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A scraping sound at my back alerts me. I twist around to see Riven, a fellow human thrall. He sidles close, glancing about nervously. He’s a bony young man, bruised around his jaw from a recent altercation, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. He lifts a hand in silent greeting.

“Thought I heard you come out,” he says, voice subdued. “You all right?”

I give a curt nod. We’re not friends, exactly, but we’ve shared a few scraps in the past. That counts for something in Lowtown. Riven shifts from foot to foot. “Nasty business earlier,” he comments, referring to the soldiers. “They’ve been snatching folks this week. Heard they’re planning something big. Maybe something to do with that gladiatorial spectacle.”

I grit my teeth. The gladiatorial games are infamous in Vhoig. Humans are tossed in to fight each other, or sometimes savage beasts. The crowd roars with excitement, placing bets on who will last longest. Most die. Some vanish afterward, never to be heard from again. My chest tightens. “Why now?” I ask.

Riven shrugs. “Could be they’re bored, or maybe this is a special event for the nobility. Either way, it’s not good for us.”

He glances over my shoulder at the canal. “I was thinking…maybe we should try our luck at the cargo ships,” he mutters. “Sneak onto one heading across the seas, see if we can slip away.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s a desperate plan, yet I can’t fault him for hoping. “The ships are heavily guarded,” I say. “We’d be caught in a heartbeat.”

“I know,” he replies with a humorless smile. “Doesn’t stop me from dreaming.”

Silence stretches between us, thick with shared despair. After a moment, Riven pats my shoulder awkwardly. “Take care of yourself, Val. I…I don’t want to see you end up in the pits.”

His concern resonates in my chest. “Same to you,” I manage to say.

He slips back into the shadows, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The hush envelops me again. My eyes drift to a vantage point of the higher city. Magic orbs hover in the distance, illuminating spires that pierce the sky. Between the labyrinth of buildings, I spot a flicker of movement—a silhouette perched on a rooftop. My heart hitches. The shape is too largeto be an elf, and two curved horns reflect the glow of the orbs. A demon, maybe.

I’ve heard Malphas prowls the city at night, sniffing out rebellion. An involuntary shiver crawls up my spine. Though I’ve never witnessed him up close, rumors of his brutality echo through Lowtown like a curse. Some humans claim they saw him incinerate five slaves for insubordination, while others whisper that he can harness shadows to devour a man from the inside out. I don’t know how much is true or if any of it is exaggerated. But any demon under the dark elves’ rule can’t be good.

I step back into the gloom, letting the balcony above hide me. The silhouette shifts, seeming to peer across the city. For an instant, I imagine those eyes lock onto me—two pinpoints of glowing red in the dark. A chill washes over my skin. Slowly, I sink down, pressing my back against the wall. My pulse hammers so loud I’m certain he can hear it. After a heartbeat, the figure leaps, disappearing from view behind the next tier of rooftops.

I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. That brief glimpse was enough to confirm he exists beyond whispered tales. A real monster. The knowledge leaves me rattled.

Eventually, I rise to return to the shack, bones aching with each step. By the time I step inside, the others are asleep once more or feigning rest. I slump onto my thin blanket, shoulders protesting. The candle on the table sputters, then gutters out, plunging the cramped space into darkness. My mind whirls, replaying the night’s events—my forced lie, that child with haunted eyes, the possibility of more humans being taken. I also see the faint silhouette of a horned figure on the rooftops.

I press a hand over my pounding heart, trying to steady myself. This world devours the weak without mercy, and we humans have so few options. I think about my mother’s voice again, that steadfast ring of courage. I can’t let my spiritcrumble. Because if I lose hope, if I let them break me, then everything I’ve suffered was for nothing.

I drift into fitful sleep with my fist curled tight against my chest. Even in slumber, I sense the city’s oppressive presence bearing down on me—a weight that threatens to crush my lungs. Behind my lids, I picture horns against the night sky, a demon’s silhouette overshadowing everything. The memory sends a jolt of apprehension through my dreams.

Still, a flicker of defiance burns within me. As I slip into uneasy dreams, I clutch that spark like a hidden blade. One day, I tell myself, I will use it.

Morning comes in Lowtown with a shrill whistle from the main thoroughfare. A signal for all human laborers to present themselves. My eyes snap open, throat parched, body stiff. I grit my teeth, rolling to my feet. Outside, the sky is a bleak gray, the sun hidden behind Vhoig’s upper terraces and constant smog. The whistle blares again.

All around me, the others stir with the same exhausted dread. Mirena barely manages to stand, leaning on a younger man for support. I brace her elbows gently. Her feverish skin concerns me, but I can’t linger. The city demands we show up for daily tasks, or we invite swift punishment.

I trudge onto the street. Dark elf overseers stand in a row, scanning the crowd. One checks off a list on a scroll, barking out instructions. “You lot—warehouse district. Unload the morning ships,” he commands, pointing to a group. “You—clean the stables in District Three.” On and on, they distribute assignments with brisk efficiency.

My name is finally called. I step forward. The overseer flicks his gaze over me. “Kitchen duty in the Northern Estate,” he snaps. “And keep your head down this time, or you’ll lose it entirely.”

I say nothing, though fury flickers in my gut. They assign me to the Northern Estate because they think I can handle heavier tasks. They prefer to keep the rebellious ones close, within sight of armed guards. The Northern Estate is a sprawling mansion belonging to a minor noble. Its kitchens are massive, feeding both the family and their many guests. My presence there is more about menial labor than cooking. I’m to chop vegetables, scrub floors, endure the sneers of the dark elf staff.

We’re herded into lines, trudging through Lowtown’s gate into the mid-tier districts. The transition is jarring as crumbling shacks give way to sturdier structures. A faint sparkle of arcane lanterns glimmers along the neatly paved streets. It’s not the opulence of the upper city, but everything here looks significantly better than the slums we call home.

Dark elf merchants bustle about, leading caravans or negotiating deals. Some wear fine robes with swirling motifs, others don simpler attire. Occasionally, I spot a noble traveling in a palanquin with embroidered curtains, carried by human slaves. The entire sight makes me sick.

We eventually arrive at the Northern Estate’s service entrance, a tall archway carved with swirling elven glyphs. A pair of armed guards waits, scanning the newly arrived laborers. “Any trouble, and your heads roll,” one guard warns, voice sharp. The other guard smirks, as if hoping for an excuse to draw blood.

We’re ushered inside a courtyard. The estate’s grandeur is blatant even from the servant’s area. Tall columns flank each side, covered in creeping vines that produce violet blossoms. A wide fountain occupies the center, water dancing in an artful display powered by subtle magic. It’s a far cry from the squalor outside these walls.

I’m directed into a side corridor that opens into the kitchens. The room hums with activity. Pots clang, steam hisses, and anacrid smell of burning onions hovers in the air. Several humans scurry around, heads bowed as dark elf cooks bark orders. I approach the station where a squat older woman—another human—positions herself. Her face is lined with worry and half-healed bruises. She hands me a chipped knife and points to a stack of root vegetables.

“They want these peeled and chopped,” she murmurs without meeting my eyes. “Hurry, or you’ll regret it.”

I settle in and begin slicing, body operating on autopilot. My mind drifts, scanning every detail of this place. The tile floors, the racks of shining utensils, the magical flames that dance under cast-iron cauldrons. Arcane crystals set in sconces provide a steady glow. It’s all so clean and organized that it feels surreal compared to Lowtown’s squalor.