The inside of the slave market was chaos.

Guards were running toward the courtyard. They didn't notice the hooded figure slipping past them in the hall.

Marcus hugged the walls. He moved quickly.

He knew where the dungeon entrance was. He remembered the path.

He descended the stone stairs.

The air grew colder. The smell of rot returned.

He reached the dungeon level.

The hallway was lined with cells.

Most of the guards had run upstairs to fight the intruder.

Only one remained. He was fumbling with his keys, looking panicked.

He saw Marcus in the cloak.

"Hey!" the guard shouted. "What is happening up there? Is it a raid?"

Marcus didn't stop. He walked straight toward the man.

"Yes," Marcus said. He deepened his voice. "The boss needs you up there. Now."

The guard hesitated. "But the slaves..."

"Forget the slaves!" Marcus barked. He tried to channel his father's authority. "We are being slaughtered! Move!"

The guard's eyes widened. Fear took over.

"Right! Right!"

The guard threw the keys onto the table. He drew his sword and ran past Marcus, heading for the stairs.

Marcus let out a breath.

He grabbed the keys.

His hands shook slightly.

He ran to the first cell.

He unlocked it. He threw the door open.

"Get out!" Marcus shouted. "Run! The gate is open!"

The prisoners inside huddled in the corner. They looked terrified.

"Go!" Marcus yelled. "You are free!"

One brave soul stood up. He looked into the hallway. He saw no guards.

"Run!" the man screamed.

He bolted.

The others followed. It started a stampede.

Marcus moved to the next cell. And the next.

Click.

Clank.

"Go! Move!"

The dungeon filled with the sound of running feet.

People cried. People shouted.

It was a river of desperate humanity flowing toward the exit.

Marcus stood by the wall. He kept his hood down.

He watched them pass.

He saw the onion man. He was weeping, but he was running.

He saw Gareth, the tool merchant. He was helping an old woman.

He saw the chicken lady. She had left her birds, but she was alive.

Marcus counted faces.

He looked for two specific people.

He scanned the crowd.

Dozens passed him. They didn't look at his face. They just saw a path to freedom.

The flow of people began to thin.

The hallway grew quieter.

Marcus frowned.

He hadn't seen them.

"Thomas?" Marcus called out. "Elara?"

No answer.

He checked the cells he had opened. They were empty.

Panic began to rise in his chest.

Had they been moved? Had they been sold already?

He ran deeper into the hallway.

He reached the last cell on the left.

It was the cell they had shared. The one with the damp straw and the bucket.

The door was closed. He had missed it in the chaos.

Marcus fumbled with the keys.

He found the right one. He shoved it into the lock.

He turned it.

The door swung open.

Marcus stepped inside.

The cell was dark. The torch from the hallway cast a long, thin beam of light across the floor.

It illuminated the far corner.

They were there.

Elara sat on the floor. Her back was pressed against the stone wall.

Her legs were stretched out in front of her.

Her dress was torn and dirty. Her hair hung in strings around her face.

She was staring straight ahead. Her eyes were open, but they were glassy.

She didn't look at Marcus. She didn't look at the open door.

She didn't seem to notice the noise, or the screams, or the freedom.

On her lap lay a head.

It was Thomas.

His body was sprawled on the straw. His legs were twisted at odd angles.

His head rested gently on Elara's thighs.

His face was pale. It looked almost grey in the torchlight.

His eyes were closed. His mouth hung slightly open.

He looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Marcus froze in the doorway.

His hand gripped the iron bars. The cold metal bit into his palm.

"Elara?" Marcus whispered.

She didn't move.

She was stroking Thomas's hair.

Over and over again.

It was a mechanical motion.

Her hand went from his forehead to his ear. From his forehead to his ear.

Rhythmically. Endlessly.

She was humming.

It was a quiet, broken sound. A lullaby without a tune.

"Sleep now," she whispered. Her voice was cracked and dry.

"Sleep, my love. It is okay."

Marcus took a step forward.

His boots scuffed on the stone.

"Elara," Marcus said louder. "The door is open. We have to go."

She didn't look up.

"Shhh," she hissed. She put a finger to her lips.

"Don't wake him," she whispered. "He is sleeping."

She looked down at Thomas's face. She smiled. It was a fragile, terrifying smile.

"He was in so much pain," she explained to the empty air. "His chest hurt so bad."

She brushed a smudge of dirt from his cheek.

"But the pain stopped," she said. "He told me. He said it stopped."

Marcus felt a cold hand squeeze his heart.

He looked at Thomas's chest.

He waited for it to rise. He waited for a breath.

One second. Two seconds. Five seconds.

Stillness.

There was no movement. No rattle of broken ribs.

Thomas wasn't sleeping.

Marcus walked closer. He knelt beside them.

He reached out. He touched Thomas's hand.

It was cold.

It wasn't the cool of the dungeon. It was the deep, empty cold of an object that used to be a person.

He had been dead for hours.

Marcus pulled his hand back.

He looked at Elara.

She was still stroking his hair. She was staring at a future that didn't exist anymore.

"Elara," Marcus said. His voice broke.

"He isn't sleeping."

Elara stopped humming.

She looked at Marcus. For the first time, her eyes focused on him.

Confusion clouded her gaze.

"What?" she asked.

"He is gone, Elara," Marcus said gently. "Thomas is gone."

Elara shook her head. It was a small, jerky movement.

"No," she said. "He is resting. We are going home soon."

She tightened her grip on Thomas's shoulders.

"He promised," she whispered. "He promised we would go home."

She looked back down at the corpse.

"Wake up, Thomas," she said. Her voice wavered. "The nice man is here. We can go now."

But Thomas didn't move.

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