Damned Lands

Luke said nothing for a long time.

The cold from the stone floor crept into his skin, but he didn't move. He stayed where he was—still, grounded—his eyes resting quietly on the girl beside him.

Elarin's breathing had softened, but not eased. She wasn't asleep.

She was conserving what little strength she had left.

Her words still clung to the air between them.

"I didn't win. I didn't lose. I just… lived."

That wasn't weakness.

It was a philosophy.

A way of existing when the world left you no other choice.

She's gone through more than I know, Luke thought. And more than she remembers.

He didn't need her to explain. He could feel it—not just in the way she spoke, but in the metaphysical weight of her presence. Her pain wasn't just something she carried; it was woven into her.

Etched into how she sat.

In every twitch of her fingers.

Every breath she measured.

Every glance that scanned the room for permission just to exist.

This wasn't ordinary trauma.

This was something taught.

Someone had carved fear into her like a sculptor working stone—deliberate, meticulous, cruel.

They had taught her to flinch.

To shrink.

To survive by becoming small, quiet, invisible.

And she had learned.

Too well.

Luke leaned back slowly, careful not to startle her. His movements were gentle, non-imposing. No accidental assertion of control.

I should let her rest.

There were so many questions he wanted 

to ask. About this place. The people behind it. The purpose. But not now. Not like this.

Now wasn't the time for answers.

It was a time to breathe.

To endure.

To live.

He found his mind drifting—toward rebellion.

A fire once lit in others at times like this.

But for him?

Rebellion?

Not yet.

There were no walls to break.

No knights to slay.

No righteous cause to die for.

Not here.

Not when every breath felt like a debt.

Rebellion was a privilege. A luxury for those who could afford to risk hope.

Me? Luke thought. I just want to survive the next selection. The next order. The next scream.

He turned his eyes back to Elarin.

She didn't need a hero.

Not tonight.

She needed someone who understood.

Someone who wouldn't push.

Wouldn't pry.

Wouldn't offer escape where there was none.

So he exhaled.

"I'll stay," he murmured, voice barely audible. "You don't have to talk. You don't even have to look at me."

She didn't respond.

But she didn't move away, either.

That was enough.

So he stayed, shoulder brushing the edge of her presence but never crossing it. His thoughts turned quietly in the dark. Around them, other children whispered. Some 

cried in sleep. Others simply stared at the stone walls. The air hung heavy with the smell of blood and mildew.

But Luke remained still.

Not as a leader.

Not as a fighter.

Not yet.

He was just a boy trying not to disappear.

And in a place that devoured people whole, sometimes surviving quietly was the most dangerous act of all.

His eyes returned to Elarin. Not with pity—but with recognition.

The way she held herself—tight, silent—wasn't simply fear.

It was precision.

A defense forged through repetition. A performance honed until it replaced instinct.

She'd learned how to disappear without leaving the room.

How to remain untouched, unnoticed, unbroken.

Luke didn't need to hear more.

He already knew.

Not because he was clever.

But because he'd once lived his own version of her silence.

He leaned his head back against the wall, 

eyes half-lidded. The words came without force, spoken more to the shadows than to her.

"I wasn't always like this either," he said softly. "I came from a place where knowing was everything. They taught me to understand people. Systems. Lies. Every thread that held things together."

His fingers curled gently against his leg.

"They said I was gifted. That I could read what others couldn't. That I'd be useful that way."

A hollow laugh slipped out—dry and bitter.

"But they never asked me to be anything else. Not a person. Not a child. Just… someone who excelled".

He looked at Elarin again.

There was a long pause.

"I saw and did everything. And it meant nothing."

Here, in this blood-soaked cellar, that old curse felt like something new.

The scholars back home would have called it metaphysics. The ability to perceive what others couldn't. To see the intangible. But for Luke, it was simpler than that.

It was seeing what was meant to stay hidden.

The imprint of suffering.

The architecture of people.

The logic behind the damage.

And with Elarin—it was all there.

Her posture.

Her stillness.

Even the air around her.

"She's not broken," he whispered. "She's rewritten. Someone rewrote her rules from the inside out."

He lowered his head.

"And I get it."

Because he'd lived it, too.

Raised in a world that demanded excellence and offered no light to those who didn't shine bright enough. Not 

because he lacked brilliance—but because others had already decided he wasn't the one they wanted to see.

So he adapted.

He shifted between roles—music, numbers, athletics, philosophy, politics—trying to be something that would finally matter.

But no matter what he did, he was always almost.

Almost good.

Almost enough.

Until the people closest to him stopped expecting anything at all.

And in that quiet erasure, he learned to 

watch.

To measure.

To mold himself into what others needed.

Useful. Never seen.

So now, he sat beside a girl who had forgotten how to be seen.

And he didn't speak to be heard.

He spoke to reflect—to say, without saying, that she wasn't invisible.

Not to him.

He leaned back again, letting the cold stone floor sink deeper into his spine. His muscles ached, but the pain reminded him he was still alive.

"I need to rest as well…" he muttered inwardly. "Who knows what's coming next?"

They had survived the slaughter.

The arena.

The selection.

But something felt… wrong.

The silence.

The Coliseum above had finally gone still.

For hours, it had roared—cheers, laughter, screams. The crowd's hunger fed by the agony of children forced to tear each other apart.

Now, nothing.

Luke opened his eyes.

The Blood Brawl… only ended now?

He had known tens of thousands were here. That part never surprised him.

But to feel the silence settle only now?

It hit differently.

How long did they scream?

How many died screaming, unheard beneath the roar of amusement?

How many cellars like this were carved beneath the arena?

He imagined them—children like him. Like Elarin. All broken into silence. All ground into dust beneath someone else's joy.

And still, this wasn't the end.

This was only the beginning.

A weeding of roots.

Not everyone who survived the Brawl would survive what came next.

Hopelessness hovered at the edge of thought.

But Luke didn't let it bloom.

Instead, he made a quiet vow:

I'll survive.

Not just for himself.

Because someone had to remember.

Because if no one did, those who died would be forgotten.

Erased, like they never existed.

His eyelids finally grew heavy.

Sleep crept in.

And in its haze—he dreamed.

---

Luke found himself seated on a golden throne, towering and divine.

The air shimmered with majesty.

Around him, a radiant royal court stretched in all directions.

Polished floors. Glowing walls. Pillars like spires of fire-kissed gold.

White accents ran like veins through the architecture—impossibly perfect, impossibly vast.

But he was not fooled.

He blinked.

He was aware.

Lucid dreaming... he realized.

He was asleep—but awake within it.

He stood from the throne, the echo of his movement swallowed by gold and silence.

Everything here felt... constructed. Perfect. But not real.

Then—he heard it.

A call.

Not a voice, but a presence. A pull. Something waiting.

He followed it.

Behind the throne, tucked strangely into the architecture, was a single, ordinary wooden door.

No gold. No polish. No grandeur.

Just... normal.

Utterly out of place.

He hesitated.

But the call tugged harder.

So he opened the door.

And stepped into darkness.

...

The room inside was dim—but not lifeless.

Burgundy walls, heavy with ancient 

designs, wrapped the space in tension etched with arcane designs that shimmered faintly like ink beneath candlelight.

At the center stood a long table—black wood, ancient and solemn.

And surrounding it were seven unique chairs—three on the right, four on the left.

Each one was different—shaped by will, emotion, and identity.

Luke's chair was on the left.

He saw it immediately—at the far end of the left side, nearest the center.

A throne almost identical to the one from the golden court—but darker in hue, proud in posture, carved with sharp, elegant lines of authority.

It called to him.

And the moment his eyes settled on it, he knew.

This one was His.

As he approached, he glanced at the others.

The six remaining chairs were already occupied.

Figures sat in stillness—shadows cloaked in atmosphere, their forms vague but undeniable. Each presence carried weight—sinful and absolute.

And they had been waiting.

For Him.

Luke sat.

As soon as he did, the air shifted—thickened. And then, at the center of the long table, a new chair materialized.

It was unlike the others—grander than grand, yet impossibly simple.

And a voice—clear, omnipotent—spoke into the silence.

---

"Welcome, Seven Sins."