Patch of Druid-Chapter 11 – Injuries

The day began with blistering heat, as if the sun itself wanted to remind every slave of their place—scorching dust, sweat, and endless labor. Alex spent most of it hauling heavy crates, digging trenches, and cleaning the estate grounds. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't shake the visions of the previous night. The voice of the goddess still echoed in his mind, and the memory of that delicate green glow in his hands filled him with both fear and fascination.

By the time he returned to his cell that evening, a different kind of tension gripped him—one that had nothing to do with physical fatigue. When the guard opened the heavy iron door, Alex's heart quickened. Lyra was standing in the shadows, leaning against the wall, and the sight of her made him freeze.

Her clothes were torn and frayed, her skin covered in bruises, scratches, and fresh red scrapes. One eye was swollen, glaring at him with stern defiance, as if daring him to pity her. Her lip was split, and the left side of her face was purple with impact. Even her pride couldn't fully hide the pain she was in.

Alex stepped quickly inside as the door slammed shut behind him. He approached her carefully, concern etched across his face.

"What happened?" he asked, trying to mask the tightness in his throat.

Lyra lifted her chin, meeting his eyes, but hesitation flickered there for a brief moment. Then she sighed and winced slightly as she straightened.

"It's nothing," she said coolly, though her voice betrayed exhaustion. "Just another day."

She moved toward the bedding, and the shift revealed more damage to her clothing. Through the torn fabric, Alex caught glimpses of her body—smooth, pale skin along her thigh, tense muscles, the soft curves of her hips. His gaze lingered for a moment too long. Lyra noticed.

"Like the view?" she asked with dry sarcasm, a faint smirk tugging at her lips despite everything.

Alex felt his face flush with shame but didn't look away.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, forcing himself to turn. "I'm just... worried about you."

Lyra sighed quietly, and the sarcasm faded from her eyes. She sat down heavily on the bedding, leaning back against the cold stone wall, and winced again as she pressed against a sore spot.

"I fight every day," she said after a pause, her eyes no longer meeting his. "Outside the estate, in a small coliseum used to train the other slaves. Velas's men use me as... a training target."

Alex stared at her in disbelief, feeling a storm of anger and sympathy rise within him.

"A training target?" he asked, carefully, fearing the answer.

She pressed her lips together, as if it took effort just to speak.

"They throw me into the arena and make me fight other slaves," she said evenly. "Sometimes they're stronger than me, sometimes weaker. I hurt some of them. I let others win. That's how they decide who's fit for the real fights."

"But why you?" Alex asked, barely able to contain the fury building in his voice.

She shrugged—painfully.

"I'm an elf. That makes me exotic," she said bitterly. "Slaves fight better when they're given the right opponent. For Velas, it's just entertainment. He paid a lot for me. Now he wants a return on that investment."

Alex sat across from her, fists clenched. Rage pulsed beneath his skin, but he knew there was nothing he could do to change her situation right now.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked finally, his voice almost desperate.

She looked at him, surprised. Then she shook her head and gave him a sad smile.

"No," she replied softly. "This is a battle I have to fight alone. At least for now."

They sat in silence for a while. Lyra began tending to her wounds, tearing strips from her already ruined tunic. Alex couldn't stop watching her—there was strength in her movements, a quiet resilience that remained even through pain and fatigue.

"But why let some of them win?" he asked at last, trying to understand.

She glanced at him sharply, but her gaze softened, filled with something gentler—almost tender.

"Because otherwise, they'd kill me," she said calmly, with bitter clarity. "I have to act weaker. They have to believe they can beat me. That way, I'm not a threat. It's the price of survival."

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Alex clenched his jaw, the frustration inside him growing unbearable.

"It's not fair," he whispered.

"Life isn't fair," Lyra replied quietly. Her voice carried pain, resignation—but also a stubborn resolve. "You can accept it, or you can break. I made my choice a long time ago."

Alex looked at her with newfound respect, seeing the immense cost she paid each day just to stay alive. He watched her in silence, then glanced at the ragged edges of her clothing. His eyes again caught a glimpse of her thigh—smooth skin that made his heart beat faster.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this," he said after a long pause.

She looked at him, surprised by his honesty. For a moment, her eyes glinted with unexpected warmth.

"You don't need to apologize," she answered gently, allowing herself a rare moment of openness. "It's not your fault. You're the only one here who even cares."

Alex nodded quietly. Something passed between them—a bond, unspoken but real—that made the silence that followed no longer awkward.

"Thank you for telling me," he said at last, meeting her gaze. "You don't have to carry it all alone. Maybe I can't help yet, but at least... you're not alone."

Lyra stared at him for a long moment. Something shifted in her eyes—as if, for a fleeting second, she allowed herself to hope.

"That's more than I've had in a long time," she whispered, almost to herself.

Moments later, the guard returned, tossing her a bundle of fresh clothing before leaving without a word.