Cursed throne: Revival of the sovereign

The chain that bound me rattled with a sudden, sharp snap. The noise seemed to reverberate through the still air of the cold, damp chamber, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. The shock of it was fleeting, but the eyes of the other slaves—dirty, hollow eyes—were now focused on me. They watched, captivated, as I stood there, my arm still extended from the force I had used to shatter the shackles. The weight of the metal was gone, but the truth of my situation hadn't changed.

Before I could fully process what had just happened, a voice cut through the air.

"What the hell is going on here?"

I turned my head toward the entrance. The overseer, a wiry man with a thin face and a permanent scowl, stood in the doorway. His hand rested on the hilt of a whip, his eyes narrow with suspicion. His gaze flickered from my broken chains to me, and I could see the anger creeping into his features.

"You think you can just destroy property?" he spat, stepping closer. "What's wrong with you, slave?"

I could feel the sting of his words, though the heat of the moment made it almost seem distant. I was still trying to steady myself, my legs unsteady from the rush of power that had surged through me—power I couldn't fully control.

I had nothing left to lose, no pride to protect. Still, something deep inside me resisted. It was instinct, the feeling that I could not—would not—be broken.

"I don't take orders from you," I muttered, my voice a little shakier than I'd intended. It wasn't defiance in its purest form, but it was the only thing I had left to offer.

The overseer's lips curled into a sneer, and I saw his grip tighten on his whip. Without a word, he raised it and cracked it in the air. The sharp sound echoed through the stone walls of the chamber, and I flinched instinctively. His strike came next, landing across my back with a sickening crack.

I staggered forward, the pain searing through my body, but I fought to stay on my feet. Another lash cut through the air, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming. My body trembled from the shock, but my eyes never wavered. I refused to show weakness. Even as the pain washed over me, I stood tall.

"You think you're special, don't you?" The overseer's voice was dripping with venom. "You're nothing but a slave, just like the rest of them. You'll learn your place soon enough."

With each blow, the pain intensified, but something inside me flickered. The beatings were nothing new. I had endured worse in my past life, hadn't I? Power, authority—it all felt so far away, but the will to survive was still strong within me. It burned, a steady flame that wouldn't extinguish.

By the time the overseer stopped, panting and breathing heavily, I was barely able to stand. My back was raw, the skin torn open in places, but I still didn't fall. I wasn't broken. Not yet.

The overseer sneered at me one last time, his eyes full of contempt, before he turned and walked away, muttering something under his breath about the "worthless slaves" and "disobedience." The sound of his footsteps faded, leaving me standing there with nothing but my pain and my resolve.

I staggered on my feet, trying to steady myself as I caught my breath. The other slaves around me remained silent, some with expressions of pity, others watching with strange interest. They were all staring at me, and I could feel their eyes burrowing into me, but I didn't have the energy to care.

Pain still coursed through me, but I had nothing left to fear. Not anymore.

For a moment, everything was still, and the other slaves seemed to hesitate, unsure of what to make of what had just happened. I caught the eye of an older man nearby, his face lined with years of suffering.

He had seen the way I took those lashes—he had seen how I stood tall in the face of them. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary before he lowered his head again.

Something shifted in the air. I could feel it—the subtle change in the atmosphere, the quiet admiration, the flicker of hope from those who had long forgotten what hope felt like.

But I wasn't interested in their pity. I wasn't interested in being their hero. I wasn't even sure I cared what they thought of me. What I needed now was information. I needed to learn what this place was, how it worked, and where I could find power. The other slaves could be useful, though they didn't know it yet.

I limped toward the nearest group of slaves, their eyes still on me. They looked uncomfortable, unsure of how to approach me. I had just endured a beating, and yet, they were still drawn to me. Why? Was it out of pity? Or was it something else, something deeper?

"You," I said to the older man I had seen watching me. "What's your name?"

He hesitated but eventually muttered something under his breath. "Kalan."

I nodded, my voice low and steady. "Kalan. Tell me about this place. The mines. The overseers. Everything."

Kalan looked up at me, his eyes weary. He didn't speak immediately, as if weighing the consequences of revealing anything to me. But then he sighed, the weight of his own misery pulling his shoulders down.

"It's simple," Kalan said, his voice low. "We work the mines—fifteen-hour shifts, six days a week. The overseers whip us into submission if we fall behind. They don't care if we live or die, as long as the work gets done. If you're too weak, too sick, they throw you into the pit."

"The pit?" I asked, a strange feeling tugging at my chest. "What pit?"

Kalan's eyes darkened, and he glanced around before leaning in closer. "It's where they throw the ones who can't work anymore. No food. No water. Just a hole in the ground. No one ever comes back."

I felt a chill spread through me, but I masked it, pushing the fear aside. This was the reality of my life now. Death was waiting for those who couldn't keep up. The weak were discarded.

I stepped back, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the storm that had started to churn in my chest. I wasn't here for sympathy. I wasn't here to make friends. I needed to use them, to learn their weaknesses and use them for my own gain.

"How many of you work here?" I asked, my voice more commanding now, though still low enough not to draw too much attention.

Kalan hesitated before answering. "About fifty of us. Maybe more, but... most of them don't last long."

Fifty. That was a small number, but enough to work with. The potential was there—if I could make them see me as someone worth following.

"Listen," I said, my tone changing again, more purposeful. "If you want to survive here, you'll need to trust me. I can't promise you anything, but I can promise you this: I won't let you die in that pit."

There was silence for a moment, and I could feel the weight of the words settle in the air. I wasn't sure if they believed me, but I wasn't finished yet. This was just the beginning.

"Tell me," I said, my voice low, but filled with an unmistakable force, "where's the nearest exit? Where do they keep the supplies? What else can you tell me about this place?"

One by one, the other slaves began to speak. At first, their words were hesitant, uncertain, but as I continued to ask, the information started to flow. They told me about the work shifts, the tasks, the overseers, and the brutal punishments for the smallest mistake. They spoke of the pit—how it was feared more than anything else.

And I listened, carefully, taking note of everything. This was a prison. But it wasn't one that would hold me for long.