Kaelen stared at the silver light of the box, but the words on the note—Your meridians were sealed by me—didn't bring comfort. They brought a cold, hollow sense of dread.
This is a trick, he thought, his breath coming in shallow hitches. Someone put this here to watch me go mad. Or the hunger... the hunger is finally eating my mind.
He couldn't process the idea that his life of misery was an intentional lock. It was too much to bear. With trembling hands, he slammed the lid shut, the silver light vanishing instantly. He shoved the box deep into the straw of his mattress and collapsed onto it, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't pray; he simply waited for the darkness of sleep to swallow the "hallucination."
The morning bell was a cruel reminder that the world hadn't changed.
Kaelen's body felt like it was made of shattered glass. He trudged to the canteen, but the result was the same: Hobb the cook sneered at him, ostentatiously eating a piece of salted pork while Kaelen's stomach roared in protest.
"Still alive, rat?" Hobb mocked. "Maybe you should try eating the soot from the flues. I hear it's quite filling."
Kaelen walked away, his head low. He found a corner of the courtyard where Lian was waiting. Without a word, Lian broke his single piece of coarse black bread in two and handed half to Kaelen.
"You look worse than yesterday," Lian whispered, his eyes scanning for guards. "Eat fast. They're putting you on the Oil-Vats today. Grok is in a foul mood."
"Thanks, Lian," Kaelen muttered, the dry bread feeling like ash in his mouth. "I don't know why you keep doing this."
"Because if I don't, there's no one left in this place who remembers we're human," Lian said, before slipping away.
The work at the Oil-Vats was grueling. Kaelen had to haul massive iron buckets of lubricant for the palace's heavy gate-mechanisms. By mid-afternoon, his arms were shaking so violently he could barely grip the handles.
He was nearly finished with the third vat when Morg, a broad-shouldered worker who spent his days sucking up to Grok's overseers, "tripped."
With a deliberate sneer, Morg slammed his shoulder into Kaelen. The heavy iron bucket tipped, sending gallons of thick, black oil splashing across the pristine stone floor and Kaelen's own boots.
"Look at that!" Morg shouted, his voice ringing through the chamber. "The boot-thief is making a mess again! You trying to make us all look bad, Kaelen?"
"You pushed me, Morg!" Kaelen barked, his voice raw.
"Pushed you? I tripped on your clumsy feet!"
The heavy thud of iron-shod boots echoed in the hallway. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, charged with a familiar, suffocating pressure. Master Grok stepped into the room, his Skin-Tempering aura flaring just enough to make the air hum.
Grok looked at the spilled oil, then at Kaelen. A slow, dark smile spread across his fat face.
"Clumsiness is a sign of a distracted mind," Grok purred. He didn't ask for an explanation. He stepped forward, his hand snapping out like a viper. He grabbed Kaelen by the throat, lifting him off his feet with a single arm.
Kaelen clawed at the hand—it felt like cold, immovable iron.
"I gave you a simple task, rat," Grok hissed. "And you waste palace resources. Perhaps a few hours in the 'Stretching Rack' will help you focus."
Grok threw Kaelen against the stone wall. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through Kaelen's ribs—the old bruises meeting new ones. Grok followed up with a heavy, calculated kick to Kaelen's stomach that left him gasping for air, vomiting a thin bile onto the oily floor.
"Clean it up," Grok spat. "With your tunic. If there's a drop of oil left by sunset, I'll have your fingers."
The sunset was a bruise of purple and angry red bleeding through the high windows of the palace. Kaelen knelt on the cold stone of the oil-chamber, his hands raw and stained a deep, indelible black. True to Grok's command, he had spent the last four hours scrubbing the floor with his own tunic, his bare chest exposed to the biting draft of the corridors. His skin was slick with grease, and his breath came in ragged, wheezing hitches that tasted of iron.
Morg and the others had long since left for the canteen, their laughter echoing in the distance. Kaelen was alone. He was always alone.
He managed to pull himself to his feet, his legs shaking so violently they felt like they might buckle. Every movement was a struggle against the gravity of his own exhaustion. He trudged through the servant's wing, a ghost made of soot and oil. He didn't even look toward the canteen. He knew Hobb would be waiting with a smirk and an empty ladle.
He reached his cell. The heavy iron bolt slid into place, the sound a final, hollow punctuation to a day of misery.
Kaelen didn't light a lamp. He didn't wash. He simply fell toward his mattress, but he didn't collapse onto it. He stopped, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. His hands, trembling and slick with oil, reached deep into the center of the straw.
His fingers brushed the cold, polished surface of the box.
Yesterday, he had convinced himself it was a hallucination. He had told himself that the "High Realm" stranger was a dream brought on by a fever. But the pain in his ribs was real. The oil on his skin was real. And Grok's laughter was a reality that was slowly, methodically killing him.
He pulled the box out. In the absolute darkness of the room, the wood seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic heat.
"Your meridians were sealed by me..."
The words from the note played in his mind, no longer a terrifying mystery, but a lifeline. If he was a "Dull Root" by nature, then his life was over; he was destined to be a footstool for men like Grok until his body finally gave out. But if he was a prisoner... if those seals were real...
Kaelen's eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the salt of sweat and the sting of oil. He looked at the box with a new expression. The skepticism was gone, burned away by the humiliation in the oil-chamber. In its place was a cold, jagged edge of desperation.
He didn't care if the stranger had lied. He didn't care if the "reasons" for his sealing were dark or twisted.
With a low, guttural growl, Kaelen gripped the latch. This time, he didn't wait for his blood to drip. He squeezed his raw, split knuckles, forcing a fresh bead of crimson to smear across the intricate carvings.
"Open," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Open, or just kill me now."
The box didn't hesitate. The lid swung wide, and once again, the silver, celestial light flooded the cramped stone cell. It reflected in Kaelen's eyes—not as a vision of wonder, but as a weapon. He looked at the meredian Opening Pills, their translucent surfaces glowing with the power to shatter his reality.
He reached out, his grease-stained fingers hovering over the first pearl. The hope in his eyes was slight, fragile as glass, but it was the first time in his life he had ever looked at the future and seen something other than a grave.
He picked up the pill. The silver light danced across the black oil on his skin.
"One way or another," Kaelen breathed, his gaze hardening as he raised the pill to his lips. "The 'boot-thief' ends tonight."