The world did not greet him with warmth.

  Cold stone pressed against his back as he lay still, eyes open, listening. Wind crept through the broken arches above, carrying the smell of damp earth and something older—rusted metal, dried blood, memories that refused to fade.

  He did not move right away.

  Moving without thinking was how people died.

  Around him, others were already awake. Some whispered prayers under their breath. Some stared blankly at nothing. A few cried, quietly, as if afraid the world might hear them and punish them further.

  This place was not a prison, but it felt like one.

  He pushed himself up slowly, brushing dirt from his clothes. They were torn in places, stained beyond cleaning. Everyone wore something similar—hand-me-downs, scraps, proof that no one here mattered enough to be given something new.

  A shout echoed from the entrance.

  “Line up!”

  The voice was sharp, impatient. Armed men stepped into the chamber, armor dull and scratched, blades hanging loosely at their sides. They didn’t look like heroes. They looked like people doing a job they didn’t care about.

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  The boy joined the line without being told twice.

  He kept his head down. That was rule one.

  Rule two was simple: never stand out.

  One of the guards walked along the line, eyes scanning faces like livestock. When his gaze lingered too long, the boy felt it like pressure on his skin.

  Green eyes were not common here.

  He clenched his jaw and stared at the ground.

  “Name?” the guard asked when he reached him.

  For a moment, silence stretched between them.

  The boy hesitated—just long enough.

  The guard’s expression twisted. “Speak.”

  He gave the name they had assigned him.

  Not the one he was born with.

  The guard snorted, clearly unimpressed, and moved on.

  That was how it always went. Names meant nothing here. Strength did. Usefulness did. Everything else was discarded.

  They were marched out soon after, into daylight that felt too bright, too honest. Beyond the ruined stone walls lay a land shaped by conflict—scorched fields, broken paths, towers standing where villages once did.

  This world had been beautiful once.

  No one remembered when.

  As they walked, he noticed something strange.

  Someone was watching.

  Not a guard. Not a soldier.

  From the edge of the forest, pale eyes glinted with interest. Elven eyes.

  The boy stiffened.

  High elves rarely looked at people like him unless there was a reason—and reasons were never good.

  The gaze lingered for just a second longer before disappearing into the trees.

  A chill ran down his spine.

  He didn’t know it yet, but that look—casual, curious, almost amused—would follow him far longer than this march.

  In this world, cruelty was normal.

  And mercy was always temporary.