The rasp of chains against stone broke the silence. Slow, deliberate and familiar. In the near-total darkness of the cell, pierced only by the faint blue glow of a flickering lantern, Riven lay curled on the freezing floor, feigning deep sleep. His body folded into itself, motionless, his breathing slow and steady.

  The sound drew closer.

  A silhouette emerged from the shadows—a one-legged old man, his grotesque smile twisting the scar that ran across his mouth. The blue light caught the yellowed whites of his eyes as he hunched over Riven's still form.

  "Nothing personal," he whispered, his breath sour and hot. "One less slave means better chances for the rest of us." His gnarled fingers worked methodically, positioning his chains around Riven's exposed neck. The cold metal brushed against skin as the old man leaned in closer, already savoring his victory.

  The chains clinked softly, almost apologetically, in the darkness.

  Then came the pain—explosive, crippling—as Riven's foot connected squarely between the old man's legs. The attacker crumpled instantly, chains clattering to the ground as his hands instinctively clutched at his groin. His face contorted, mouth gaping in silent agony.

  "I—I saw you," he gasped between ragged breaths, confusion mingling with pain. "I watched you eat that bread. The poisoned bread."

  Riven's laugh was bitter, cold as the stone beneath them. "You really believed that?" His voice carried no emotion, clinical and detached. "Why would I take anything from a stranger down here?" He sat up slowly, watching the old man writhe. "I pretended. Wanted to see what you'd do. All those kind words... just to lower my guard." He shook his head. "Pathetic. And predictable."

  Hours earlier, Riven had huddled in the corner of the cell on the third level of the black market slave pens—deep enough that survival was a daily struggle, but not yet the bottom level where hope ceased to exist entirely.

  Darkness enveloped everything, broken only by that single lantern hanging from a hook on the far wall.

  The air was unbreathable, thick with the stench of decomposing corpses, dried blood, and rotting flesh. Several bodies lay abandoned where they had fallen, skin bloated and blackened.

  Rats scurried freely between them, occasionally pausing to gnaw. Insects crawled across everything that didn't move, and some things that did. The stone floor was stained with ancient blood that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove.

  Riven's white hair hung in matted clumps, stuck together with dried blood and filth. Heavy rusted chains bound his wrists and ankles, biting into his flesh with every movement. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and scars—some fresh, others long-healed—mapped the history of his time in this place.

  Time had lost all meaning here. No sun, no markers of days passing. Only darkness, hunger, and decay.

  Other chained slaves were scattered throughout the cell, some clinging to empty hope, others who had mentally departed long ago, their bodies simply waiting to catch up. Their eyes reflected nothing—hollow, vacant, already dead.

  The scrape of chain against stone announced the approach of the old man, his left leg missing below the knee, the stump wrapped in filthy rags. He lowered himself painfully beside Riven, breathing labored from the effort.

  "When did you last eat?" the old man asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

  Riven, normally wary and silent, found himself answering. "Maybe two days ago. Hard to tell."

  The old man nodded, reaching into his tattered clothing to produce a small piece of stale, cracked bread. "Here," he offered, extending his trembling hand. "Not much, but it's something. We need to help each other down here. Only way to survive."

  Riven hesitated. Kindness typically masked a trap in this place. His eyes narrowed at the offered food, suspicion etched across his features. But hunger gnawed at him relentlessly.

  He raised it to his mouth. A faint, acrid smell—barely perceptible beneath the rot saturating the cell. He pretended to bite, his jaws working methodically, but the bread remained intact, concealed in his palm

  The old man watched with barely disguised satisfaction.

  "How long have you been here?" he asked, settling his back against the wall.

  Riven swallowed nothing. "About two years. Maybe more. Maybe less."

  The old man's eyebrows shot up. "Two years? At level three?" His voice carried genuine shock. "Either you're cursed with unusual luck or you're more stubborn than most."

  "Not luck," Riven replied flatly.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  They sat in silence for a while, the darkness pressing around them, broken only by the occasional moan from another prisoner or the distant sound of rats fighting over something unseen.

  Before departing, the old man turned. "What's your name?"

  Riven hesitated, then answered: "Riven."

  The old man struggled to his foot, chain scraping as he moved away. He cast a final glance over his shoulder, his disturbing smile revealing blackened teeth. "Sleep well, Riven." The words hung in the air more like a taunt than a genuine wish.

  Now, in the present, Riven wrapped his chains around his hands and advanced toward the fallen old man. Understanding dawned immediately in the attacker's eyes. His petrified gaze conveyed everything—regret, fear, realization coming far too late.

  A thought flashed through Riven's mind—the old man's terrified eyes stirred nothing in him. No hesitation. No remorse. Down here, mercy was a luxury neither of them could afford.

  He didn't hesitate. With quick, practiced movements, he looped the rusted chain around the man's neck and pulled tight.

  The old slave clawed weakly at the metal, fingers slipping uselessly as his strength ebbed. His breathing turned shallow, frantic, then stopped altogether. The body went limp.

  Riven released the chain and took a slow breath. Necessary. That's all it was.

  "Two years in this hole," he muttered, more to himself than the corpse. "And you thought I survived by smiling."

  He backed against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, knees drawn up to his chest. Some of the other slaves watched—their gazes silent, heavy, understanding. Another body. Nothing more.

  The blue lantern continued to flicker, its weak glow casting distorted shadows across the cell floor. In its cold light, it was almost impossible to tell the difference between the living and the dead.

  Hours passed before Riven's eyes opened again. His body protested every slight movement, muscles stiff and joints aching from the cold stone. Beside him, the old man's corpse lay undisturbed, already beginning to blend with the ambient decay that permeated the cell. One more body among many, unremarkable in death as he had been in life.

  The cell occupied the third level of the black market slave pens. Each level deeper meant less food, less light, less reason to hope. Third level was brutal—starvation, disease, and death were constant companions. But you could still survive. Barely.

  The fourth level, they said, was where survival became a matter of days, not weeks.

  The fifth level wasn't a prison. It was a tomb. No one came back. No one even tried.

  Riven leaned his head back against the cold wall, his white hair falling in filthy strands across his face. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the sweeter, more insidious smell of human decomposition. Breathing too deeply invited nausea, so most prisoners had adapted to shallow, measured breaths. Even the rats seemed less active in this oppressive atmosphere, though their eyes occasionally gleamed from dark corners.

  At the end of the corridor stood a massive door, constructed of black stone and ironwood—materials chosen not for beauty but for their ability to withstand both time and desperation. Age had marked its surface with scratches and dents, but it remained solidly in place, a boundary between imprisonment and whatever limited freedom lay beyond. At its center, an oversized reinforced lock spoke of the value placed on containment rather than the lives contained.

  Beside the door sat a rickety, twisted table with one leg partially renailed, tilting slightly to one side. Upon its surface lay several greasy keys, stained with the accumulated sweat and grime of years of handling. Their dull metal caught the blue light occasionally, small glints of reflected flame in the otherwise consuming darkness.

  Slumped in a chair behind the table, feet propped up on its surface and arms folded across his chest, a guard slept deeply. His mouth hung slightly open, a thread of saliva connecting his lower lip to his matted beard. He wore a patched leather vest over a filthy shirt, rusted metal plates hanging from one shoulder—more decorative than functional. His faded trousers were tucked into black boots that had been repaired with wire in several places.

  Riven's eyes narrowed as he observed the sleeping figure. The guard's presence at this hour disrupted the usual pattern.

  Why is the guard down here now? Riven thought with irritation. Don't tell me he's already distributed food... His stomach tightened painfully at the realization.

  Damn it. I slept through it. Well done, Riven.

  He surveyed the other prisoners, noting how some seemed slightly less hollow-cheeked than before. Yes, food had been distributed while he slept—likely the only meal they would receive for the next two days. The killing had cost him more than he'd anticipated.

  The silence of the cell block was absolute, save for the occasional clink of chains, a muffled cough, or the scurrying of tiny feet across stone. This deep underground, even the sounds of the market above couldn't penetrate. The isolation was complete.

  Then, sudden and jarring, came heavy knocks against the door—three deliberate impacts that reverberated through the stone walls with commanding authority. The sound was so unexpected, so out of place in this forgotten corner, that even some of the most vacant-eyed prisoners raised their heads in response.

  The guard startled violently, nearly toppling backward in his chair. His arms windmilled briefly before he caught himself, eyes wide with momentary confusion. He rubbed his face roughly with both hands, then fumbled for the ring of keys on the table, nearly knocking them to the floor in his haste.

  "Coming!" he called, his voice cracking from sleep. He sorted through the keys briefly before selecting a large silver one, which he shoved into the lock with practiced efficiency despite his just-woken state.

  Metal scraped against metal as the key turned, the sound echoing through the chamber. The hinges protested with a deep, resentful groan as the door began to swing inward. It moved slowly, as if reluctant to allow any intrusion into this sealed world of suffering.

  Light flooded the corridor—not the gentle glow of lanterns but harsh, uncompromising brightness that stabbed at Riven's eyes, forcing him to turn his head away as the darkness he had grown accustomed to was instantly shattered. The contrast was so severe that he could feel tears forming at the corners of his eyes, his pupils contracting painfully against the sudden assault.

  Through squinted eyes, Riven watched as silhouettes materialized in the blinding light. The guard snapped to attention, back rigid, head bowed.

  Money or power. Maybe both.

  The figures stepped forward in perfect unison, their footsteps echoing against stone. Chains scraped as prisoners retreated into shadows. Others simply lowered their gaze.

  Not Riven. He held his position, eyes fixed on the approaching figures.

  Around him, the cell stirred. Slaves who hadn't moved in weeks lifted their heads, eyes wide with something between fear and hope.

  Visitors this deep meant only one thing.

  And whatever it was—it wasn't good.