Chapter 2

I queued as usual the next day, took my tools as usual, kept my head down and answered when spoken to—as if yesterday’s beating had knocked me back into my place.

That was the first thing I had to do: make them believe I’d learned to behave.

There was something stuck in my mind. Not the “white room” itself.

It was a shorter flash, right before I went in—something pulled over my eyes, like a sack, like a hood.

Someone half-pushed, half-dragged me along. The ground under my feet was hard, flat, clean. Each step landed with a solid, muted thud—no give, no slick.

If I could find that stretch of ground, I could pin down roughly where the white room was.

I started with what I could rule out fastest.

The shanty area was pure sludge. The moment you stepped down, muddy water swallowed your shoe edges, and pulling your foot free took effort. Not it.

The path by the quarry was crushed stone and slag. It bit into your soles, and the sound scattered—no way to get that compact, muffled rebound. Not it either.

The ramp at the mine mouth was worse—wet, slick, reeking of mold. Your footing felt hollow, like you’d slip any second. Still wrong.

So I worked and “listened” with my feet. Every time we moved onto new ground, I took two extra steps.

All morning—nothing.

That only convinced me more: that ground wasn’t somewhere a slave’s daily routine ever touched.

It was too clean. Too orderly. Only a place with people maintaining it—near the lord’s manor—could be like that.

After noon, the overseer drove us up the slope to haul materials. The manor’s outer wall loomed above like a gray line pressing down on the horizon. We weren’t allowed too close, but deliveries and hauling meant we passed through that area briefly.

I kept my head lowered, shoulders hunched—like a broken dog. The less noticeable I was, the safer.

When we reached the hard-packed ground near the manor, my step sank—  

not into softness, but into stability.

The surface had been trampled firm, absurdly even. My sole hit with a short, muted, clean sound. It matched the feel from that flashback.

Found it.

But another problem rose immediately: the manor was huge, and there was more than one patch of ground like this. Confirming the surface wasn’t enough to tell me where they’d taken me.

I pushed the loaded cart forward, eyes cutting sideways—walls, stockpiles, sheds, craftsmen, patrols. Everywhere looked the same. Everywhere could be it.

I forced myself to replay the fragments for any detail—

And I remembered. Water.

In that flashback, besides the dull footfalls, there’d been the rush of running water.

I remembered—on my left, a narrow stream, winding down the slope.

The work line broke up to haul to different piles. I deliberately took loads to the left. After a short distance, the sound of water came.

My chest tightened. The direction locked in—  

the path where I disappeared was on the left side of this hard-packed area near the manor.

I kept pretending to haul, kept moving forward. A patch of shrubs blocked the view ahead. I’d drifted completely off the intended route by now, but I didn’t care. I pushed on—

And then I smelled it.

A strange odor I’d never encountered before. A little like liquor, but sharper, harsher—stinging the nose.

I was about to take one more step, to press closer and locate the source—

A whip cracked across my back.

“Ryan! What the hell are you detouring for! Get over here and move the flagstones!”

I turned at once, answered low, “Yes,” and jogged back. Fast movement, lowered eyes—like I’d been scared out of my skin. To the overseer, it would look like I was slacking, not searching.

That was enough for a first pass.

After dark, I slipped out of the huts and felt my way up the slope. No torches—only moonlight.

Near the manor’s hard ground, it was easy to lose your bearings in the dark. I stopped first, listened for the water, and once I had it, I followed the sound to the left. I parted the shrubs.

Behind them was an open patch—muddy earth, weeds gone wild, like no one came here. But I was sure that sharp smell came from this place.

I swept my gaze along the ground. In the moonlight I quickly found a set of tracks that didn’t belong to our wooden carts.

They’d flattened a lot of weeds, leaving clear ruts in the mud—straight lines, fixed spacing, neat edges.

I couldn’t see where they came from, but I could tell they ended abruptly at the manor’s outer wall.

As if the vehicle had driven into the wall.

Just then I sensed light—two beams, glaring white. I didn’t know what they were, but my first instinct was to duck back into the shrubs. A moment later I heard a strange, steady hum—controlled and soft, nothing like wooden wheels squealing, nothing like hooves.

I lifted my head.

A huge, metallic thing rolled in—some kind of vehicle. I’d never seen a cart so strange.

It followed the track marks straight to the outer wall and stopped exactly where the ruts ended.

Two people got out. Efficient. No conversation.

One of them raised a hand to a spot on the wall—there were several raised buttons there, and I’d thought they were decoration.

He pressed them in sequence.

The next second, the wall moved.

A slab of stone slid inward like a door, revealing a brightly lit passage.

The two climbed back into the vehicle, and it glided inside without a sound.

The wall slid shut, returning to normal—like it had never opened.

I lay in the shrubs and didn’t even blink.

I repeated that sequence of presses in my head—again and again—until it felt like muscle memory.

Next time, it would be my turn to open the door.

I pulled the knife from the hollow under my shoe and drew it lightly under my ribs.

The pain told me the truth: I had been here tonight, and I had remembered.

And I would not let myself forget again.