"Wake up, Thomas," Elara whispered. Her voice was thin and trembling. "The nice man is here. We can go now."
She shook his shoulder gently. It was the way one might wake a sleeping child.
Thomas’s head lolled to the side. His mouth remained open in that silent, eternal gasp.
Marcus knelt beside her.
He watched Elara’s face. It was a mask of desperate hope.
She refused to see the grey pallor of Thomas’s skin. She refused to feel the stiffness in his limbs.
"Elara," Marcus said softly. "He can’t hear you."
"He is just tired," Elara insisted. She didn’t look at Marcus. She kept her eyes fixed on Thomas’s closed lids. "The bad men hurt him. He needs rest."
"He isn’t resting," Marcus said. He forced his voice to be steady. "He is dead."
Elara froze. Her hand hovered over Thomas’s cheek.
"Don’t say that," she hissed. "Don’t say that word."
"I have to say it," Marcus replied. "Because it is the truth."
He reached out. He took Elara’s hand in his own.
Her skin was warm. Thomas’s skin was ice cold.
Marcus guided her hand. He pressed her palm against Thomas’s chest.
"Feel it," Marcus ordered gently. "Feel his heart."
Elara tried to pull away. She whimpered.
"No," she begged. "I don’t want to."
"You have to," Marcus said. He held her hand firm. "Is it beating, Elara?"
She stopped struggling. She pressed her hand against the unmoving ribcage.
She waited.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
There was only silence.
There was no rhythm. No thump-thump of life. Just the cold stillness of a vacant vessel.
Elara’s breath hitched. A small, broken sound escaped her throat.
"No," she whispered.
"He is gone," Marcus said. "He has been gone for a long time."
Elara stared at Thomas’s face.
The illusion shattered. The protective wall of her mind crumbled.
She saw him. Really saw him.
She saw the waxy skin. The blue tint of his lips. The unnatural angle of his legs.
"Thomas?" she asked. Her voice cracked.
She shook him harder this time.
"Thomas! Wake up!"
He didn’t move. He rocked stiffly with her force.
"Please!" Elara shrieked. "You promised! You promised we would go home!"
She threw herself onto his chest. She buried her face in his cold shirt.
"Don’t leave me!" she screamed. "Don’t leave me here alone!"
Her sobbing tore through the cell. It echoed off the damp stone walls.
It was a raw, primal sound. The sound of a soul being ripped in half.
Marcus sat back on his heels. He watched her break.
He felt a heavy stone in his own chest. Pity choked him.
He wanted to look away. He wanted to leave this room and breathe fresh air.
But he couldn’t. He had to bear witness.
He let her cry. He let her scream until her voice gave out.
Minutes passed, they felt like hours.
Elara’s screams turned to sobs. Then the sobs turned to ragged, shallow breaths.
She lay slumped over the body. She looked small and broken.
Marcus waited until the silence returned.
"Elara," he said quietly.
She didn’t move. She just stared at the straw.
"Do you have family?" Marcus asked.
He needed practical information. He needed to know if there was somewhere to send her.
"Parents?" Marcus asked. "Siblings? Anyone waiting for you?"
Elara shook her head slowly against Thomas’s chest.
"No," she whispered. "My parents died of the fever. Years ago."
"What about Thomas’s family?"
"He was an orphan," she said hollowly. "We only had each other."
Marcus closed his eyes for a second.
Of course.
The universe was never kind. It always twisted the knife.
She was completely alone. No home. No money. No family.
She was a broken woman in a lawless border town.
If he left her here, she would die.
Or worse. The slavers would come back eventually.
Or other predators would find her.
He looked at her trembling shoulders.
He couldn’t leave her. It wasn’t in him.
He was a life coach. He fixed people. Or at least, he tried to.
But this wasn’t a bad career choice or a messy divorce. This was total annihilation of a life.
"Why?" Elara asked.
Her voice was barely audible. It was rough from screaming.
She pushed herself up. She sat back against the wall.
Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked at Marcus with a gaze full of emptiness.
"Why did they do this?" she asked.
"Why did they have to hurt us?"
Marcus didn’t have an answer. "Because they are evil men," he said simply.
"We didn’t do anything wrong," Elara said. Her voice rose in pitch. "We were just traveling. We just wanted to start a bakery."
She looked at her hands. They were covered in dirt and dried blood.
"We gave them the ring," she whispered. "We did everything they said."
Tears streamed down her cheeks again.
"Why are people so cruel?" she asked. "Why ruin a life like it is nothing? Was Thomas’s life worth nothing?"
"It was worth everything to you," Marcus said.
"But to them?" Elara asked bitterly. "To them, we were just meat. We were coins."
She looked around the dark cell.
"Is this the world?" she asked. "Is this all there is? Pain and cruelty?"
"Not all of it," Marcus said. "But some of it. Yes."
"Then I don’t want it," Elara said.
She looked at the stone wall. She looked at the heavy iron chains in the corner.
"What do I do now?" she asked.
She looked at Marcus. Her eyes begged for direction.
"Thomas is gone. My home is gone. I have nothing."
She hugged her knees to her chest.
"Tell me," she pleaded. "What am I supposed to do?"
Marcus looked at her. He saw the edge she was standing on.
She was looking into the abyss. And the abyss looked inviting.
He took a deep breath. He needed to be harsh. He needed to shock her.
"You have two choices," Marcus said. His voice was flat and clinical.
Elara blinked. She looked at him.
"Two choices," Marcus repeated. He held up two fingers.
"Choice one," he said. "You stay here."
He gestured to the cold cell.
"You lie down next to Thomas. You let the grief take you."
He looked her in the eye.
"You can kill yourself," he said plainly. "You can end the pain right now. No more bandits. No more loss."