That night felt like a bright dream in the midst of Darken's bleak reality. It was something foreign to his usual life—like a fresh wound on hardened skin. He was treated in a way he never imagined he would be, completely different from everything he had known during his harsh years. And in all its contradictions, it resembled nothing he had ever experienced.
Mary—the strict woman everyone feared—had shown him kindness. Her gentleness felt unfamiliar, unlike the image people had of her, or the rigid tone that had become the norm within the caravan. It was as if she had unintentionally removed her mask, or perhaps, driven by some unknown impulse, had allowed a glimpse of her true self to emerge from behind her cold and sharp exterior.
They were sitting by the stream, talking. Her words came slowly, but they carried a rare warmth. Something inside her seemed to be breaking—or about to break. And Darken, though unfamiliar with the language of emotions, sensed the shift, without knowing what to call it. Suddenly, he realized that Mary wasn't just an eccentric or harsh woman—she was a trapped soul, trying to survive in her own way. And perhaps, Jabelin the merchant was the source of that prison.
When their conversation ended, they both returned to the camp. The walk back was silent. Mary walked Darken to his wagon, then headed toward the tents. Around the fire, a few caravan men were finishing the last of the night's wine. Their laughter echoed, their faces flushed from the drink. But she ignored them completely, walking to her tent as if they were nothing but meaningless shadows.
But then, a familiar voice stopped her.
"Mary, can I have a moment of your time?"
It was Craig—Jabelin's closest man, someone who never acted without his master's approval. Mary stopped at the sound of his voice, exhaled calmly, then turned to him with cold eyes.
"I hope it's important. I don't have the patience for idle talk."
Craig, short and cunning, gave her a scrutinizing look.
"You seem tired... did something happen?"
He knew her as strong and unshakable, but something in her demeanor had changed. Her features were composed, but tense enough to suggest a shift.
"I'm just tired," Mary replied, then added with a dry tone, "Now, are you going to speak or should I keep walking?"
"It's about that slave… Jabelin has made a decision about him."
At the mention of Jabelin's name, Mary's eyes flickered.
"What? When did he say that? Did we receive a message from him or what?"
"A bird. He sent a message by bird. He's decided to cut off the slave's arms… He noticed in the dark room that he was using them to defend himself. So, he wants to get rid of them—to enhance the aesthetics of the torture performance," Craig replied with a smile, as if sharing something mundane.
His words came easily, like a casual update. But Mary felt a sudden chill flood her veins. She pictured Darken in Kartuga, helpless, his arms severed, stripped of what little humanity he had left. Jabelin was capable of such cruelty—he wouldn't even hesitate.
Still, she held herself together with effort. She buried the shock beneath her usual mask of firmness.
"If Master Jabelin is pleased… then so be it."
Craig smiled, that irritating smile that always carried a hint of mockery.
"You're colder than Jabelin himself. If you were his daughter, you'd have inherited his fortune by now."
Then he walked away, not waiting for a reply.
Mary stood there for a moment, as if she had swallowed a burning coal. She remembered how people spoke of her—cold Mary, who could kill a child without blinking, if Jabelin commanded it. But they didn't know the truth… no one did. They didn't know how much she hated being here. They didn't know the only reasons she stayed were her sister… and Darken. They were the only ties she had left to life.
As dawn broke and the night began to retreat in silence, Mary stepped out of her tent, her face bearing the marks of a sleepless night. She hadn't slept. How could she, when the nightmare had played over and over in her head? She looked around and saw a few caravan men still sleeping near the fire pit, now covered in cold ash. Their snoring mingled with the silence of pre-sunrise.
But her eyes stopped on Darken's wagon, sitting at the edge of camp like a lone sprout in scorched earth. A pang tightened her chest. She imagined Jabelin's face, his usual cold smile, and his order to sever Darken's arms. It wasn't that she loved him—not yet. But something in him didn't deserve that fate. Something that reminded her of herself.
"I have to help him… I must find a way. But if I do… everything could turn against me."
The thought spiraled through her mind like a storm. She hugged herself, her body trembling slightly. Then, a memory surfaced… an old one, etched deep by time and pain—a wound that never healed, restraining her every time she tried to break free.
Still, she moved.
She returned to her tent, and minutes later came out carrying two pieces of bread. They weren't warm nor stale, but enough to feed someone who had forgotten the taste of food. She walked carefully toward the wagon, glancing behind her to ensure no one saw. Then she arrived.
She opened the door quietly.
Darken was awake, sitting in silence, staring through the small side opening, watching the sunrise as if waiting for an answer from the sky. When he saw her, he turned his head slowly—like a leaf drifting across still water.
"Hello…" he said in a low, hesitant voice. Not from fear, but a shy echo of the previous night.
Mary didn't respond immediately. She looked at him, then smiled faintly and said,
"Hello? Is that how you greet someone visiting you in the morning? You're supposed to say 'Good morning.'" She extended her hand.
He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took her hand. He felt the same warmth from the night before—familiar, yet still strange to him.
"Good morning…" he said, as if the words were learning to form in his mouth for the first time.
"How long have you been awake?" Mary asked, stepping inside.
"For a while. I was watching the sun… I don't know why."
"Is that so," she replied, trying to hide the sadness behind a faint smile.
She lifted her hands and offered him the bread.
"Here. You haven't eaten in over a day. You need your strength."
He looked at the bread, then at her face. Her gesture was sincere, but for some reason he couldn't explain, it weighed heavily inside him.
"One piece is enough. Take the other for yourself."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then gently insisted, "Don't worry about me. I can get food anytime. But you…"
She suddenly paused, as if the last word reminded him of his reality—being bound, without freedom.
"It's alright," he replied softly. "I can't eat more than one piece anyway. Take the other. You probably haven't eaten since you woke up."
He reached out and took just one piece.
Darken began eating, while Mary sat silently, watching him. His act felt like quiet care—choosing to make sure she had her share instead of keeping it all. Her heart quickened, and to mask her unease, she started eating as well, just to find her balance again.
She ate slowly—not from hunger, but because her mouth couldn't ignore her heart. That heart had begun to beat to a strange rhythm whenever she looked at Darken. It wasn't a feeling of discomfort—no. It was something deeper, older, as if it had slipped into her soul through an old crack she thought had long healed. Darken didn't realize it, and maybe never would… but for the first time in years, she felt there was someone worth worrying about.
Long moments passed in silence, broken only by soft chewing and the morning breeze slipping through the cracks in the wood. It felt as if time had stopped—as if nothing existed outside that wagon but her, him, and the glances that carried more than they revealed.
"Thank you…" Darken said suddenly, his voice carrying a slight hesitation, as if the words were heavier than they seemed.
Mary looked at him, her wide eyes trying to read what lay behind his tone, but he said nothing more. He simply turned his face back to the opening, watching the rising sun, as if that word was all he could give.
She didn't say anything either. She just sat beside him, in silence, watching the light slowly stretch across the land, as if the sun was carefully scripting the first lines of the day. A rare moment of stillness—as if time itself had paused between two hearts yet to admit what they felt.
But, as always, peace never lasts.
From the direction of the camp, life began to stir. The shuffle of feet on dirt, men yawning and dragging themselves from under worn blankets, and Craig's sharp voice announcing the start of another day.
Mary knew the moment had passed. She stood, brushed the crumbs from her clothes, then stared at Darken in silence for a heartbeat before whispering:
"Get ready… We continue today. Kartuga is not far now. By the end of the day, we'll be at the southern border of the kingdom."
Darken moved slightly, as if to ask her something—something on the tip of his tongue—but his voice failed him. He just nodded, a small gesture that carried everything his words could not.
She stepped out of the wagon quietly, her face regaining its usual coldness. Her features returned to what everyone expected—Mary the cold, the sharp, the unreadable. But beneath that mask, she hid a storm no less fierce than any desert wind.
She shut the wagon door tightly, then walked toward the center of the camp, where the men and slaves were moving in a kind of organized chaos, preparing to resume the journey. She paused to watch them, until a familiar voice behind her broke the silence.
"Up before everyone else… Did you sleep well last night?"
It was Craig, wearing that same smug smile that always irritated her. His tone, as usual, was more annoying than his question.
She turned to him with a narrow-eyed glare and replied coldly, "That's none of your business. Whether I slept well or not doesn't concern you, and certainly doesn't justify your nosiness."
Her tone was sharp—sharper than she intended. But she didn't regret it. Remembering his cold words from the night before, when he told her about Jabelin's decision, made her blood boil again.
Craig didn't reply. He just raised his hands in mock surrender and walked away, leaving behind a cloud of irritation and suspicion swirling around her..
Mary stood still for a moment, gathering the last of her composure. Sitting beside Darken had made her forget—if only briefly—the horror that awaited him in Kartuga. But she knew… she knew very well that every warm moment would be ripped away once they arrived. Still, she held herself together. Barely—but she did. There was no room for collapse. Not yet..