Feldspar Mine, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Blood. It swam before Matthew's eyes, staining the concrete, trailing toward the drain. His back was drenched in it, screaming in agony the Warmth couldn't abate, raw with stinging pain. His throat was hoarse, stinging, his wrists aching from supporting his weight. He was sprawled, half-lying on the ground, half-hanging from one of the many posts in the Punishing Room. It was bloody. He was bloody. Everything was crimson and everything was pain. He couldn't move, the agony was so great, and any time he breathed the impulse to scream was nearly overpowering. But he didn't scream — wouldn't scream. It only seemed to energize the man flogging him.

"That's enough, Terminus," Matthew heard one of the other slave masters say from somewhere in the room. "You could bathe in his blood. You've practically killed him."

The Overseer's voice was ragged and breathless. "Only nearly, Quillin! See, he still breathes. He's even still conscious! Still!"

"Terminus—" Quillin started, but he was cut off by the sound of the whip as it lashed Matthew's back again. Matthew jerked as the leather strip dug into his flesh, tearing it open, sending explosions of fiery pain echoing through him. He strangled the scream that tried escaping. It came out as a shuddering gasp.

"I've never seen anything like it," the Overseer panted, nearly enraged. "Men do not survive this, and he's nothing but a boy!"

"Are you trying to kill him?"

Matthew was drifting in a sea of unbearable pain; it felt like thousands of scalding hot needles pierced every part of the flesh on his back. He could taste the blood, hear it pumping in his ears as his heart struggled to keep up with the adrenaline in his veins. He was dying. The way his heart stuttered told him so. Still, it pressed on, and the Warmth kissed his wounds soothingly. If he stayed still, he could breathe.

The Overseer let out a ravenous sound, like the growl of a lion. "The feat seems impossible. It's as if he's unkillable."

Quillin gave a noise of disagreement. "No one is unkillable. Leave him. We have other things to attend to besides a stubborn boy."

Relief flooded through Matthew when the Overseer said, "Fine. Perhaps leaving him to suffer will do him in." With that, the man strode from the room, folding the whip in his hands as he did. Quillin followed.

When they were finally gone, Matthew let out a shuddering sob. The movement was nearly too much, and he choked, tears trailing down his cheeks as he gritted his teeth against the pain. Minutes passed before he found the strength to move again; clenching his jaw tightly so no sound would escape him, he moved his legs, trying to push himself closer to the pole to relieve the pressure in his arms. He fumbled to grab the chains in his hands, blind with pain, using all the will he had within him to pull himself up against the pole. His shredded back stung and burned. He groaned between his teeth as he managed to get to his knees. Breathing heavily through the pain, he rested his forehead on the post. It had not been the first time he had experienced such a merciless beating, but it by no means meant he was used to such brutal pain.

Covered in bloody wounds and searing pain, Matthew closed his eyes and did his best to distract himself. It was the only way to keep himself from going insane as the Warmth worked. Breathing slowly, he pictured his mother's face. At least, he tried. It had been so long, he could only pull fragments from his memory. He knew she had been beautiful. He had inherited her thick, dark hair, and he recalled from the depths of his memories being told that he had gotten her nose and chin as well. His eyes, though, he had gotten from his father. In truth, he hadn't known the man very well. His father had always been distant with him. Matthew had never known why.

His thoughts were interrupted by several people entering the room. Matthew cracked his eyes open, peeking around his arm and watching as two men went about unchaining the first slave from the whipping post. A young woman stood by, watching and wringing her hands. Matthew knew Oceania well. She worked in the infirmary with her mother, Sabine.

She was also the Overseer's daughter.

"Be gentle now," she instructed as the two men lifted the unconscious body onto the board they had brought with them. They lifted it, hauling the battered and bloody victim from the room. Oceania lingered. Matthew had closed his eyes again, but he knew she was looking at him.

"Matthew," she murmured, and he heard her coming closer.

"No." His hoarse voice cracked on the word, the effort sending searing pain throughout his whole being. He winced. "Don't."

"Let me help. I can get you water—"

"He wants me dead," he managed to say, his words bitter and cold. "He wouldn't like you undoing his efforts."

"Futile efforts. He won't cause the death of the Boy Who Won't Die."

Matthew hated that title, and fury welled up from the agony within him. "Don't call me that."

"It's who you are. You're unbreakable, Matthew."

Before he could respond with the fury that burned like wildfire inside of him, the two other men were back for the second victim. Matthew was glad Oceania left with them. She was kindhearted, but she had this incredibly impossible idea that he was destined for great things as if he had some kind of future beyond these mines.

"You're unbreakable, Matthew."

He slammed his fist against the post in a burst of fury, rattling the chains and losing his breath over the pain the sharp movement caused. He wasn't unbreakable. He had been broken over and over again and survived merely because his body endured the beatings thanks to the Warmth. He was a toy in the hands of a psychotic man who seemed intent on killing him.

Just let me die, Matthew pleaded, trying to push the Warmth away and succumb to the pain. Please.

As if in answer, darkness consumed him.