharp and unfamiliar. She had named him. Given him something the world had tried to take away: identity.
The next morning, when the bell rang, Ash didn't flinch. He stood, straighter than before. As the guards barked orders and the other slaves stumbled into their lines, Ash glanced at the sunrise.
It was still gray. Still bleak.
But in his heart, something red burned.
A promise.
One day, he would be free.
And the world would burn for what it had done to him.