He was so weak he could hardly open his eyes anymore.

After what had felt like endless days of silent solitude, except for what he suspected were daily visits from someone who would always shove some kind of porridge down his throat in order to feed him, suddenly five men, including his main caretaker, had barged into his cell, carrying silvery trays packed with empty bottles.

They had been urgently bleeding him since then, to the point where he could no longer hold his head up and his vision was filled with dark spots. He’d known the instant they’d come in that something had happened, their fearful faces unable to hide it, their eyes almost panicking. Even his cold caretaker had been unable to mask it, his hand shaking when he cut his leg.

“This will have to suffice! Take it upstairs and distribute it amongst the men. Everyone has to have some. Make them dip their fingers in it and lick them if you must!” the man ordered and the other four rushed out of the room, carrying the trays with the bottles now filled with his blood. “Get in here! Get him down!” the men kept shouting and other two men immediately obey.

The rattling of chains echoed in his mind like a sound from far, far away. His feet, ankles and knees hurt when they were forced to bear his weight again, but no matter how weak or faint he felt his knees stubbornly refused to buckle.

They dragged him somewhere, the skin of his bare feet scrapping against the hard stone until it cracked open, and then ice, cold water was poured over his head.

“Wake up! Don’t you dare faint!” the man barked in his ears and, half-unconscious, he forced his eyes open.

The light was so bright that it hurt his eyes and he knew he was about to fall, but the two men held him up, pulling his numb arms around their shoulders. His hands were swollen, bloody and an unhealthy dark-purple color, but at least they were still there.

“Take of his qinrien and put him in the box!” a voice commanded, a voice he knew belonged to the Lord.

“But my Lord, won’t that damage his back?”

“Like I care!” came the immediate reply. He too seemed to be panicking about something. “If we manage to pull through this then there will be more than enough time for him to heal. If not, just crush him inside the box! This way no one will be able to identify him for what he is! Or do you want to be tortured to death by the zintien??” he demanded and more than one gasp echoed around him. “And how in the world did they find us? And it had to be that fucking ZaiWin! Put him in the box!!”

Like before the man removed his collar and then he was dragged again, out of a door and up some stairs. Suddenly they were outside and he couldn’t help squeeze his eyes shut when faced with the bright, white, painful light of day. The wind that touched his face smelled of metal and sweat but, even so, it felt incredibly good. How long had it been since he’d felt the wind caress his skin? Or felt the warmth of the sun? Eyes burning from the intense light, tears rolling down his face, feeling dizzy and sick, he still forced his eyes open, and the blue, bright sky above his head stole his breath away. His heart beat faster in pure joy. How long had it been … and who knew how long it would be before he’d be able to look upon that glorious vision again. Blinking, he made his best to keep his eyes open for as long as he could bear.

Ignoring the large, black, rectangular, metal box that awaited him just a few steps away, he kept looking at the blue sky until the last moment, when he was shoved inside the box, the door closed on his face. And then he was surrounded by darkness again. His burning eyes felt relief but he couldn’t help feeling sad at the loss of that vast sky.

Obviously made to keep one single man standing, the box was small and stuffy, tinny holes opening slightly above his head in order to make sure that whoever was put inside it wouldn’t suffocate to death. There were probably holes on the metal at his back as well, since he could feel the fresh air against his naked skin, but the box was so small and his feet hurt so much that he didn’t dare try to turn around. Inside it he couldn’t sit, or kneel, or raise a hand, even if he could feel them enough to move them, and so he leaned his forehead against to cold metal and took a deep breath.

The sound of voices and shouted commands and orders told him that he wasn’t alone. In fact, enclosed by all that darkness, he could clearly feel all the people surrounding him, smell their sweaty odors, almost taste their fear and anxiety in his mouth.

Something was about to happen. Something that had left all those large, scary-looking men frightened. Something that would probably end with him being killed, crushed, he couldn’t tell how, inside that tight, dark box. He wondered, like he used to wonder when he was a child, if dying would be a hard thing to do. Everyone he’d met, and that he could recall, had feared death more than anything else in the world. Even the gentle girl that had held him in her arms, trying to keep him warm, had feared death; had feared that he would die, or that she would die and leave him alone to fend for himself. Which had eventually happened. But then, who had actually been worse? She, who had died, or him who, against all odds, had survived to live through all the ensuing pain? Surely dying couldn’t be as bad as living.

The sound of shouts filled the air and woke him from his feverish slumber. He felt so weak that even breathing felt like an impossible task. The heavy, smothering smell of spilled blood only made things worse. That and the fact that, with time, the metal box, after standing so long under the bright sun, had almost turned into a baking oven. The sweat that covered his body burned like acid on his open wounds, stinging his eyes, the heat making even harder to breathe. And then words he could no longer understand were shout right next to him and the sound of metal grinding against metal filled his ears. It didn’t take long until he felt the pointy metal spikes that were suddenly pressed against his back, forcing him to glue himself against the front part of the box in to try to escape them. But, as the grinding sound continued, the available space inside the box quickly diminished.

He bit down his lip when, unable to escape them any further, they pierced his skin and kept burrowing into his flesh. So this was what they had meant with crushing him to death. Fresh blood poured down his back, blood he couldn’t afford to lose, and his voice cracked in a despairing scream, the pain almost driving him mad.

The box around him immediately glowed bright red and, from all around him, shouts of horror filled the air …