4. Virgin slave.

A slight breeze brushed against Aita's skin, but it offered no comfort in the oppressive darkness that surrounded her. Every breath felt thick, the air heavy and stale, pressing down on her with a suffocating weight. She squinted, straining to see through the gloom, but it was as if the shadows themselves conspired against her.

"Where am I?" she thought, her mind a tumult of confusion and fear. The question echoed in her thoughts, unanswered and unsettling.

Fragmented memories flitted through her mind, images of her family, her island—gone. How had she missed the signs? She had prided herself on being a dreamwalker, a seer into the future, yet she had failed to foresee this disaster. Her rigorous training, her sacrifices—none of it had prepared her for this moment. Why hadn't she dreamt of this?

The scent of damp earth mingled with the metallic tang of blood, a stark reminder of the recent battle that had shattered her world.

How had their enemies overpowered them so easily? And Azrael—how could he betray them? Bitterness surged within her, a corrosive mix of grief and anger. The memory of Azrael's smirk haunted her, not with the warmth of happiness, but with the cold sting of treachery.

He had come with a mission, and she had unwittingly helped him. She had brought this devastation upon her people. She had failed them.

Redemption. She needed to redeem her honor. She needed to escape.

Aita closed her eyes, focusing on the chains that bound her hands, attempting to summon her magic. But there was nothing. Her magic had deserted her. The realization hit her like a physical blow, and a scream tore from her throat, raw and anguished. The loss was unbearable, driving her to the brink of hysteria.

The cold metal of the chains bit into her wrists, a cruel reminder of her powerlessness.

She screamed, thrashing against the restraints with all her might. The sound reverberated off the stone walls of her prison, a hollow echo of her despair. She screamed until her throat burned, until her voice was a ragged whisper, until her heart felt as though it might burst from the sheer weight of her grief.

Abruptly, two figures materialized in the cramped darkness, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor. "Stop screaming. Your magic is useless now. Get used to it. You belong to us," one of them said coldly, his voice devoid of sympathy. The faint flicker of torchlight revealed their cruel smiles, shadows dancing across their faces.

Aita fought against them, kicking and thrashing, but they subdued her with brutal efficiency. The sharp sting of a needle pierced through her resistance, and she felt the sedative take hold, leaving her dizzy and disoriented.

For two days, she battled against the darkness—both external and internal—resisting their attempts to break her spirit. The incessant drip of water from a nearby leak echoed like a mocking drumbeat, a constant reminder of her imprisonment.

By the third day, exhaustion weighed her down like a leaden blanket. She awoke drained, too weary to fight. Pain and loss had taken total control, leaving her numb. The cold stone floor pressed against her cheek, a brutal reminder of her captivity. There was nothing left to do but accept the harsh reality of her situation, letting the chill of hopelessness seep into her bones.

But even in the depths of despair, two imperatives remained: escape and vengeance.

Squinting against the dim light that barely illuminated the room, Aita tried to sit up, only to find herself tightly restrained. Panic surged as she realized she was chained to the wall.

"No, this can't be true," she lamented, struggling futilely against the unforgiving shackles.

Closing her eyes, she attempted to summon her powers once more, but the bitter truth settled in—her magic was gone. A wave of despair washed over her, and she whimpered in frustration.

"Get it together, Aita. Your people need you. You can't fail them again," she muttered to herself, steeling her resolve.

She surveyed her surroundings, noticing the unfamiliar loose white dress she wore. The room was dimly lit, an empty cage, suggesting she was alone. Elna and the others were nowhere to be seen.

"There she is," a voice echoed from the doorway, drawing her attention. A peculiar man stood beside a petite, brunette woman with tightly bound hair and lips painted a vivid cherry red.

The woman entered the cage, squatting close to Aita with a devilish smile. Her skin was deathly pale, with deep wrinkles etched under her brown eyes. Her sharp, penetrating gaze sent a chill through Aita's veins.

"Glazonians," the woman muttered, brushing a loose strand of hair from Aita's face with chilling nonchalance. "This is the best of them all, I can tell." She grinned.

"What do you want from me?" Aita managed to ask, her voice trembling.

"How old are you?" The woman ignored her question, irritation flickering across Aita's face.

"I don't know," Aita scowled, her defiance earning a cold chuckle from the woman.

"I'll ask again. How old are you?" The woman's voice now dripped with irritation, her patience thinning.

"I don't know." A loud smack landed on Aita's cheek, forcing her to look away in humiliation. It was the first slap she had ever received in her life.

The woman grabbed Aita's hair, forcing her to face her once more. Anger darkened the woman's eyes, but Aita remained indifferent. Kidnapped and uncertain of her future, she didn't even know if her best friend was still alive.

In that moment, Aita realized there was no agony this woman could inflict that would surpass what she was already enduring. Death held no terror for her now. Everything had been taken—her family, her home, her powers, her very soul.

"Don't disrespect me. You're a slave now; act like one, unless you want it to get worse," the woman sneered, releasing Aita's hair and standing straight.

Aita gritted her teeth, defiance burning in her chest as she spat on the ground next to the woman's feet. "Do your worst!"

The woman's expression darkened further, but she simply nodded to the tall man standing beside her. He was white, with long hair and hoop earrings, and he moved with a disturbing calm as he knelt beside Aita and forcibly parted her legs.

"What are you doing?" Aita whimpered, never having been humiliated like this before. She tried to close her legs, but another slap landed on her thigh, stinging with force. This time, she cried, her tears a mix of anger and fear. One moment she had been free and happy; the next, she was about to be sold into slavery. Her heart pounded in her chest as the man spread her legs open and looked at her private parts.

He inspected her body, his touch invasive and cold, before declaring, "She's a virgin."

"Seems all these girls are virgins, huh?" The woman chuckled, turning her gaze to the man. "You guys have done a wonderful job."

"Unshackle her and prepare her for auction. We're taking them to the auction house," the woman said, exiting the room.

Aita's heart sank further, the weight of her captivity pressing down on her with unbearable force. But even as despair threatened to consume her, a flicker of defiance remained. She would escape. She would survive. And she would make them pay.