The cage was gone. The pain wasn't. Ravian didn't remember being pulled out, didn't feel the weight of his body as it was dragged through the dirt. His world was a series of half-light and half-voices, like a broken mirror reflecting nothing in particular.
He didn't know how long it had been—only that something inside him had splintered. Not cracked. Splintered. Into jagged, irretrievable pieces.
He lay there like an emptied-out corpse, staring at nothing. His back, raw and torn, pulsed with each heartbeat. His limbs no longer belonged to him; they hung limp, twitching sometimes with the ghost of commands he could no longer give.
Somewhere behind his eyes, the hallucinations still whispered.
"You let this happen."
The voice was not a stranger's.
It was his mother's. Not gentle, not tearful, but jagged and cold. The memory of her sobbing, pleading with the men? A lie. His mind rewrote her now—standing still at the door of their home, eyes vacant as they came to take him.
"You didn't fight. You let them take you."
And his father?
Silent. Always silent. Watching. Back straight. Jaw tight. Doing nothing.
They had handed him over like a lamb. No blood. No screams. Just eyes turned away and a door left open.
He would never forgive them.
He shouldn't forgive them.
They had loved a soft Ravian—the one who smiled and cradled rabbits—but the moment the world turned sharp, they offered him up. No claws. No teeth. Just love that had no weight in the world that came.
Now, Ravian was what was left when that kind of love failed.
The crunch of boots drew closer, slicing through the wet hush of the clearing. Voices. Rough hands gripped his arms. His body barely registered it.
He was lifted like trash—limbs dangling, head lolling. His breath came shallow, sharp. Pain moved through him like a dull fog, no longer a scream but an ache so constant he'd forgotten life without it.
Then came a voice.
"Ravian?"
His head rolled. The fog thinned.
That voice.
Niaz.
It came again, this time trembling. "Ravian—"
He blinked, and for a moment the fog cleared.
They'd dragged him into the open, dropped him beside the fire pit. The ground here was dry. Packed. He recognized it—the same dirt where they had tossed the bread.
And ahead of him, surrounded by men like wolves circling a lamb, was Niaz.
The boy stood, if it could be called standing—knees wobbling, arms clenched at his sides, breathing in sharp, terrified huffs. He was smaller than Ravian remembered. Or maybe Ravian had just become smaller inside himself.
The men taunted him.
One swung a rusted chain lazily in his hand. Another cracked his knuckles, walking in slow, tight circles. Their laughter wasn't loud. It was worse—casual.
"You think this one will cry?""Little rat pissed himself yesterday.""I give him three hits. Then it's begging."
Niaz flinched at every word.
One of the men stepped forward. He didn't speak. He didn't posture. He just lifted the chain—and brought it down.
The sound wasn't a crack. It was dull. A heavy thunk—like meat hitting butcher's wood.
Niaz screamed.
His voice wasn't sharp. It was wet. A sob and a breath and a cry crushed together. The chain had hit across his chest, splitting skin, forcing air from his lungs like a kicked animal.
The second hit came fast.
This time it landed across the thigh. The boy's leg buckled immediately, and he fell sideways into the dirt, a short choking gasp escaping as he tried—and failed—to scramble up.
The man wasn't done.
He advanced, wrapped the chain once around his fist, and punched.
The blow landed on the side of Niaz's jaw. Ravian heard the crack. There was no scream this time—just a twitch.
Niaz hit the ground face-first, blood immediately blooming from his mouth, mixing with the dust.
The men laughed.
One squatted beside the boy's limp form and slapped his face mockingly. "That's it? You done already?"
Niaz stirred. His fingers clawed at the dirt. One eye opened—swollen, bleeding, unfocused.
He tried to speak. Just a whisper: "Ma—"
The boot came down on the back of his head.
Hard.
His nose hit the earth with a crunch. His arms spasmed once. His legs twitched, kicking aimlessly.
Then they stopped.
His body stayed still.
Too still.
A pool of dark blood began to spread beneath his face, soaking into the dirt with quiet finality.
And just like that, he was gone.
The air didn't shatter. There was no dramatic cry. Just the silence of a life ceasing. As sudden, as stupid, as mundane as dropping a plate on a stone floor.
Something inside Ravian snapped.
Not loudly. Not like a scream.
It was quiet. Slow. Like a single crack in a frozen lake.
His body didn't lurch forward. He didn't cry out.
But his eyes stayed locked on Niaz's body. On the way one leg had folded beneath him. On the blood leaking from his nostril in a lazy thread. On the mouth that was still slightly open—caught mid-cry. Frozen there. Forever.
He wanted to scream, but the scream wouldn't come.
He wanted to move, but his body had turned to stone.
All he could do was watch.
The men were already walking away, tossing the chain aside, wiping their hands like they had just taken out the trash. One of them spat in Niaz's direction without looking.
A few children looked. Most didn't. Looking meant breaking. Looking meant remembering it later.
Ravian would remember.
He would remember everything.
The way the light had caught in Niaz's eyes.The color of the blood.The sound of the breath leaving his body.
And with that final blow, something else died in the dirt too—something Ravian would never find again.
A part of him turned cold. Not numb.
Cold.
And the cold would never leave.