RevenGers

Elena sat curled up in the cage, her small arms wrapped tightly around her knees, fingers digging into the cold metal bars. She was only seven, too young to understand the full weight of what had happened—but old enough to know she would never see her mother again.

Her eyes, red and swollen, were dry now. No more tears would come. She had cried, but only for a little while. Then a bandit had slammed his boot against the cage, making the metal rattle.

"Shut up, brat, or I'll make you."

The threat had stolen the rest of her sobs.

The old man beside her shifted slightly, his presence the only warmth in the night. Earlier, he had let her sob into his chest, saying nothing, only holding her like a grandfather would.

She whispered, voice trembling, "Thank you."

He gave her a small, tired smile but did not speak.

Outside the cage, the world was alive with noise. Crackling fire, rough laughter, the metallic clink of weapons being sharpened. The scent of burning meat and unwashed bodies churned her stomach, making her feel sick.

High above the ground, the cage swayed gently, tied to thick branches. Below, the bandits lounged around the fire, drinking, boasting, waiting.

She should have been home. She should have been safe.

But she wasn't.

Instead, she was here, in a place where she knew no one.

And her village was gone.

It had burned yesterday. She remembered the screams, the red sky, the heat against her skin. She remembered her mother's desperate voice, the way she had clutched her hand so tightly it hurt. She remembered a man—young, gray-haired, cruel—watching her with amusement.

"What's his name, little girl?"

She had answered.

"Lance."

And then he had smiled.

"I used a lance to kill her."

At the time, she hadn't understood. But now, sitting in the dark, her mind kept going back to it. He hadn't been holding a lance. He hadn't even moved. But her mother had fallen—her chest pierced, blood spilling from a wound that hadn't come from a blade.

She swallowed hard.

It was an air lance.

An invisible weapon made from the air itself.

She felt sick.

If she had just stayed quiet—if she had never spoken—would her mother still be alive? Or had she been doomed the moment she tried to stop her?

She didn't know.

And she would never know.

Because after that, everything blurred.

She had fainted.

When she woke up, she was already in the cage.

She had cried, and the old man had held her, and then the bandit had kicked the cage, and now—now there was nothing left in her. Just emptiness.

Below, the bandits' voices drifted up to her, careless, laughing.

"We'll be rich after this," one of them chuckled. "Red Glass pays top coin."

Her breath caught in her throat.

They were going to sell her.

Red Glass.

She had heard that name before, whispered in the village, spoken in hushed, fearful tones. They weren't just another gang. They were slavers—the worst kind. The kind that didn't just sell people but broke them first.

And their leader—Red Fist.

A cold chill ran through her, deeper than the night's breeze. She had heard that name before too.

Her father had spoken of them once. Not to her, but to her mother, late at night when he was drunk, his words slurred with fear.

"They're spreading, spreading fast. First Decartium, then the borders… Al-Bark will be next, you'll see. And if they come to our village—"

He hadn't finished the sentence.

She remembered her mother's sharp whisper, telling him to be quiet, to not say such things in front of the children. But Elena had heard.

And yet, Lance had told her they wouldn't come.

"Don't listen to Father, Elena. They won't come here."

And they hadn't.

At least… not while he was around.

Had he done something? Had he kept them away? She had liked to believe that, even if he never said anything.

But Lance had left.

And now, here she was, in a cage, waiting to be sold.

The air was thick with the stench of sweat, old blood, and the lingering smoke from the fires below. The cage creaked every so often, swaying slightly with the wind, the ropes groaning under its weight. It felt like a trap within a trap—dangling above the ground, no way out, no escape.

The bandits laughed below, their voices merging with the crackling of flames and the occasional clang of weapons being sharpened.

She clenched her jaw, trying to shut it all out.

She had thought about death today. She hadn't meant to—hadn't wanted to—but the thought had come anyway. What would be worse? Dying here, or being taken by the Red Glass?

Would they hurt her?

Would they break her?

Would they take her far away, to a place where no one would ever find her?

Her stomach twisted violently.

She had heard things. Even as a child, she had overheard whispers, rumors of what happened to people who were sold. Not just work—not just labor. Worse.

She bit down on her lip, forcing her mind to stop.

She wasn't the only one afraid.

Most of the prisoners had green hair, like her. Like Al-Barkians. A few had different colors, but they were the minority. A woman with a torn dress sat motionless, her face blank. A young man clutched a bandaged arm, his breath shallow. Another child, younger than her, sat trembling, her small fingers curled into her mother's sleeve.

And then there was the old man beside her.

He had a thick white beard and one milky, sightless eye. His other eye—the good one—watched her with quiet understanding.

"Don't be afraid, little one," he murmured. His voice was rough, worn by time. "Red Glass is cruel, but they don't buy just anyone. They take who they want, sell who they don't."

His words weren't exactly comforting.

She swallowed. "What do they do with the ones they don't sell?"

The old man was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On how useful you are." His gaze drifted toward the other prisoners, toward the ones too weak to stand, too injured to be worth anything.

Elena looked too. Some of them were barely moving. A few were curled in on themselves, trying to disappear.

She tightened her fingers around the bars.

Would she be useful?

Would she be worth selling?

Or would they—

She forced the thought away.

"It's not fair," she whispered.

The old man exhaled softly. "No, it's not."

She lowered her head.

Lance would have saved her.

If he had been here, none of this would have happened.

But he wasn't here.

And he had left.

"I'll come back for you when you're twelve, Elena. I promise."

Twelve. That was five years from now. Too far away.

Too late.

She had clung to that promise for so long. But now—now his name felt like a wound.

Eric had tainted it.

No… she had tainted it.

Hadn't she?

Elena clenched her tiny fists tighter, her nails pressing into her palms. As she had just said—it wasn't fair. It just wasn't.

She almost started crying again, but she forced herself to breathe. The bandits had made it clear what would happen if she did. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Beside her, the old man placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. His grip was light, but steady, grounding her like an anchor in a storm. She glanced at him, at the deep wrinkles lining his face, at the single eye filled with quiet sorrow. She reminded him of his daughter—he had told her that before. She didn't know what had happened to his daughter, but she had a feeling it was something terrible. The way he looked at her, with the kind of warmth and grief only a father could hold, made her chest ache.

She wanted to believe he was strong, that he wasn't scared like the others. But his fingers trembled slightly against her shoulder. He was afraid too. He was just better at hiding it.

Her anger burned hotter.

The bandits had taken her freedom. The last thing she had left.

She didn't know where Lance was. Her mother was gone. Her village was gone. And now, she was trapped, caged like the others, waiting to be sold.

Looking around, she saw the others in the cage, their faces pale, their bodies shaking, their eyes filled with hopelessness. Some were too afraid to even look up, their gazes locked onto the wooden floor beneath them. Others stared blankly ahead, as if they had already accepted their fate.

She hated it.

Lance had made sure she knew what was right. He had always told her to care for others, to be kind, to never look away when someone needed help. And yet, here she was, locked away with people who had lost everything, just like her.

The bandits had done this.

They laughed and drank below while their prisoners sat in fear. They had stolen lives, crushed hope, and now, they were going to sell them like objects.

Her hands shook with rage.

And Eric…

Her breath came out uneven.

Eric had taken her mother from her.

Her father had taken Lance from her.

Everything had been stolen from her.

The old man's grip on her shoulder tightened just slightly, just enough to remind her to breathe.

She clenched her fists again, this time not to hold back tears, but to hold onto the fire inside her.

A rustling sound caught her ear.

Elena turned, her eyes landing on another cage a few feet away. It was like hers—suspended high above the ground, creaking slightly with every shift of weight. But unlike hers, this one had more people crammed inside. Their eyes, wide with fear, darted between the young man at the front and the unconscious, drunken bandits below. Some clutched each other, trembling, while others barely dared to breathe.

The young man—sixteen, maybe seventeen—was lean but strong-looking. His short, dark hair was messy, and a thin scar ran down his cheek. He crouched low, his fingers working at a weak spot in the wooden frame of the cage, testing the rotting wood near the metal bars.

Elena glanced at the other prisoners inside his cage. Their fear was obvious, but beyond that—hope. Faint, fragile, but unmistakable. If he succeeded… if he broke free while the bandits lay in their drunken stupor, maybe they all could.

His sharp eyes flicked toward her.

A silent warning—don't make a sound.

Elena swallowed and gave a tiny nod.

She glanced at the old man. He had noticed too but remained still, his single eye unreadable. But his fingers, resting lightly on his knee, twitched ever so slightly. He was waiting. Watching.

And so was she.

Below, a bandit climbed up a wooden ladder leading to the cages.

Elena's heart pounded.

The bandit reached her cage first—a burly man with a thick beard and a twisted grin. At first, his eyes swept over her without recognition, just another prisoner to taunt.

"Still awake, little girl?" His voice dripped with amusement. "Good. You'll wanna be awake when Red Fist gets his hands on you."

Elena didn't react.

His grin faltered for a second, his gaze flicking to the old man beside her. The way he sat close—protective, almost shielding—made something click in the bandit's mind. His smirk returned, sharper now.

"Ohhh… you," he chuckled, resting a forearm against the bars. "You were the crybaby earlier. Thought I knocked the sobbing outta you."

Elena met his gaze, unflinching.

He tilted his head, intrigued. "Huh. That's new." His amusement deepened, but so did something else—interest.

She could see it in his eyes. He liked that she wasn't cowering now. Liked the way she dared to look back at him.

Elena's chest tightened. Her hands felt clammy. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to look away, to shrink back, to stay quiet. But she didn't.

If she kept him busy, he wouldn't look elsewhere.

"Why does it matter?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

The moment the words left her mouth, her stomach twisted painfully. She could barely breathe past the weight of her own fear.

The old man beside her stiffened. He turned his head slightly, his eyes widening in surprise.

The bandit blinked. Then he let out a short laugh. "Oh, got a little fire, do ya?" He leaned in slightly. "You talkin' back to me now?"

Elena could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She wanted to disappear, to take back the words, to run. But there was nowhere to run.

She forced herself not to flinch.

The bandit's smirk widened. "That's cute. Maybe Red Fist'll like that about you. He likes ones that fight back—at first."

Her stomach twisted harder, but she kept her face blank.

The old man's fingers twitched. He looked like he wanted to pull her back, to stop her from drawing more attention to herself—but he also knew why she was doing it.

The bandit exhaled through his nose, pushing off the bars. "We'll see how long that fire lasts." His eyes flicked toward the old man. "And you, old timer. You lookin' after her? Cute. Hope you're ready to watch her get sold off."

The old man didn't respond, his jaw tight.

The bandit scoffed and finally turned away.

Elena's chest ached from holding her breath.

He was moving on. Checking the other prisoners.

Her eyes darted toward the young man's cage.

Her stomach dropped.

The boy was still working at the weak spot in the wood, his fingers barely moving now, careful, precise—but if the bandit turned at the wrong moment, if he caught even the slightest motion—

Elena clenched her hands tighter.

Please don't look. Please don't see him.

The bandit paused at the next cage, his head tilting slightly.

Elena's breath caught in her throat as the bandit's gaze flickered toward the young man's cage.

—End of Chapter.