The man with the beast tattoo was afraid of the light.

He had stayed awake all night; lying on his makeshift bed inside the tiny cupboard turned into a room. Darkness cradled him, thick and unyielding, almost tangible. He was never disturbed by it. Darkness was safe. Free men and women always came with their light. They were afraid of it.

That’s why he liked it.

No sound travelled to him through the darkness, beside the familiar creaks and groans of the old farmhouse as it stood against the last autumn winds. He had spent nearly three months in this farm and the familiar sounds of the house had become a soothing background. Almost as peaceful as the darkness itself.

Peace…

He gritted his teeth. This brief time of peace was like tasting a bite out of an exquisite food, only to watch the plate swiped from him. It left him hungrier than before.

By the time the morning light chased the darkness away, the slave with the beast tattoo would be on his way to be sold. It wasn’t a surprise. He had been expecting this. Yet, the decision still hurt like a punch to his guts.

His Owner never hid that she wanted to get rid of him. That was the only reason she had taken him in the first place, and the only reason she had bothered to save his life. The injury had left an ugly scar on his right leg, and yet, he was lucky to still have a right leg.

There was a time when he felt certain he was going to die. He should have been content with death. Yet, he had found himself fighting so hard to stay alive.

Do whatever it takes to win.

He could still hear her voice so clearly in his mind. She wanted him to win Twilight of Infinity and be free. And as much as he wanted to die and find Saradra in Farhome, he also didn’t believe he deserved to see her again.

He had killed her.

With his bare hands.

The slave rolled to his side, facing the wall, though he couldn’t see it through the dark. His eyes burned, and a lump sat on his throat. He imagined Saradra lying next to him, like she did in that tiny bed they shared at Castle Brinescar. The darkness was so thick, he could almost trick himself into believing she was there. He reached with his hand slowly, willing her to materialize, his skin searching for her warmth.

He touched the cold, smooth wall.

His lungs deflated, the air leaving its place to heavy grief.

Olira had nurtured his injury, and the farm work had helped him regain his strength, but he doubted anything could stop the bleeding deep inside his chest.

He still had nightmares. His body remembered how he broke her, though his mind couldn’t. His memory was fractured, chunks of it lost to the Rage that consumed him. What he could remember clearly was the suffocating helplessness when he realized what King Kastian Vogros was about to do.

What he was about to make him do.

He woke up most nights, whimpering and crying, unable to breathe through the weight that pressed down on his chest. He felt her warm blood burning his hands. He heard her bones breaking. Her screams echoed in his ears, leaving him with a raw, visceral pain. His breath caught in his throat as his grief swelled inside him like a rising tide.

When it was too much, the slave with the beast tattoo rolled out of the bed and paced in the small space of the cupboard. He took his borrowed shirt off, too small for his size. Most shirts were too small for his size. The chill of the night bit his skin. He welcomed the discomfort, dropped to his hands and knees, then stretched his legs and started push ups. He pushed himself relentlessly, until all he could feel was the searing ache in his muscles.

When he was spent, he sat with his back against the wall, sweat cooling on his skin, his arms slack at his sides. He gazed into darkness. He lost track of time, and he didn’t even realize when the whispers first started.

He discouraged himself from acknowledging them, and he kept staring into the dark, his eyes unfocused and distant. Every time he had tried to decipher the whispers, they would stop. So, he ignored them.

He hid his amusement at how persistent the whispers became. Nagging for attention, like those relentless twins who had kept pestering him. Whispers became sharper, more urgent. Desperate to keep his thoughts from drifting to other topics. They called out to him.

They called his name.

Lion of Zarall.

“No,” he whispered to the darkness. “That’s not my name anymore.”

He swallowed over the tightness in his throat. Speaking without permission, even when he was alone, was still difficult for him, though he was getting better.

The tone of the whispers flickered briefly. The slave heard the next word very clearly:

Beast.

The slave felt a chill run down his back. He touched the tattoo that marked him as a purebred beast. A warrior bred for the arenas.

Beast.

Olira had never bothered naming him. Why should she? She never intended to keep him. He didn’t have a name.

Beast!

The whisper rang with anger. It wanted him to acknowledge the name.

It wanted him to take it.

As Beast sat still, his gaze drowning in darkness, he felt a tug at the back of his mind. He started drifting, similar to how he used to send his mind to that place and leave his body behind. But this time, he was drifting down instead of above. The hard floor beneath him softened like sand, pulling him in.

The noise yanked Beast out of the grasp of the whispers. A soft squeak and click, followed by footsteps.

Olira was up.