Englecon Mine, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Hundreds of eyes watched Matthew as he entered the sleeping room. Despite the weight of it, he ignored them as he walked to his corner. Instead of having to step over others in his path, they cleared a way for him. It was as if they were afraid of him.

They should be, he decided as he slid down the wall, letting out a quiet breath. I could get them killed.

The horrible truth of that thought weighed heavy on his shoulders. It made him isolate himself from others and made him push Abby away no matter how hard she pleaded and argued. He was an Oddity. A ticking time bomb that would sooner or later explode and take out anyone within close range. He didn't want to risk hurting anyone else.

The last few days had been quieter than he had expected them to be. The Overseer hadn't beaten him as he thought the man would have. Abusing Matthew's healing abilities didn't seem to be the man's goal — in fact, he seemed to be experimenting with them. The first day he had cut Matthew's forearms, two deep slashes that had to be bound because they bled so profusely. Within hours, however, the wounds had healed. Two ugly scars were all that remained. Over the course of the next several days, the Overseer tested several parts of Matthew's body with the same method, leaving behind a trail of crooked scars. Matthew couldn't tell what the man's intentions were, or if he was passing these twisted tests or not. Throughout it all, Matthew was left alone in the makings of a new tunnel, mining away at the mountainous rock. Without chains — physically, at least. He knew he couldn't leave. Not when the Overseer had promised to punish Abby in his place.

Even though he pushed her away, Matthew cared about Abby. As much as he tried not to, Matthew cared about everyone — the Overseer could have used any slave against Matthew and he would have still given in. He didn't want anyone to go through the pain he had gone through. He understood it, he had felt it, and he didn't wish it on anyone, nor would he allow himself to be the cause of it. If it was a matter between anyone else and him, he'd make the sacrifice. He couldn't say why he would, he just would. Matthew had spent the past several years struggling hard not to care, and yet he always failed.

People who cared died, someone had once told him, so it was best not to risk it. He was pretty sure the person who had told him that was dead.

Matthew sat quietly against the wall, watching as the rest of the slaves were herded into the room. They all steered clear of him and his corner, he noted dully. It was like he was some invader who shouldn't be with them. By now, the news of his abilities had surely spread — the special focus the Overseer paid him was no secret. These people feared him. They feared the brand he bore, the hundreds of scars that marred his body, scars from wounds that would have killed a normal man. When they looked at him, what were they seeing?

The man with the torch left, leaving the room in absolute darkness. Matthew waited for his eyes to adjust. In the deepness, he could make out the glow of the prisoner's bands. It was hardly light to see by, but it gave the place an eerie, purple hue, one that he found himself watching for hours on end. It was like a hum in his head, lulling on and on. When he was sure most people were asleep, he would push the Warmth from his chest into his hands, watching them glow ever so faintly through the cloth that bound them.

The icy feeling that had consumed him after Kolbin's death still hung over him like a shadow. The Warmth fought it, but it was still so fragile he could feel it flicker. His healing had not slowed down, but he was feeling the strain of the energy the Warmth used up. It didn't make sense to him how he seemed to possess this supernatural power and yet it didn't seem to be a part of him completely. He could control it to an extent, calling it to different areas of his body — like his hands, where it often glowed — but when he was injured, the Warmth consumed the wound and healed it without his command. He couldn't understand it, and yet it continued to be a part of who he was.

He had only been six years old when he realized he was different. He had been furious at someone — the reason was forgotten. But it had happened down in the basement, in the hidden room beneath his parent's house. He had shared it with his sisters. Matthew had always been an ill-tempered child, and whatever the reason might have been, that day he had been more angry and upset than he had ever been before. Lily had told him to calm down countless times, but he hadn't, resorting to yelling and throwing wooden building blocks and nearly hitting baby Jules with his careless aim. Lily had snatched up Jules to protect her; Matthew hadn't realized at the moment how much he had terrified his older sister. He had realized, though, from the mirror on the dresser, that his eyes, normally brown, were flickering, practically flaming. Lily had lifted her voice to berate him over Jules's cries, but Matthew, enticed, had approached the mirror. His reflection had seemed so very real, as if there had been another boy, a different boy beyond it, watching him. Reaching up, he had placed his hand on the mirror.

The mirror had exploded. The frame burst apart, sending plastic in all directions, while the glass shattered forward. It had sliced his arms, cheeks, and forehead with its force, sent him tumbling backwards to the floor. He sat stunned amid the wreckage, staring as the tiny cuts on his arms throbbed and began to turn red with the blood rushing to the surface. He had also felt the heat, the Warmth, flooding him, and had watched as each one of those cuts sealed back together, leaving the faintest, tiniest scars.

Lily had grabbed him and yelled at him, shaking him as she demanded to know why he had smashed the mirror. He hadn't even been able to explain himself, he had been so stunned. She never did believe his story, not even when he tried showing her the tiny scars that peppered his skin. Even years later Matthew could still identify those scars. He rarely saw them, as the fine layers of dirt and grime hid them easily, but on wash days he would always find them again. Tiny little reminders that no one understood.

Watching his glowing hands now, Matthew felt numb. The cuts on his knees still stung from when the Overseer had slashed him that morning to see if it took him longer to heal at the joint. Clearly, he did, as he had been moving around the whole day. They had just started scabbing over when the Overseer came to get him. Matthew could feel his hatred for the man growing. What was he going to slice next, Matthew's face? Due to his impressive scarring, he knew it'd leave an ugly mark. So far, Matthew had managed to avoid any major scarring on his face — a scar on his forehead, several small ones peppered along his jaw and neck. The ugliest scar to touch his face had come from the tip of a whip catching his cheek as his back was being lashed. Matthew wasn't sure why he even cared if he gained another scar. Was it because his reflection was all he had left of his family? He had looked so much like his mother and sisters. The dark hair, the naturally tanned skin, the nose, the face shape — they had all shared those same features. Another glaring scar would ruin that.

There was movement to his right. He snapped out of his thoughts as he turned his head and peered through the darkness. A form was moving toward him. A small one. He took a breath, preparing himself for another argument with Abby.

But it wasn't Abby. The voice was higher, carrying a lilt that Abby's did not. "Can't sleep?"

Matthew couldn't decide whether to hide his glow or to try and flare it. He chose the latter, trying to see this new person in the darkness. It was still too faint. He could only make out the form. "The drug never worked on me," he finally admitted. He paused. "You?"

"I skipped dinner. Couldn't have it keep me from talking to you." The girl shifted closer, her voice still a whisper. She was just a foot or two away now. Although he couldn't see her very well, he knew she was small. Her voice sounded like it should belong to a child.

"Why would you want to talk to me? I'm cursed." He wasn't sure why he said it — maybe it was how he felt, or what he assumed they thought of him. Other than Abby, very few slaves had ever tried to talk to him unless they had been paired with him. He never understood why, but then on the flip side, he had never tried talking to any of them.

"I do not think you are cursed. I think you are far from it. I think you are chosen."

Literally just another way to say cursed. He thought better of voicing his thoughts. "Chosen for what?"

"Chosen for change. For..." She lowered her voice more. Matthew had to strain to hear her words. "The rebellion."

The rebellion! So the Overseer hadn't made it up. There really was a rebellion, or, in the very least, talk of one. Matthew felt shivers skittering across his scarred skin. "You're wrong. I'll get you all killed." He would. Not purposefully, but somehow, in some way, he knew he would. It always ended up that way.

"You can free us, Matthew." It was weird how this faceless girl knew his name. Not surprising, but still weird. "Don't think we don't know. You possess a gift, something that counteracts the magic in our chains." Purple lines floated around in the darkness as she lifted her hand. "You can free us."

"And they will kill you. There are too many guards, and they're armed. We aren't. It'd be a massacre."

"Too many think like you. They're afraid to act out and so they will not rebel. But you! You have gifts. You must help." She paused. "You're afraid, but you shouldn't be. The Immortal One hears us."

Matthew knew he had recognized this certain kind of passion. "You're a believer in the Creator."

"Yes." She said it without hesitation. Was it because she knew he'd never be able to identify her in the darkness, or was she just that bold?

"Why?" He truly wanted to know what this girl was holding onto, or rather, how she held onto it. She, like many others, held onto the hope that the Immortal One's son would save them. He knew exactly what she was going to say.

"The Immortal One told Motch that his reign would not last. The son is going to come and destroy Motch. The Deliverer..." She lowered her voice again. "The Deliverer is here."

The Deliverer. Matthew had nearly forgotten about that part of the legend. Apparently, not only could the Creator not save them, but His son couldn't even find himself. The Deliverer was supposed to rise up from the masses, full of both power and genius, destined to be the one who was going to find and reveal the identity of the Immortal One's son. From there, the son would rise up, strike down the beast, and take his rightful place on the throne.

So the storytellers said.

Matthew was more focused on a different matter. "How do you know?"

"There are Dreamers among us. They saw."

Matthew wasn't familiar with the term, but he could assume. "Dreams are made up out of our own imaginations."

"Visions are not. They saw you with him."

"They did, did they?" They wanted out, and they knew his powers could potentially grant them a chance. He knew when he was being played. "Look, I don't even know your name."

"Kylie."

He tried picturing a face with the name, but he couldn't. "Kylie. Look. I know you want to escape this place. Trust me, I want to, too, but we can't. We're stuck here. My abilities can't help you."

The purple lines shifted in the darkness. Her hand came to rest on top of his glowing one. Dark. Her skin was dark. She lowered her wrist. He could feel the hard metal through the cloth binding his hands. The purple lines flickered.

He jerked away, panic flaring up within him — had he really been stupid enough to believe the cloth could have restrained his power? "Don't."

"You can help us."

"I'll get you killed."

"The Deliverer is here, Matthew. The end of Motch's reign is here. We must fight with the Deliverer!"

Matthew closed his eyes, wishing the action could block out the girl and her words. "You'll never get out of here alive. There are too many guards."

"I'll die here anyway." The resoluteness in her voice was unnerving, and so was the fact that she was right. "I don't want to die in vain. I want to fight. If I die, I want it to mean something."

He understood her motivation more than he cared to admit, but he couldn't bring himself to share it. They would try to escape and they would be caught and they would die. They would all be dead and it would mean nothing. If he joined, chances were that he wouldn't die, not with the Overseer so fascinated with him at this point, and he would be forced to stand by and watch while the others were killed. And what would it mean? Guilt, weighing heavy on Matthew's conscience for the rest of his life, however long or short it may be.

He didn't want that. "I'm sorry, but I won't be a part of this. You won't change my mind."

Her deep sigh was audible. "Think about it, Gifted. Come find me when you're tired of being the Overseer's plaything."

The shuffling noises let him know that she had moved away from him. He watched her glowing band in the darkness, watched the lines blink out in the shadows and fade as she disappeared from his view. He stared into the darkness for a long time, thinking deeply about this girl and her words.

A rebellion. Against Motch. Led by an unknown, potentially made-up Deliverer. And they wanted to use Matthew as their way of escaping this place.

Matthew curled up on the stone ground, staring at his cloth-bound hands. They still glowed. Hauntingly. Threateningly.

Gifted.

He pulled the Warmth from his hands and the glow faded away.