The twin suns of the Dark Star Realm dipped lower, their searing light softening into a crimson haze.
The city of Dark Star buzzed behind the departing column of slaves, its clamor fading into a distant hum.
Song trudged in the middle of the ragged line, his legs aching under the weight of exhaustion.
The slave collar around his neck pulsed faintly, a cruel reminder of his bondage.
Each step felt heavier than the last, the cobblestone streets giving way to the dusty trails beyond the city gates.
The Twilight Lord Sect's representative, a tall figure in black robes, led the way with a relentless pace.
His cold command still echoed in Song's mind: "Stand and follow."
The words had carried spiritual energy, tightening the collar until obedience was the only option.
Song's gaze flickered to the man's back, his silhouette stark against the fading light.
What do they want with us? he wondered, his thoughts clouded by fatigue.
The Twilight Lords' sudden interest in slaves—weak ones like him, no less—was unsettling.
Rumors of their cursed cave lingered in his mind, whispered by the old man in the pen.
A place of forbidden power, perhaps, or a tomb of ancient horrors.
Song's Tattoo of Dominion, a single stripe etched on his forearm, pulsed faintly, as if responding to his unease.
He clenched his fist, suppressing the sensation.
I can't afford to hope, he thought.
Not yet.
The caravan stretched across the barren trail, flanked by more black-robed figures.
Their eyes gleamed with quiet menace, scanning the slaves for any sign of defiance.
Song kept his head low, but his senses were sharp.
He had learned to survive by noticing the smallest details—the shift of a guard's stance, the flicker of a whip.
Grue, the senior overseer, trailed the column, his heavy footsteps a constant threat.
Song could feel the man's gaze boring into him, that crooked grin promising pain.
He's waiting for me to slip, Song thought, his stomach twisting.
Grue's three stripes made him a predator in this world, and Song was easy prey.
The old man shuffled beside him, his breath ragged.
"Don't draw attention," he whispered.
"Grue's itching to make an example of you."
Song nodded, his throat dry.
"I know," he murmured.
"But why does he hate me so much?"
The old man's eyes softened with pity.
"You're different, Song."
"You don't break like the others."
"That's enough to make a man like Grue want to crush you."
Song's jaw tightened.
He had survived the caravan by burying his despair, but Grue's cruelty tested his resolve.
Each lash, each sneer, was a reminder of his powerlessness.
Yet, deep within, a spark of defiance burned.
I'll find a way, he vowed.
Even if it kills me.
The trail wound through a desolate plain, the earth cracked and lifeless under the suns' wrath.
Dust swirled in the wind, stinging Song's eyes and coating his throat.
The slaves stumbled forward, driven by the collars' relentless grip.
Song's legs trembled, but he forced himself to keep pace.
To falter was to invite the collar's punishment—a tightening that could choke the life from him.
He had seen it happen to others.
Their faces haunted him, their final gasps a warning.
As the suns sank lower, the air grew cooler, but the weight of the collar seemed heavier.
Song's thoughts drifted to his tattoo.
One stripe.
A mark of shame, yet it was all he had.
In the caravan, he had practiced in secret, coaxing faint wisps of spiritual energy despite the collar's suppression.
Each failure stung, but each flicker of power fueled his hope.
I can be more than this, he thought.
I have to be.
He glanced at the old man, whose frail form seemed ready to collapse.
"Why do you keep helping me?" Song asked, his voice barely audible.
"You don't owe me anything."
The old man chuckled, a dry, weary sound.
"Maybe I see something in you, boy."
"Or maybe I'm just tired of watching people give up."
Song's chest tightened.
The old man's kindness was a rare light in this brutal world, but it also made him feel exposed.
Hope was dangerous.
It could break him faster than Grue's whip.
The column halted briefly at a rocky outcrop, the Twilight Lord gesturing for the slaves to rest.
Song sank to the ground, his muscles screaming.
The old man handed him another flask, its contents just as foul as before.
"Drink," he said.
"You'll need your strength."
Song grimaced but obeyed, the rancid water burning his throat.
He fought the urge to gag, focusing on the horizon.
The mountains loomed closer now, their jagged peaks shrouded in mist.
Is that where we're going? he wondered.
The cave?
Before he could dwell on it, Grue's shadow loomed over him.
The overseer's grin was a twisted mockery of a smile.
"Practicing again, worm?" he sneered.
"You think that pathetic tattoo makes you special?"
Song's heart raced, but he kept his eyes down.
"I wasn't—"
"Don't lie to me," Grue snapped, his voice dripping with malice.
He raised his whip, the barbed tip glinting in the fading light.
Song braced himself, but the old man stepped forward, his frail body trembling.
"Leave him be, Grue," the old man said.
"He's just a boy."
Grue's eyes narrowed, his whip twitching.
"Mind your place, old fool," he growled.
"Or I'll teach you both a lesson."
The Twilight Lord's voice cut through the tension, cold and commanding.
"Enough."
Grue froze, his whip lowering reluctantly.
The sect master's gaze swept over the slaves, lingering on Song for a moment too long.
"Move," he ordered.
The column lurched forward, and Song exhaled, his heart pounding.
The old man squeezed his shoulder.
"Stay sharp," he whispered.
"They're watching you."
Song nodded, his mind racing.
Why had the sect master intervened?
Did he see something in Song, or was it just a whim?
The tattoo on his forearm pulsed again, stronger this time, as if stirred by the encounter.
The caravan pressed on, the trail winding toward the mountains.
Beyond the city, Lady Blu and her companion hurried through the streets, their steps urgent.
The man glanced back at the market, where more columns of slaves trailed black-robed figures.
"They're buying everyone," he said, his voice tight with disbelief.
"Even the weak ones."
"It's madness."
Lady Blu's expression was grim.
"For the Twilight Lords, this is no small expense," she said.
"If their plan fails, they'll lose everything."
"We need to report this to the clan leader," the man said.
"Now."
Lady Blu nodded, her mind racing.
The Twilight Lords were gambling their future on this mysterious venture.
The cave, the slaves, the secrecy—it all pointed to something vast and dangerous.
As they vanished into the clan's residence, the air grew heavy with an unspoken warning.
Back on the trail, Song felt a strange sensation in his chest.
His tattoo pulsed again, a faint warmth spreading through his veins.
It was unlike anything he had felt before—a whisper of power, or perhaps a warning.
He glanced at the Twilight Lord leading the column, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud.
Something was coming, and Song was caught in its path.