The sun hung heavy around Roff like a suffocating shroud. The ruins of the camp still smoldered, the sharp scent of smoke and scorched earth thick in the air, but inside him, a deeper fire raged — one that no water could quench.
The hollow silence pressed on his chest as he stood over the broken remains of what had been a fleeting moment of hope. The boy — the nameless slave — was gone, swallowed by the ancient chasm that yawned not far from the camp.
Roff's hands trembled. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, trying to squeeze away the overwhelming tide of guilt and shame that threatened to drown him. Yet somewhere, deep in the darkest recesses of his mind, a stubborn voice hissed:
It's not your fault. This world is cruel. It's not meant for mercy. You're only surviving.
He repeated it over and over, like a mantra to steel his faltering spirit. But the image of the boy's wide, scared eyes — betrayed, thrown, abandoned — seared itself into his mind. A future stolen, a chance extinguished because of his own cowardice and desperation.
His breath hitched. The weight of regret squeezed tighter, choking him. What had he become? A betrayer of hope, a pawn of fear, or simply a man trying to live in a merciless world?
Before he could spiral deeper into self-loathing, a cold presence settled behind him — cutting through the night with sharp precision.
"You."
The voice was icy, commanding, a blade disguised as silk.
Roff turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.
There, framed by the ruins, stood Caelistra.
Her dark cloak fluttered in the hot breeze, embroidered with ancient symbols that seemed to flicker with quiet power. Her face was expressionless, her eyes sharp and unreadable — like shards of polished obsidian that reflected nothing, but cut deeply.
Roff swallowed hard, his voice breaking. "Lady Caelistra... I— I didn't want it to happen. I don't know what came over me. I never meant to—"
She lifted a hand, cutting him off with a gesture as precise and absolute as a guillotine.
"I do not blame you for throwing him into the chasm."
Roff blinked, stunned. "Y-you don't?"
"No."
Her voice was flat, almost bored, but it carried an undercurrent of something darker — a warning hidden beneath her calm. "I took him as my disciple. For reasons I have yet to understand. Perhaps because I am bound to protect you all, or perhaps for reasons yet unknown to me."
Roff's throat tightened. He wanted to say more, to beg for forgiveness, but his voice caught in his chest.
"However," she continued, voice cold and cutting, "your level of disrespect is staggering."
The weight of those words crushed him. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground, eyes lowered, shame burning hotter than any flame.
"Please," he pleaded, voice cracking, "Have mercy. I was afraid. I didn't want to do this. I swear—"
A sudden snap of her fingers broke the silence like thunder.
Flames erupted from the chains binding the slaves. The dry air caught fire instantly, wrapping around bodies and bones with merciless hunger.
Roff's breath caught in his throat as screams tore through the night. Innocent and guilty alike writhed in agony, trapped in blazing torment.
"No!" he shouted, struggling to rise, to do something—anything—yet he was frozen, paralyzed by the merciless fury unleashed.
From the shadows, the camp's one-eyed captain burst forward, rage burning in his remaining eye.
"What madness is this?" he barked, voice rough with disbelief and fury. "Why? These slaves were worth a fortune! Why kill them all?"
Caelistra's gaze drifted toward the yawning abyss nearby.
"I will take responsibility for their deaths. And I will pay the price."
The captain spat on the scorched ground, his anger fading into resignation. "Still... this is cruel."
Without another word, Caelistra turned away, her cloak swirling like a dark wave in the wind. Her silhouette disappeared leaving behind only the crackling flames and the echo of broken lives.
Roff remained on the scorched earth, the acrid smoke curling around him like a funeral shroud. His heart pounded, heavy with grief and fear — and something deeper: a cold, gnawing dread that the boy was not gone, not yet. Somewhere, deep within the darkness of that ancient chasm, something stirred.
The stench of burnt flesh lingered long after the screams had faded.
Roff stood frozen, eyes bloodshot, throat clenched, in the midst of still-warm human ashes. The chains, melted by the infernal heat, had left black marks on the dusty ground—like scars etched into the earth itself. Part of him wanted to run. Another wanted to vomit. But his body refused to move.
They were all dead. All of them. Even the ones who had done nothing.
Because of him.
He could still hear their screams. Faces twisted in pain, hands reaching out for salvation that would never come. And in the middle of the carnage, he remained—spared, alive, a witness... and guilty.
His legs moved without his consent. He walked, mechanically, leaving behind the ruins of the camp, slipping away from the stares, fleeing the accusing shadows. The desert stretched endlessly before him—a world without mercy, without end. The sun was high, merciless, gnawing at his skin, burning his hunched back.
But he didn't stop.
His thoughts kept spiraling, a loop without escape.
Why... why did I do this?
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to betray. He just wanted... to exist. To be seen. To be acknowledged.
As a child, he dreamed of greatness. He imagined crowds cheering for him, lifting him to the rank of a hero, like the characters in the stories his mother used to tell. He wanted his name to be spoken with awe. Roff the Awakened. Roff the Liberator. Roff the Brave.
But no tale had ever taught him how to survive the hell of a slave camp. No story prepared a child to be beaten for speaking. To watch friends starve. To trade his dignity for a bowl of cold rice.
So he changed. Slowly. Unconsciously. He buried his dreams under layers of silence, cunning, and feigned submission.
But today, even that mask had shattered.
He had killed a boy. Not with his own hands, no—but with his choices. And for what? To survive? Out of fear? Out of jealousy?
The sun kept striking him relentlessly. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked. The heat seemed intent on punishing him too, swallowing him the way the fire had swallowed the others. His tattered shirt clung to his sweaty skin, and every step was agony.
Mirages began to dance before his eyes. He saw figures walking beside him. He thought he heard voices—some full of blame, others mocking.
Then he saw the boy.
Standing. Calm. Eyes locked on his.
"Why?" the boy asked, though his lips did not move.
Roff dropped to his knees, breathless. He shut his eyes. The image remained.
"Why did you throw me away?"
Roff screamed. A raw, inhuman, ragged scream.
He struck his head, his temples, his fists. He wanted to silence that voice. Erase that gaze. But the more he fought, the deeper it carved itself into him.
Memories came flooding back. His dying mother. His sister, sold. The boy with fire in his eyes, able to sense the tremors of a giant worm underground. He had seen hope—a spark of something extraordinary—and he had destroyed it.
He was no longer a man. He was nothing.
Just an empty shell, walking through an endless desert.
As he collapsed, his head resting against the burning sand, Roff whispered through cracked teeth:
"If there's a god… let him kill me now."
But no god answered.
Only the wind... and the desert.