They were taken away separately.

  Not because the guards needed to—but because separation hurt more.

  Samye was dragged down one corridor. Aren was pulled into another. Their hands reached out instinctively, fingers grasping at empty air, until distance swallowed them completely.

  They were not brothers by blood.

  They shared no name.

  No past.

  Yet somewhere along the way, suffering had tied them together stronger than family ever could.

  As Samye was hauled forward, one thought repeated itself endlessly in his mind.

  How do I save him?

  The question was useless—but it wouldn’t stop.

  He had no power.

  No training.

  No weapon.

  No experience in war or survival.

  He was just a boy who refused to let go.

  The torture chamber smelled different from the rest of the facility.

  Cleaner.

  Colder.

  Samye was strapped onto a cross-shaped wheel, his arms and legs forced wide apart, iron biting into his wrists and ankles. He struggled briefly—more out of instinct than hope—before restraints locked him in place.

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  A guard stepped forward.

  “For attacking an officer,” he said calmly.

  The first splash of water hit Samye’s chest.

  Boiling.

  His body convulsed violently as pain tore through his nerves. Before his scream could fully form, freezing water followed—shock ripping through muscles already burning.

  Hot.

  Cold.

  Hot again.

  Over and over.

  Each cycle stole something from him.

  Then the beating began.

  Fists. Batons. Boots.

  They struck without rhythm or mercy. His screams echoed louder than those of any other prisoner—not because he was weaker, but because the pain was designed to destroy even the strongest men.

  The guards worked methodically.

  These were methods refined over years. Techniques brutal enough to break soldiers who had survived entire wars.

  Samye screamed until his throat tore.

  Then he screamed until no sound came out.

  Time lost meaning.

  After what might have been thirty minutes—or a lifetime—his body began to fail completely.

  Pain dulled.

  Not because it stopped—but because his mind could no longer carry it.

  The world grew distant.

  Sound faded.

  Something strange happened then.

  Peace.

  Not relief.

  Not comfort.

  Just… absence.

  As if his connection to his body had loosened, like a rope slipping from numb fingers. He felt lighter. Detached. As though he were floating just above himself, watching a broken form endure what it no longer felt.

  This was what people meant when they said death was peaceful.

  Samye understood it now.

  And then—

  The memories came.

  Uninvited.

  Unstoppable.

  His mother’s smile.

  His father lifting him as a child.

  The warmth of home.

  The sound of laughter.

  Then fire.

  Posters.

  Stones flying.

  Arjun’s face turning away.

  Meera’s voice.

  The bridge.

  Aren crying.

  The hut.

  Six months of borrowed peace.

  Everything rewound.

  Samye had heard stories once—whispers people told quietly.

  At the edge of death, life rewinds.

  He never believed them.

  Until now.

  The images flowed faster and faster, overlapping, blurring into one endless stream. His heart slowed. His breathing faded.

  Somewhere deep inside that fading consciousness, a thought surfaced—quiet but stubborn.

  If I could go back…

  If I had known…

  The thought didn’t finish.

  Darkness closed in.

  And for the first time since the fire—

  Samye let go.