Page 121 of Somno Slave

The words come out tight, strained, like he’s forcing them through something that won’t give.

The old man stops, turns suddenly.

“Stop it, Deogal.” The edge in his voice lands clean. “I won’t let you go. It’s too dangerous.”

Deogal shifts in front of him, blocking the path without touching.

“The market is in Arundel,” he says, slower now, each word placed carefully. “That’s a three-hour walk from here.”

“I’ll take the donkey.” His father protests.

“The donkey’s dead, Father.” Deogal interrupts sharply. “You know this. I told you this morning. And last night, too.”

The old man blinks. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, but I see it cold and wicked across his face, the confusion. His eyebrows furrow together in a tight knot.

“You’re not well enough to make the journey.” Deogal pushes. “Stay here.”

A silence throbs in the room so thick I feel like I’m going to choke on it. The old man drags in oxygen through a tight hole in his lips before releasing a shaky exhale. His gaze flicks to the thatched door opposite them. “Is she still asleep?”

Deogal’s body language changes, something in him tightens.

I see it in the line of his spine—the way it locks too straight. In his hands, where his fingers curl in on themselves just slightly, like he’s holding something in place that wants to break through. He’s bracing.

“Yes.” It’s only one word, quiet, flat.

“Okay,” the old man finally exhales. “You go. I’ll watch her.”

Relief breaks across Deogal’s face before he can stop it. He turns too quickly, like staying another second would undo it, but the old man’s hand shoots out, catching him before he can go.

His fingers curl around Deogal’s collar. He tugs it upward, careful, precise, covering something at the base of Deogal’s neck.

I lean forward instinctively, desperate to see, but the angle is wrong, and the dream denies me.

“Keep it hidden,” he murmurs, eyes filled with dread. They seem to communicate silently, staring at each other.

Deogal nods once. “I will.”

“Stay safe, my boy,” his voice seems croakier now, older, as if the dream has stuttered forward in time. “Please, stay safe.”

My eyes ache, like they’ve been forced open for too long, a dull burn settling behind them as the weight of it drags at my lids.

I blink, but it doesn’t help.

The pressure stays, thick and disorienting, like something is shifting just out of reach, waiting for me to catch up to it.

And then the world tilts again.

The hut with the old man suddenly vanishes and chaos erupts.

Noise slams into me the moment the scene shifts—shouting voices bartering for prices, clanging metal, animals bleating loudly. Stalls are packed tight, leaning into one another like conspirators. Banners flap overhead, faded and frayed, with dried ink cracking off letters.

I inhale hard. I really don’t want to, but I breathe like I’ve been told to. The stench of cow manure slams into me like a slap. I choke on the sudden, potent stench that drowns my taste buds. I stagger backwards and before I can get my brain to still, I spot him.

Deogal, behind a cart, goods laid out neatly. Jewellery—bracelets, rings, simple but finely made. His fingers hover over them with a mixture of pride and nerves.

People pass. Some stop. Most don’t.

Time stretches.