Chapter 8: Death
"Urgh..." Alaric groaned, eyes snapping open as a splash of ice-cold water hit his face.
He coughed, sputtering, his body jolting awake on reflex alone. The bucket clattered to the floor as one of the guards stepped back, sneering.
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since he'd arrived at this cursed mansion. Two weeks of filth, exhaustion, and humiliation.
And this—this crude awakening—barked at like animals—had become the daily routine for all of them.
"Get up, filth!" one of the guards shouted. "You've got work to do!"
Around him, the other slaves stirred, groaning as they dragged themselves upright. Blank stares. Sunken eyes.
No one spoke. No one dared.
Alaric wiped his face, slowly stood up, and clenched his fists.
As the guards herded them out of the prison-like room, Alaric paused for a brief second, glancing up at the balcony.
Empty, again.