Kaia hated this place.
Not for the chains. Not for the heat, or the stink of ash and sweat that clung to her fur like rot.
She hated it for what it did to souls.
Blackstone didn't crush people. It hollowed them — one breath, one burden at a time. It taught even the proud to bow.
But Kaia of the Frostfang Clan had not bowed.
She had been raised on snow-slick ridges where wind howled like wolves.
She had hunted with blade and claw under moonlight.
She had spoken to spirits in the old tongue.
She was meant to be Huntmistress.
Now, she was slave Eighty-Nine.
But a number could not erase a name carved in ice and blood.
She crouched by the wall of her cell, sharpening her twin bone-handled knife — one of the few pieces of herself that remained. Each pass of the edge against stone was slow, quiet, intentional. Her ears twitched, alert for the rhythm of distant boots or the shriek of chains. Instead, she heard something else.
Breathing.
Him.
Eighty-Eight.
He'd been dragged back from the pit three nights ago, his shirt torn open, the violet scar on his chest still pulsing faintly beneath grime and sweat.
He hadn't spoken.
Hadn't looked at anyone.
But the air around him had changed.
It wasn't magic. Kaia knew the scent of mana — sharp, clear, like frostbitten steel.
This was different. He stank of Void.
And the Void reeked of rot.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she watched. Waited. Measured.
There was no fear in her eyes — only the caution of a hunter sizing up a wounded beast that might yet bare fangs.
Now, on the fourth night, she finally spoke.
"Do you even know what you are?"
The words weren't meant for him. But they stirred him anyway.
He shifted, gaze slow to lift. His voice came out rough. "No."
She let the silence hang.
"You're not like the others," she added, not unkindly. "You don't belong here."
"I don't belong anywhere," he muttered.
That almost made her smile. Almost.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the bone knife. "The mark on your chest… it's not just power. It's hunger. The kind that gnaws through fate."
"You sound like you've seen it before."
"I've felt it before," she replied. Then added, quieter, "Not this strong."
She stood, brushing dust from her knees. The torchlight made her silver-white hair shimmer faintly — like moonlight over fresh snow.
"I don't trust you," she said simply. "But I don't trust fate either."
And then, as she turned away, she paused — and without looking back, added:
"They call you Eighty-Eight. But that's not your name."
"I've seen what stirs beneath your skin."
"You're not a number. You're a riddle."