Page 123 of Somno Slave

“I—,”

“Youdohave papers, don’t you, Sir?” The first one steps toward him.

“Yes,” Deogal answers quickly. “I do, yes.”

He turns behind him, reaching into his cart. His hands move frantically, searching.

A guard steps toward him. He looks like something cornered, and the stress takes hold of him now. The muscles in his body ripple angrily, fear bleeding through him. He makes a noise. It’s sharp, strangled, far too weak to match the criminal I know.

I hold my breath. I back away.

Something terrible is about to happen. I can feel it in the way the air shivers, and the particles drag over one another. There’s a heat—a violence—brimming, and then, a shout. But Deogal’s already moved.

He snaps, and the world lurches violently to keep up with him. The market jerks sideways, stalls blurring, colours smearing together in a sickening rush.

Someone shouts.

He spins fast, too fast for a man who has nothing to hide, and his elbow drives back into the guard’s ribs with a dull, cracking thud. The sound is wrong, too precise, too final for an accident.

The guard yells, stumbling, an ugly wet sound tearing from his lips. The second guard reacts instantly. A baton flashes, catching Deogal across the shoulder hard.

He staggers, teeth bared, pain ripping a sound from his throat. He turns to meet the second one, but another agonising blow is delivered to his body. This time, he falls to his knees. He stays down for a fraction of a second before pushing himself back to his feet, stumbling into his cart. He pushes it forward, metal screeching as it tips. The silver pieces of jewellery spill across the dirt like scattered teeth.

Someone screams. Someone else yells to stop. The crowd surges back, panic blooming like a riot.

I stumble after him, useless and incorporeal, my heart hammering as if this body is my own.

Deogal grabs the first thing in reach, a wooden pole torn from a stall, and swings it wide. It cracks against the guard’s forearm with a sickening crack. The man cries out, dropping his weapon.

But more boots thud against the ground, and more guards pile in from all sides.

They pour into the space, iron and leather and discipline, their movements rehearsed and brutal in their efficiency. Someone slams into Deogal from behind, taking him by surprise. They drive him forward, into the dirt. His cheek hits the ground hard enough to split skin. I taste copper in my mouth.

He scrambles up, feral, swinging blind. His fist connects with a jaw, but he receives one in the ribs. He roars. An ugly, furious sound dragging from his chest, and he lunges again.

He doesn’t fight like a trained man. He fights like someone who cannot afford to lose.

A baton crashes into his thigh. He buckles but stays upright. Another catches him across the back.

Still, he doesn’t stop.

He throws himself at them, fingers clawing, teeth snapping. He lands a blow against one guard’s throat, crushing their windpipe just enough to force the man choking to his knees.

For a heartbeat, Deogal stands over him, chest heaving, eyes wild.

This is the man I know.

This is him.

This is what he becomes.

Not the silence. Not the restraint.

This.

But someone clubs him across the back of his head, and the world stutters.

He drops to his knees, vision swimming. Blood spills freely now, hot and sticky, running down the side of his face. He tries to rise but a boot stamps down on his back. He’s thrust forward.