Cyril's eyes snapped open to utter silence. No torchlight danced on the walls. No distant clamor of labor. Just an endless stillness that pressed in on him from every side. His arms ached where iron bit into flesh; his body cold, yet he could feel a warmth pulsing in his chest—the afterglow of yesterday's outburst.
He flexed his fingers. The chains clasping his wrists rattled, but held fast. He drew in a slow breath, attuning himself to the faint hum of The Flow under his skin. Instinctively, he willed the iron to yield—but only felt the dull weight of metal.
"Not yet." He whispered.
Minutes—hours—later, a soft click interrupted the void. The metal door swung open to admit a single figure: a woman in dark leather armor, her hood low covering even the smallest detail of her face. Her stride was silent; her gaze, when it flicked to him, was curious rather than fearful.
"You're the one who shattered the quarry," she said, voice low.
"Good. You may live up to those rumors."
Cyril sat up, dusting grit from his shirtless chest.
"Rumors?"
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
"A slave who wields flow like a cultivator. Guards swear it wasn't wind or earthquake. They swear."
She knelt, inspecting the cracks in the stone floor left by his shockwave.
"Name's Miren. Your interesting… you've definitely never been trained in flow but yet…."
He frowned. "Interesting how and flow what's that?
".."
She ignored Cyril's questions and reached into a satchel. Producing a small vial of pale green liquid.
"Dren can break bones. But he cannot break resolve—or so I've been told. Here."
She uncorked the vial.
"This will dull your pain enough to move. After that, you'll learn from me."
Cyril hesitated, his throat tight. Trust? After all he'd been through was impossible… But beneath the pain in his limbs lay a hunger, an ache for more: knowledge, mastery, escape.
He took the vial. One gulp, a warm haze crept through his veins, soothing burn and bruise alike. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
She smiled. "I have a place for you—if you're willing to fight."
As she said this the woman seemingly dissapeared, fading into nothingness.
——————
Dragged back through winding tunnels, Cyril's senses reeled at the contrast between the sunlit quarry and the subterranean stillness of his new prison. As his mental fog cleared, he noted dim runes etched into the walls—wards to dampen The Flow. A subtle reminder that his power here was fragile.
The iron door clanged open a second time. This time, two guards bound his wrists together and led him down a corridor lit with lanterns. At the end waited Master Dren, flanked by two armored lieutenants.
"Interesting developments," Dren said, voice as cold as obsidian.
He approached, studying Cyril's bruised face, the slight glow in his eyes.
"You've caused quite the stir. The quarry supervisors blame me if you're lost to madness—or worse."
Cyril met his gaze without flinching.
"I'm neither."
Dren's lips curved in a thin smile.
"Bold. Perhaps too bold."
He turned to his lieutenants.
"Take him to the arena. Let the other playthings see what happens to those who rise above their station."
Cyril's heart clenched. An audience of hundreds, perhaps thousands—slaves forced to watch as he was torn apart or burned alive. Yet deeper within him, the ember of Sovereignty flared.
He was No longer a dog to be whipped into submission.