The young man slowly opened his eyes, realizing after just a few seconds that he was back in the same carriage he had been in from the beginning. He couldn't understand what had happened—his mind was completely foggy. Even the usual pain in his body didn't catch his attention.
For several minutes, he remained lying down, staring at the ceiling of the carriage, trying to remember anything about the strange place he had gone to. But every time he tried, he ended up remembering only one thing.
"My name is... Darken," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
He had said the name several times before—ever since he had opened his eyes until now. That was the only memory left in his mind from that place, which he had completely forgotten. He had also forgotten the child who gave him the name, and any feelings he had experienced there. It was as if none of it had ever happened.
He turned slightly, trying to lift his body just enough to sit up. After a struggle and some pain, he managed to sit in the same position he was in yesterday—right before everything happened, especially when Erik had beaten him badly.
The young man turned his head to the right and looked out through a gap in the carriage. He saw that it was Already moving. The weather was especially sunny, which meant that the night had already passed, and that he had slept through it.
Maybe... that strange place he couldn't remember was just a dream. But for some reason, the name he had heard and was given felt real—so real it was hard to believe it wasn't.
"My name is... Darken. For some reason, it truly feels like that's my name," the young man said. He let out a sigh, turned his head slightly, and continued, "No matter how much I try, I can't deny it. My name is Darken. But... since when has that been my name?"
His voice was slightly raised—not loud, but clear enough to catch the attention of one of the caravan men. The man approached the right side of the carriage—the same spot the young man had been looking out of earlier—and spoke with a firm tone.
"So, you're finally awake?" he said with a mocking smile. Then added, "We thought you were dead. Good thing you're not—hauling corpses isn't really part of our job." He walked away laughing, clearly trying to provoke a reaction.
The young man didn't even bother turning to look at him. He simply listened in silence and gave no response. Once the man had left, the young man muttered under his breath, barely audible, "Death would be better than hearing your voice." He sighed again, then turned his head to the left, watching the empty road pass by in the opposite direction of the carriage.
For a while, he drifted deep into thought, reflecting on the name. At some point, the idea began to feel real—that this name could truly be his. It felt like a chance. A chance to finally have something he never had before, even if it was something he wasn't meant to have—or at least, something others didn't want him to claim. He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes.
' From now on, my name will be... Darken' , he told himself silently, making a quiet vow: he was no longer the nameless slave. He was now Darken—a young man with a name he could finally call his own.
After several hours had passed, the caravan reached an area near the edge of the continent. There was nothing around them except a vast forest. Following orders from Mary, the caravan moved deeper into the woods. Time went by, and by the late afternoon, they had already emerged from the forest—without facing any trouble along the way.
To Darken, the sight of the forest was mesmerizing—beautiful in its own chaotic way. The natural disorder of the trees looked like a painting, one that carried a soul only those who understood its patterns could truly appreciate. Darken didn't really understand it, of course, but he admired its beauty. For a moment, he wished he could live there—in a place where birds sang and danced freely, without chains or rules. In that moment, he wished he too were free—without restrictions, without limits. Maybe then, his life would have been something else—something better. Or so he believed.
Once the caravan left the forest and a few more hours passed, sunset came once again. This time, the young man was focused on it, almost as if he found comfort in the way nature painted the sky. The pain in his body was lighter than it had been the night before. That change hadn't come all at once—it had been with him since the moment he awoke that morning. It puzzled him, but even so, he chose to focus on what mattered: that he hurt less now than he had before.
In that moment, as the sky glowed in shades of red and gold, he felt as if his body no longer carried the weight of past suffering. A gentle breeze passed between the scattered trees along the roadside, brushing softly against his face and stirring something deep within. The calm that wrapped around the world seemed to seep into his heart, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he was breathing without tension. The sunset wasn't just the end of a day—it felt like a pause in time, a quiet space where he could reflect on what had passed... and what might still lie ahead.
He hadn't forgotten what had happened. The memories hadn't vanished, but this time, they didn't attack him like they used to. Instead, they came gently—like a soft wave that had no intention of drowning him. The pain of loss, the confusion, the heavy doubts—they all seemed to have stepped back, giving way to a new feeling he couldn't quite name. Maybe this was what people called the beginning of healing, or at least, the start of living with the scar without reopening it every morning.
He glanced up at the sky and smiled faintly, without even realizing it. It wasn't a smile of joy—but of relief. Relief that the pain hadn't disappeared completely, but had become something bearable—something he could understand, something he could live with. It seemed to him that the night ahead wouldn't be as heavy as the ones before.
Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe the pain and suffering would return once he reached the new center of the caravan in the Kingdom of Kartuga. But for now... he would try to live—quietly.
As the last threads of sunlight faded, he moved to the back of the carriage, closed his eyes, and listened to the sound of the wheels turning against the earth. He wasn't thinking too much this time—he was just... there. Present. Accepting each moment as it passed. As if, despite everything, life was still offering him a small window to peace.
Later that night, the caravan set up camp. Everyone became busy with their own tasks. Mary walked between the carriages, her eyes holding the same calm expression she was known for. But at the same time, she looked tired—her mind clearly elsewhere. Maybe it was because of what happened last night ، and the level of anger she had reached... or maybe it was something more complicated.
Lost in thought and walking with steady steps, she suddenly realized she was near Darken's carriage. It took her a few seconds to notice where she had ended up.
"When did I get here?" Mary thought, looking around—until her eyes landed on Darken's carriage.
Her presence here might have seemed like a coincidence—but the way she looked at the carriage said otherwise. It was as if she had wanted to end up here, even though that wasn't why she had gone out walking. Still, now that she was here, Mary decided to approach the carriage, her steps so quiet they were barely audible. She reached the door and opened it gently, finding Darken sitting silently at the back of the carriage, breathing calmly.
"Looks like he's fallen asleep again," Mary thought as she observed Darken sitting in silence.
She watched him for a while, her eyes lingering on his feet—bare, with no nails—and the same was true for his hands. His face held the marks of someone worn thin, almost like a man dehydrated. His long hair flowed over his face, resting on his shoulders, his chest, and down to his stomach.
"Wake up," she said firmly, her voice slightly raised.
Darken slowly opened his eyes and looked at Mary, who stood at the carriage door, her face carrying the same expression he had come to recognize. He couldn't move to adjust his posture—his body had suddenly stiffened, making it hard to react. In that moment, he hoped she wouldn't take it the wrong way—as a sign of disrespect or indifference. But she seemed... calm.
"There's no need to worry. I'm only here to talk," Mary said gently and clearly, without any hint of emotion.
Darken took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before replying, "Of course... of ... course..." Yet despite his words, there was a clear unease in his voice.
Mary cast a glance toward the camp in the distance—it was set apart from Darken's carriage by about five meters. The carriage had been placed there on orders from Craig, Mary's colleague, who always followed Jabelin's instructions to the letter. Once Mary was sure that no one was nearby or likely to approach, she extended her hand toward Darken.
"Come," she said calmly and clearly.
Darken didn't quite grasp what was happening. A dazed confusion weighed down his thoughts, and his eyes drifted in silent bewilderment. He didn't understand, but he didn't object either. Slowly, as though struggling against an invisible weight, he raised his trembling hand and placed it in Mary's palm. She didn't speak—just gently pulled him from the carriage.
The moment his fingers touched hers, a strange feeling washed over him. Her touch was soft, warm... alive. He wasn't used to that. His world had always been made of rough stone and dry soil, and rarely had his skin touched anything as soft as fresh bread. But Mary's hand—it was something else entirely. It felt as if it didn't belong to the harsh world he knew.
As soon as she helped him down, she began walking, leading him away from the carriage with quiet, steady steps. They passed a few small shrubs growing haphazardly near the wooden wheels. The caravan had chosen to stop at the edge of a green patch, where scattered trees stretched as if they had wandered out of the forest they'd passed earlier. They hadn't strayed far from the road, but they had come close enough for the trees' shadows to reach them—seeking their shelter, perhaps.
Among the caravaners, there was an old belief they whispered at sunset: that trees weren't just silent beings, but guardians—silent spirits watching over the natural world.
So camping near them wasn't a random decision... it was a quiet ritual, one that gave them a subtle sense of safety, as though nature itself had wrapped them in an unseen embrace.
Mary walked on in silence, her pace steady, as if she knew exactly where she was going. Darken followed without a word.
Time passed, and they found themselves farther from the camp than Darken realized. Even though he didn't know the area, he could feel they had crossed a line—gone beyond what most would consider safe. Still, he didn't stop. He didn't ask. He simply followed, step after step, even as pain began to creep into his tired feet. The ground had grown harsher, the shadows deeper—but he didn't care.
Her grip never loosened. She held his hand firmly, giving him no choice but to keep walking—as if she was leading him toward a fate that wouldn't allow retreat.
Within him, fatigue no longer mattered. All he wanted now was to know… Where was Mary taking him?
After a long walk that felt almost endless, they finally arrived at a clear, gentle stream flowing quietly through the stillness of nature. It was surrounded by bushes and trees that seemed to have stood guard over it for centuries. The water trickled softly, its rippling surface reflecting the full moon's silver glow amidst a sky scattered with stars. The scene resembled a living painting—one that breathed peace.
"Ah~ This place… it's beautiful and calm. Perfect for a conversation," Mary said as she looked at the stream, her eyes lingering on the shimmering reflection as if it carried forgotten memories.
Darken didn't reply, but he didn't disagree either. He too felt something unusual in this place—a comfort he had never known. Perhaps it was the moonlight, or maybe the stillness of the water… but something in this moment calmed his nerves and quieted the weight in his chest.
Mary lifted her gaze to the sky and spoke in a low voice:
"I'm Mary… Mary Tshwera, from the Kingdom of Ferrell."
Then she turned to him, her expression soft, her voice warm: "And you… do you have a name?"
Darken froze in place, caught off guard by what he had just heard. He wasn't used to this kind of interaction… kindness? A question without threat? Could something so simple be real? His mind—long conditioned to survive through suspicion and caution—didn't know how to respond.
And yet, for a reason he couldn't quite grasp, he didn't feel unsafe. There was something in her tone, in the atmosphere of this place, that made him feel—for a fleeting moment—secure. Maybe it was the years of constant tension that sharpened his instincts, taught him to tell danger from peace. He couldn't say.
All he knew was that he had just heard her say Mary Chwera, and that she came from a kingdom called Ferrell.
Her simple words, and the honesty in them, brought back something Aidi had once taught him: "When someone introduces themselves kindly, they're not asking for anything… they're just opening the door for you to step closer." But… was that true? Or was it just another trick—safety disguised in a new mask? He took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension that had begun to coil tightly in his chest. Then, with hesitation, and a voice barely audible from between his lips, he said:
"My name is… Darken. Just Darken. And I'm… probably from Kartuga. It's the last place I remember being."
"Darken… a beautiful name," Mary said in her usual calm tone, though it carried a touch less warmth than before.
Then, without warning, she gently released his hand and turned to face him completely.
She looked directly into his eyes, face to face, and said in a tone devoid of sarcasm or pity: "All I ever heard about you… was that you were a nameless slave. But it seems you do have a name after all."
Her words hung in the air like a double-edged blade.
Darken didn't respond. Instead, he was suddenly swept into a storm of thoughts that crashed over him without mercy. Was this a test? Maybe an indirect challenge from Jabelin? And maybe… he had already failed it. He'd learned the lesson well: If he claimed he forgot his name—he would be punished. If he insisted he had a name—he'd be crushed even harder until he finally said it: "I have no name." Only then would they be satisfied… when he surrendered the last thread tying him to himself.
Anxiety rose in his chest like a blaring alarm. He felt danger creeping in, as if a blow was looming, and the darkness behind it would soon swallow him whole. He braced himself for punishment. But what came next… was not pain.
Mary was smiling—a soft, unfamiliar smile, free of malice or motive. In her eyes, he saw something he didn't know how to name… he saw beauty. It was the first time in his life he looked into a face that bore no cruelty, no mask, no ugliness. She didn't resemble anyone he had ever known. This wasn't just a "difference"… it was another world.
"Three years ago, when I first joined the caravan, I heard very little about you…" Mary said softly, her voice as gentle as the night's whisper : "The slave with no name… the one they called the cursed…"
She turned lightly, then knelt near the stream. Her eyes followed its gentle flow under the moonlight, and with her composed voice, she added:
"I always knew Jabelin as a kind man… someone who wouldn't harm even an ant. But when I heard he was torturing a slave—repeatedly—a seed of doubt crept into my heart. And I couldn't shake the thought. I wanted to understand… I wanted to know why."
She dipped the tips of her fingers into the cold water, as if trying to wash away a heavy thought that had clung to her. A faint trace of a frown crossed her face—subtle, yet genuine—before she continued, her voice deeper now:
"It took me three years…Three full years to earn his trust…To slip into the inner circle of influence within his famed caravan. All of that, just to satisfy my curiosity."
She slowly lifted her hand from the water, droplets falling softly from her fingers, then turned her head to look at him seriously. Her gaze didn't leave his eyes:
"And because of that… I began to see the picture more clearly. But what I wasn't ready for… was the real reason Jabelin did all this to you."
Darken was stunned by Mary's words—each sentence dug deeper into his confusion. At first, he was dazed, then his heart began to pound violently, especially when she reached the part about why Jabelin had tortured him. At that precise moment, he felt a sudden tightening in his chest, a shiver passed through his body—as if the truth was finally about to reveal its face. He wanted to know, to understand… Why had he lived all those years in an inescapable darkness? Why the pain? And why him, specifically?
He wanted the answer so badly, his worn features trembled under the weight of waiting, and his eyes widened in anxious anticipation.
But Mary didn't continue from where she left off. Instead, she said quietly: "The reason I joined the caravan… was poverty. And my younger sister's illness."
She looked away, toward the water, where her smile no longer found reflection. Then she continued, her voice softer now: "As the eldest sister, and the only one in my family who could use magic…I decided to join the Caravan of Dreams. It was the only option I had at the time. Every coin I earned—I sent back to my family."
Then she stood quietly, beginning to walk slowly across the ground, aimlessly kicking small pebbles as she continued:
"But… my sister's illness wasn't something easily treated. It was complicated, and required a special cure—only available in the Kingdom of Kartuga, at an extremely high cost.Jabelin offered me work back then. I didn't accept at first…But later, I went to him and gave my consent—In exchange for decent pay. Not much… but enough."
She lifted her gaze slightly toward the sky, watching the moonlight filter through the trees and reflect softly on the ground: "My plan was to save the full amount in four years…
And now, there's only a little left.Soon, I'll have it all—and I'll get my sister the treatment she needs."
And as she finished speaking, a gentle, radiant smile formed on her lips, shimmering beneath the clear moonlight—As though hope had finally returned to her heart.
Darken listened in silence, his eyes following Mary, his ears clinging to every word she spoke. For a moment, he felt the muscles in his shoulders relax, as if the ever-present weight of fear had started to loosen. Mary's voice—soft, steady, and sincere as she shared her story—pushed him to wonder:
"How could someone like her be among the ranks of a madman like Jabelin?" He didn't speak it aloud, but the question echoed in his thoughts. And in that moment, a strange feeling crept into him—He wished he had someone like her, someone willing to do the impossible for his sake.But… it seemed fate hadn't carved that kind of luck for him.
He tried to force a faint smile, but it faded the instant Mary's next words struck him:
"What I just said may sound random…But what I really wanted to tell you is that while I'm working hard to heal my little sister—Jabelin tortures you simply because…You resemble the younger brother he killed with his own hands."
Her tone shifted—colder now, laced with the shadow of an old wound that had never healed.
In that instant, it was as if time froze. Darken stood there, mouth slightly agape, unable to grasp what he'd just heard. With a trembling voice, he asked: "Huh...? What did you say?"
Mary looked at him and replied calmly, without hesitation:
"That's what he told me himself. And I assure you… he wasn't drunk or under any other influence."
Then she added: "Jabelin, according to his own words, strangled his younger brother to death…With his bare hands—because the boy received more attention from their parents. And from that moment on, he believed what he did… was destined."
"He's proud of it?" Darken muttered under his breath—
Yet the words were clear.
Mary didn't respond right away. She remained silent for a few moments before finally saying, in a calm voice:
"Yes. He's proud of it. He always justifies it by saying his brother's birth was a mistake…And that he simply corrected it. But when he saw you—and saw in your features something of that brother—instead of killing you, he decided to entertain himself by torturing you until, eventually, one of his men finishes the job. That's what he said, word for word. I don't have a deeper explanation than that."
Then she added, her voice tinged with quiet regret and sorrow: "I didn't realize I was working with a madman…
Not until it was already too late."
The moment that followed was silent—yet heavy, thick with something indescribable. And only then did Darken realize…That everything he had been through wasn't a curse, or a punishment, or even misfortune. It was simply the whim of a mad, narcissistic, broken man… A man who took pleasure in breaking others.
In that moment—and for the first time in his life—Darken felt a real desire…A desire without hesitation: To destroy Jabelin. To rip him apart. To end everything he stood for.
But he showed nothing on his face. Only silence…And that new spark in his eyes.
Then, in a swift, quiet motion, Mary stepped closer to Darken—Her steps light, as gentle as a midnight breeze—And wrapped her arms around him, embracing him without warning. It was a shocking moment. Unexpected. So much so, it nearly stopped Darken's heart from sheer surprise. He had never felt anything like this before. No warmth. No shelter. No genuine, human touch.
"Just… hold on a little longer," Mary whispered, her voice soft as her shoulder cradled his head, as though she was trying to pour safety into him through her words. "You may not trust me right now…You may think I'm doing this for no reason. But believe me… I have a reason. And one day, I'll tell you. I promise."
Darken couldn't comprehend what was happening.
Her words… her warmth… That sudden, unannounced embrace… It was all too much. Too intense. Too foreign for someone whose life had only known pain and isolation. To him, trying to understand this moment… felt impossible.