POV: The Survivor Women
She didn't cry when they gave her a house.
She didn't smile either.
When the soldier—kind eyes, too gentle for the armor he wore—pointed to the small, warm structure nestled beneath the shade of the moonlit trees and said softly, *"This is yours now,"* she simply nodded.
And walked in.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Inside, it was… clean. Too clean. The wooden floor smelled of cedar and fresh polish. The walls held no chains, no carved sigils of torment. A hearth rested cold and unused near the far end, beside a small bed too soft to trust. There were folded linens on the table. A loaf of bread, untouched. A bowl of soup that had not yet gone cold.
She stood in the doorway for a long time, arms limp at her sides, hair tangled and crusted with days-old sweat and soot. Her eyes roamed the space like a hunted animal checking for traps.
Then, she did something strange.
She walked to the door… and left it open.
She didn't close it. Didn't lock it. Didn't even touch the latch.
Locks meant nothing.
Not when they came for you anyway. Not when screaming into the dark did nothing. Not when goblins used fire and chains and hands and filth to remind you that a locked door was just a whisper of false hope.
So, the door stayed open.
Always.
Even when night crept in.
Even when the wind whispered through the window cracks and the floorboards creaked like voices in the dark.
She didn't light a candle.
Darkness was safer. She had learned to live in the dark. It was light that revealed you. It was light that made them grin and say, "There you are."
She sat in the corner of the house, knees pulled to her chest, back pressed against the wall where she could see the door and every shadow it let in. Her fingers gripped the hem of her tunic—a plain brown thing the healers had given her. Her real clothes had been taken long ago. Torn. Burned. Left in blood and mud and things she'd never speak of.
She didn't speak much at all now.
Not since the cave.
Not since the goblins learned her name.
They had whispered it like a curse—like a game. They had marked her, not just with bruises, but with rituals. Strange brands that still tingled beneath her skin when she bathed in clean water.
She remembered *one* of them—an old goblin priest with rotting teeth and a voice that made her bones itch—had stared into her eyes and said:
"There's power in you, little human. That's why we'll break you slower."
But they never did.
Not truly.
Not her spirit.
It bent. Fractured. But never broke.
She had killed one of them with her bare hands once. When they dragged her to the breeding chamber again, she had bitten off his ear, gouged out his eyes, and screamed until she blacked out. The beating afterward should've killed her—but it didn't.
They didn't want her dead.
They wanted her *ruined*.
But now…
She was here.
In a house. With a bed. A loaf of bread. A bowl of soup.
She hadn't touched any of it.
She couldn't yet.
Not until the air stopped smelling too clean. Not until the screams in her memories faded. Not until she stopped expecting footsteps in the night, or clawed fingers reaching through the floorboards.
And yet… there was something.
A flicker.
A presence.
She'd felt it earlier—when he spoke.
Arthur.
She hadn't seen him clearly. Only from afar. But when he had looked at them—at all the survivors—there was something in his eyes.
It wasn't pity. She would've hated that.
It was *fury*. Cold. Just. Controlled. Like a blade forged in sorrow and sharpened by vengeance.
And beneath it…
*Power.*
He reminded her of someone. A shadow. A figure from a past she couldn't fully remember.
Maybe from before the goblins.
Maybe from *before* even that.
A name tickled the edges of her mind, slipping away like smoke every time she reached for it. But she didn't chase it. Not yet.
For now, she stayed curled in the corner of her home, door wide open, breathing slowly. Her fingers relaxed for the first time in days. Her heartbeat, though ragged, no longer screamed.
She still didn't sleep.
But she closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
And for the first time in a long, long time… before she knew, she already was in Deep sleep.
She didn't dream of chains.
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NOTICE-
Dear readers
I might not be able to upload chapters for the next two days… because there's a family function.
Yes, the deadliest dungeon of them all—where aunties cast gossip spells, uncles summon ancient debates, and escaping without gaining 5kg of food is nearly impossible.
But remember, I said *might*.
Because there's still a chance I'll battle time, dodge relatives, slay distractions, and fight demons and gods themselves… just to bring you your next chapter.
Even if I have to write it while hiding under the buffet table.
So don't miss me too much—unless you're offering a mana potion.
Yours heroically,
The author stuck in a family raid boss.