Days of grueling labor followed one after another with relentless monotony.
Three months passed like a single fleeting moment, leaving behind only blurred memories of endless work repeating over and over like some cruel cycle.
It took little Grey only a few days to accept this harsh reality. His old life was far behind him now. He had no choice but to adapt to new rules and routines, or rather, to their complete absence.
His entire existence had turned into an unending chain of duties: washing, cooking, cleaning the rooms, listening to the old man's lectures, and, of course, punishment.
The overseers spared no rods when it came to instilling the proper worldview in a newcomer.
Grey's body, hardened by past training, slowly adapted to the exhausting twelve-hour workdays. Muscles that once burned from unfamiliar strain gradually grew stronger. His hands became rough, covered in calluses from endless washing. The exhaustion faded from his face bit by bit, though his eyes still carried a lingering shadow of madness and confusion.
The first weeks were especially hard. Grey barely made it to the end of each shift, collapsing into his cramped cage without strength and instantly falling into a deep, restless sleep.
But the physical strain was only part of his new reality. The psychological pressure was far worse.
Nightmares, constant worry for his loved ones, cruelty, and unrelenting exhaustion took a heavy toll on his mental state. The very fact that he was still sane said a lot about his resilience.
Grey had never been a talkative child. He was naturally withdrawn, and these new circumstances only deepened that trait.
He was drowning in depression, fear, and fatigue. Where was he supposed to find the strength to meet anyone new?
In a situation like this, the only ones he could trust, even on the most superficial level, were Lily and Sheryl.
Any interaction outside the cage was exhausting and unwelcome.
He had to navigate the tangled web of the local hierarchy. It was not particularly difficult, mostly because he himself stood at the very bottom of it.
Literally.
His position demanded respect toward everyone, from overseers and camp masters to other slaves who had simply been here longer than him.
And every one of them had their own strange quirks.
Some expected short, precise answers and immediate obedience. Others reveled in flattery, demanding constant praise and assurances of their greatness. There were also those who preferred that newcomers like Grey never show up in their sight at all.
What would happen if he ignored these unspoken rules?
His life would become even worse. Someone might spit in his food. During what little rest he had, he could be sent to clean the latrine pit. The punishments would grow harsher. Ruining a small slave's life was absurdly easy.
So every interaction turned into a puzzle.
He learned to speak quietly, with respect, to lower his gaze, to never argue, to never voice his own opinion. One careless word or gesture could lead to unpleasant consequences.
But the worst of all were his encounters with the chief overseer, Quintilian.
That bastard was nothing but a beast in human skin. No, worse… a pervert. A maniac.
He took sadistic pleasure in punishing a helpless child. Grey genuinely could not understand what he had done to deserve such hatred.
The bald overseer, with his cold eyes and cruel smirk, kept calling him into his room, where he beat him for the smallest mistakes.
Quintilian used whips and fists, crushing him both physically and mentally, as if he would not stop until he broke him completely.
Once, Grey tried to resist when the overseer began mercilessly insulting his mother. Even without knowing the truth, those words cut like knives.
"Little slave, I bet you want your mommy, don't you? Pathetic cripple. But here's the problem, your bitch of a mother won't save you. You know why? Better to spread her legs in a brothel than end up with something as worthless as you for a son. If she could see that face of yours… No wonder you were abandoned…"
Grey lost his mind and stopped noticing the blows. He wanted to tear Quintilian apart, to wipe that vile grin off his twisted face.
But all he got was an even harsher beating. Quintilian relished the look of helpless hatred on the boy's handsome face. He swore to himself that he would teach him obedience.
He was simply insane…
It got to the point where the overseer's cruel grin haunted Grey in his nightmares, forcing him to wake in a cold sweat.
Yet humans are remarkable creatures, capable of adapting to even the harshest conditions. In that ability lies both humanity's strength and its greatest weakness. Because once we grow used to horrors, we begin to see them as normal.
And so Grey, against all odds, began to adjust to this new reality.
Slowly. Gradually.
Day by day, week by week, his mind and body learned to survive in this cruel world. The fear did not disappear, but it dulled, becoming a constant background instead of a paralyzing force.
He let off some of the pressure by talking a little with Sheryl before lights out or trading barbed remarks with Lily.
In the end, it was the succubus who suggested an effective way to deal with Quintilian's abuse. The method was simple, almost insultingly obvious, yet no less effective for it.
He had to pretend he was broken.
And he did. He became completely submissive, stopped reacting to anything, simply relaxed his muscles and endured the punishment. No matter what Quintilian did, he answered with nothing but empty, emotionless indifference.
And it worked…
A week later, Quintilian lost all interest and stopped paying attention to him.
Since then, Grey had become even more cautious.
Now he stood by the fence in a small enclosure that looked more like an animal pen than a place for rest.
The slaves were given a little time to catch their breath, take in some fresh air, and tend to their basic needs. A short five-minute break between stretches of hard labor. But even in these moments of relative calm, the boy did not allow himself to rest.
Staying true to Catherine's teachings, Grey's attentive gaze swept across the camp.
To an outside observer, it might have seemed that he was watching the training of slave-soldiers as they practiced combat techniques under the watchful eyes of the overseers. In reality, he was silently noting the guards' routines: their routes, positions, and shift changes.
Every insignificant detail, every small movement settled in his mind, gradually forming a clear and complete picture. Just like in childhood, Grey played his quiet mental game, trying to remember as much as possible.
He was putting together a puzzle that might one day save his life.
He still held on to the hope that he could take advantage of someone's carelessness, find a way to escape.
This simple, almost ritualistic exercise helped him keep his sanity.
Yet no matter how hard he tried to focus, his thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous night.
The conversation with Lily, which had started as an ordinary quarrel, had taken a completely different turn, leaving behind a strange feeling of confusion and delayed fear.
After an exhausting day in the workshop, where the slaves molded clay items for everyday use, Grey lay on the hard wooden floor of the cage. His body begged for rest, but sleep would not come.
The moment he closed his eyes, images of his mother and sister, whose fate he knew nothing about, surfaced in his worn-out mind.
It felt as if they were calling out to him.
To distract himself, Grey decided to check if the others were asleep.
The old man was leaning against the bars, snoring quietly. Sheryl was breathing softly in the far corner. Only Lily's blurred silhouette stood frozen by a gap in the wall, as if she were trying to make out something in the dark camp.
"Hey, thorn, you're not asleep yet?" Grey called out softly, trying not to wake the others.
Lily flinched slightly, but once she realized it was her troublesome neighbor, she relaxed. She turned, then lazily whispered back with her usual sarcasm:
"Oh, have I been caught by the 'child of prophecy'? Forgive this lowly little slave, I thought Your Excellency was already asleep."
Grey rolled his eyes.
That one single time he had voiced his concern to her had been enough for Lily to give him a nickname. If he hadn't known her foul personality, he might have thought his identity had been exposed. But no…
She was just teasing him.
At first, her recklessness had frightened him. Now, it almost felt… familiar.
"You weren't with us in the kitchen. Now you're sitting here, not sleeping, even trying to mock me. What exactly were you doing?" Grey asked, more out of formality than real interest.
"Working with Reus in the back room," she replied in a casual tone.
"Reus?" he repeated, feeling something tighten inside him. "Who's that?"
Lily fell silent. She stared at her fingers, as if studying them closely. The pause dragged on.
"One of the ones who beat you on your first day," she finally said. There was a strange note in her voice, something between regret and mockery.
Grey actually flinched.
He couldn't even understand where such an exaggerated reaction had come from. He felt irritation, unease, and even… something like hurt.
In the three months they had lived together, the girls had become something more to him than just fellow sufferers. So much so that the mere thought of Lily spending time with one of those bastards struck him harder than he expected.
He understood she had little choice… but understanding did nothing to calm him. What bothered him most was her light, careless tone.
"Short one, curly hair," Lily went on, as if she hadn't noticed his reaction, "second in Garen's little group."
"Lily," Grey cut in calmly, hiding his emotions behind a mask of indifference.
Only those closest to him might have caught the faint tension in his voice, but Lily, fortunately or unfortunately, was not among them.
"Are you sure it's worth being around people like that?" he continued, choosing his words carefully. "I doubt they have anything good in mind. I'm almost certain they bribed Grakh somehow to pair you with them more often."
His words sounded more like a cold warning than genuine concern.
Lily wasn't offended. They couldn't see each other, but her quiet snort gave away how much she enjoyed teasing the ever-calm, unshakable boy whose face looked like a statue.
"Jealous, hero?" she laughed softly. "You don't have to worry. I can take care of myself. I'm not that helpless to get into trouble."
That stung, and Grey grimaced despite himself. But arguing with her was pointless. He could do nothing if she chose not to listen.
And that was the irony of it all. That bold neighbor knew how to slip out of trouble better than he did, the one who was beaten and mocked again and again despite trying to stay unnoticed. He had no right to lecture her.
Grey took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He couldn't even tell whether he had planned his next words or acted on impulse.
"Lily," he said in a serious, almost commanding tone. "Can I trust you?"
A heavy silence followed. Grey could almost physically feel her thinking it over.
Without meaning to, he held his breath.
"I won't promise anything, but you can try," she finally said, and for the first time in the entire conversation, there was no trace of mockery in her voice.
He suddenly felt like slapping himself.
What else had he expected? The answer gave no guarantees, but he knew he wouldn't get anything more. Trust was fragile, especially here, in a slave camp where it was every dog for himself. It had to be earned, not demanded.
And only the gods knew how difficult the very idea of trust was for him. No, Grey hated the gods.
No one knew how hard this was for him. He had gone over the conversation in his head hundreds of times, tried to predict her reaction, to foresee her intentions, but as always, nothing went according to plan.
And no matter how much he thought, no matter how clever he believed himself to be, he remained a pitiful cripple forced to rely on others. Again and again, he came to the same conclusion. He could not manage this alone.
He had to secure the support of Sheryl and Lily.
He glanced around, making sure no one was listening, then leaned closer to Lily. His dry lips barely brushed against her pointed ear. His voice slipped out in a faint whisper:
"Do you want to get out of here?"
Just like that, the arrow had been loosed, and there was no way back.