Desecration of a saint

I tried to open my eyes, but they felt as though tar had been poured over them, sealing them shut. The effort sent a fresh wave of searing pain through my body. Agony racked my frame, every nerve screaming in protest. Deep within, I felt my organs shifting, as though they were alive—writhing like worms burrowing deeper into the earth to escape the light.

My bones ached, a deep, grinding pain that reminded me of the times I'd been beaten for daring to speak back to the masters. The memory only sharpened the torment, blending past and present into a haze of suffering. My head throbbed violently, a relentless, burning pain that made every thought feel heavy and fractured.

Yet, through the haze, my ears—no, just my right ear, as the left seemed deafened and mostly useless—picked up faint sounds. Voices. A conversation happening nearby. The words were muffled and distorted, as though I were hearing them through water, but their presence was undeniable. Someone was there.

Straining my mind to pick up the words being said, I focused on a voice—an older woman's, trembling with panic. Her tone was sharp, tinged with desperation. Another voice followed, gruff and weathered, like the elders I'd heard from time to time addressing the other servants. His words cut through the air, scolding the woman harshly, though I couldn't make out why. There was a laugh next, faint but familiar in a way I couldn't place. It sent a chill through me.

And then there was the final voice. It was quiet, so faint it almost escaped me, yet it commanded the most attention. When the woman addressed him with "my lord," the weight of his presence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. This was no ordinary man. He was at least a master, or someone of even greater standing.

I waited, unsure what they wanted from me, unsure if they even knew I was awake. Fear gripped me, but I dared not move. Punishment came swiftly to those who disobeyed, and I had no strength to bow should they demand it.

Their conversation grew clearer as I listened, though the words felt like knives carving into the fog in my mind. The commanding voice spoke first. "Noble Thorne, this one may start to show promise, as he hasn't died yet. I want you to take him to the pit and mold him. Bring out any underlying potential."

The word pit snapped me from my haze. I'd heard other slaves speak of it in whispers. It was where they sent those who looked strong enough to fight, where survival meant brutality and death was a constant shadow. I barely had time to process the weight of it before the gruff, defiant voice responded.

"My king, this boy is far too young. Look at his condition—he wouldn't be able to kill a goblin, let alone survive the pit. I know you want to find out if the experiments could truly be used, but… wouldn't it be better to let him heal more?"

The words barely registered, save for my king. Was that truly who stood before me? Cold sweat broke out across my body. Equal parts fear and an ingrained need to show respect surged within me. The servile instinct that had been drilled into me since birth won out.

I opened my mouth. "Forgive this one, my lords. I shall carry out whatever task you have for me." My voice came out high-pitched and strained. I was shocked it worked at all, given the rest of my body seemed on the brink of collapse.

Their voices stopped the moment I spoke. The silence that followed was as sharp as any blade. Then, the gruff voice snapped, "That useless handmaiden didn't even check to see if the boy was awake. I'll have to speak with her later to ensure she doesn't repeat this mistake."

The voice that had protested my placement in the pit—Master Thorne, as I now knew his name—spoke again, his tone tinged with surprise. "Well, maybe he does have some kind of willpower… Maybe I can work with this. He won't be able to fight for quite some time, but I can start him off training with one of the older fighters."

His words seemed directed more at himself than the others, as though he were already calculating how to shape me into something useful. My chest tightened. It wasn't relief. The most important voice still hadn't spoken.

"Boy, what is your name?" the king asked.

Both the other voices fell silent, waiting for my answer. I hesitated, then replied, "My lords, this servant doesn't have a name."

There was a long pause before the king spoke again, his voice calm and decisive. "Your name is Edric now."

The king didn't address me further, but that didn't matter. I had a name now. Edric. I felt like the luckiest boy in the kingdom to be given a name—by the king himself, no less. A strange elation filled me, momentarily dulling the pain in my body.

As my joy swelled, the king turned his attention elsewhere. "Director Dutchmund, I want him to be picked up by Noble Thorne in a fortnight. Thorne, come back for him then."

I heard two pairs of boots click together, followed by a firm, "Yes, Lord."

One set of footsteps retreated as Thorne chuckled. "Good luck with him, Director," he said, his tone laced with mock amusement.

The gruff voice—Director Dutchmund, I now knew—sighed heavily as Thorne's footsteps faded. He moved closer to me, his tone cold and efficient. "Well, you should be awake now. Let's fix that."

I heard the scrape of something against wood near my head, then felt the sharp prick of a needle in my arm. My mind slipped into darkness before I could think further.