Samye returned to the cell alone.

  The workday ended the same way it always did—orders shouted, chains rattling, bodies dragged back to their cages. But something felt wrong the moment Samye stepped inside the dormitory.

  Aren wasn’t there.

  Samye stood still, scanning the room once more. Prisoners lay on their bunks, staring blankly at the ceiling, conserving what little strength they had left. No one met his eyes.

  No one spoke.

  Samye sat on his bunk and waited.

  Minutes passed.

  Then more.

  As the light outside faded and darkness settled into the corridors, unease crept into his chest. He tried to tell himself this was normal—that Aren had been delayed, reassigned, punished lightly.

  But deep down, he knew better.

  The first scream cut through the walls like a blade.

  Samye froze.

  It wasn’t just any scream.

  He knew that voice.

  Aren.

  The sound was distant at first, muffled by concrete and iron—but unmistakable. A child’s voice breaking under pain, fear woven into every breath.

  Samye stood up so fast his bunk rattled.

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  “Aren!” he shouted.

  The scream came again.

  Louder.

  Closer.

  Samye rushed to the bars and began calling out.

  “Stop!”

  “Please!”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong!”

  No guards came.

  No footsteps answered him.

  The screams continued.

  Minutes turned into agony.

  Every cry felt like it was tearing something out of Samye’s chest. Aren begged. Promised. Apologized for things he didn’t understand.

  “I didn’t run!”

  “Please—please don’t—”

  “I’ll work harder!”

  Samye slammed his fists against the bars until his knuckles split open.

  “Leave him alone!” he screamed. “I’ll do anything! I swear—just stop!”

  His voice echoed uselessly down the corridor.

  No one answered.

  The guards didn’t need to.

  The screams were the answer.

  Time lost meaning.

  An hour passed.

  Then two.

  Then three.

  Aren’s voice grew weaker. Each scream shorter than the last, as if his body was slowly forgetting how to beg.

  Samye’s mind spiraled.

  Why him?

  What did he do wrong?

  Why does everything I care about suffer?

  He remembered the fire.

  The stones.

  The bridge.

  The same helplessness returned, heavier than before.

  When the screams finally stopped, the silence was worse.

  Sometime later, the cell door opened.

  Guards dragged Aren inside and threw him onto the floor like a broken object. His body didn’t move when it hit the ground.

  “Rest time,” one of them said casually, locking the door again.

  Samye dropped to his knees beside him instantly.

  “Aren,” he whispered desperately. “Aren—can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Aren’s face was swollen, his lips split. Blood stained his clothes. His chest rose and fell shallowly.

  Unconscious.

  Alive—but barely.

  Samye shook him gently, fear choking his breath.

  Nothing.

  Something inside Samye collapsed.

  He sat there, holding Aren’s hand, tears streaming down his face without restraint.

  “I’m useless,” he whispered, voice breaking.

  “I couldn’t protect anyone… not my parents… not you.”

  Memories flooded him relentlessly—the burning pyres, the stones, the laughter, the bridge.

  Every moment screamed the same truth.

  He was powerless.

  That night, Samye did not sleep.

  He stayed awake, sitting beside Aren, watching his chest rise and fall again and again—terrified it might stop if he looked away.

  The screams still echoed in his ears, even after the corridor fell silent.

  For the first time since entering this place, Samye wished for something more than survival.

  He wished for strength.

  Any kind.

  Even if it destroyed him.