Each drop of water falling from the vault of my cell onto my forehead sounded like a lonely echo in my mind.

 

Splash... Splash... Splash ...

 

The irregular rhythm of these drops reflected the uncertainty of my life since my involuntary exile. They were cold, burning my skin with every impact, carrying with them all the emotions I'd repressed.

 

In this almost total darkness, the chains around my wrists bound me to this dark reality. The cold stone walls seemed to close in around me.

 

Splash... ... Splash ... ... Splash ...

 

Every drop punctuated this transformation within me. I was at a crossroads, between the child I had been and the individual I was to become. It was a mixture of terror and liberation that ran through me. The terror manifested itself in an icy sensation that ran down my spine, as if each vertebra was an ice cube forming one by one. My hands trembled slightly and I could almost hear my own heart beating in my chest, like a distant drumbeat announcing an imminent war. On the other hand, the release was like a gentle fire burning in the pit of my stomach, slowly rising to warm my heart and my thoughts. For the first time, I felt I had some control, some autonomy over my life, even if the metal chains around my wrists seemed to laugh at the idea.

 

Splash... Splash...

 

The drops continued to fall, but tonight they were different. They were heavier, as if laden with terrible news that would soon reach me. The voices of the guards reached me, their words floating in the air, carried by the light wind. And what I heard next shattered the fragile balance I had fought so hard to maintain.

 

The guards were talking amongst themselves, their voices tinged with casual cruelty. I tried to concentrate on the drops of water falling irregularly on my forehead, as if they could protect me from the reality that was about to hit me. But tonight, even they seemed to have fallen silent, as if they too were waiting for the inevitable.

 

 

"Did you hear about that village we discovered near the well where we found that kid?" one of them asked, his voice betraying a sort of unhealthy glee.

 

"Ah, yes. The masters did some research. It seems that this village has been... how shall I put it... wiped off the map," replied the other, laughing as if it were the best news of the day.

 

My heart froze for a moment. The well where they'd found me? They were talking about my village. A wave of despair swept over me, overwhelming all my senses. I wanted to scream, to howl at the injustice of this world, but no sound came out of my mouth. It was as if I had become mute, unable to give voice to my pain.

 

But then an inner rupture occurred within me, silent but devastating, tearing at the very fabric of my soul. The madness I had so meticulously imprisoned finally broke free, surging through my being like a tsunami of despair and rage. Thinking back on everything I'd endured, the incessant harassment, the suffocating isolation, the shocking news, the blatant contempt, the venomous jealousies, the cruel lashes, the pernicious stares, the ambient hatred, the smirks of the sadists, and the daily humiliation, I realised that I'd never had a moment's respite. Something had grown inside me. I should have contained it, controlled it, but at that moment, I let it out....

 

A guttural, inarticulate cry escaped my lips, closer to the roar of a beast than to human speech. "...OUT! ...F...ND! Da.. Mo.. Aa..!"

 

The guards suddenly burst into the cell, whips in hand, unable to understand the origin of this sudden surge of madness.

 

I felt a strange clarity come over me, unconsciously I knew something was going to happen; I had crossed a point of no return.

 

The cell locks clicked and the door opened with a sinister creak. The guards entered the cell, their bloodshot eyes shining with ferocious cruelty. Their whips came down on me, each blow tearing flesh and soul. But the physical pain was insignificant compared to the inner storm raging inside me.

 

The cell door creaked again, revealing the silhouettes of the masters, their faces lit by smiles that looked like sharp blades. "Stand aside," one of them ordered, his hand sweeping the guards aside as if he were swatting away flies.

 

They revealed instruments of sinister design, objects that seemed born of nightmares. The cold metal of these tools touched my skin, and every touch was an icy bite that seemed to want to devour my being.

 

The pain that followed was beyond description, as if every nerve in my body was being ripped out, burnt and rearranged. But in the midst of this storm of suffering, a spark inside me refused to go out. It was a thought, fragile as a spider's thread but unshakeable: I had to survive, I had to be free.

 

Finally, the masters stepped back, their eyes shining with unhealthy satisfaction. One of them wiped an instrument covered in my blood, as if he were cleaning a brush after a work of art. "He's got it," he murmured.

 

The cell door closed behind them with a thud, leaving me alone in my pain and my thoughts. My body was a battlefield, but my mind was a whirlpool of confusion and despair.

 

Like the child I was, I began to cry, silent tears at first, which soon turned into uncontrollable sobs. I cried like the child I was, stripped of any pretence of strength or bravery.

 

My tears were a torrent that never seemed to stop, each drop carrying the weight of my suffering and despair.

 

Exhausted by my tears and the weakness of my battered body, I finally fell asleep, my last tears mingling with the dust and dirt on the floor of my cell.

 

Then I plunged into a singular dream. I was standing in a space of immaculate whiteness, facing a being who resembled me in every way, like a reflection in a mirror. However, it would be more accurate to say that I was confronting a past version of myself, because the difference lay in the marks that time had left on me: my body was marked with scars and wounds, visible evidence of my ordeals, while my opposite number remained untouched, without the slightest scratch.

 

Observing this flawless double attentively, I began to address him;

 

"I'm sorry," I murmured, my voice tinged with sadness. Before I could say anything more, my reflection snapped its fingers, triggering a cascade of memories that unfolded before me, like my life spinning out of control.

 

The first thing that caught my eye was the sight of my younger sister, crying at my clumsiness. We were outside as a family, enjoying a meal under a clear sky, when I begged my father to lift me onto his shoulders to pick an apple. Unfortunately, the apple slipped out of my hand and landed on my sister's head, causing her to burst into tears and us to panic.

 

Then my mind took me back to my maternal grandfather. His smiling face as he picked me up for little jaunts around the village, spoiling me with sweets, remains engraved in my mind. His death a few weeks later was my first contact with death, a cruel reality that I began to grasp when I saw my father's unfathomable sadness and my mother's tears.

 

The third memory took me to the top of a hill I loved, a place with a spectacular view over our territory. There, Soulmaster's book in hand, I dreamt aloud of one day becoming like the hero of the story, a goal I had solemnly set myself. The disappointment of realising shortly afterwards that this dream was perhaps out of reach had a profound effect on me.

 

These softer memories gave way to darker ones, depicting the time I spent with Sahar until her tragic execution by the slavers, and then my struggle to find my place among the other slaves, desperately seeking some semblance of camaraderie in that hellhole.

 

Suddenly, facing my reflection, I couldn't make out her eyes, veiled by a mist and hidden by her hair. "So this is what I've been reduced to?" he questioned, forcing me to face the reality of my state.

 

"Why are you showing me these memories?" I tried to deflect, ashamed at the revelation of my own degradation.

 

My reflection, patient and perceptive, guided me through my memories with gentle firmness. "Look at these moments from another angle," he advised me, infusing his voice with soothing wisdom. He stressed the need to recognise the hidden value behind every hardship, suggesting that even in the deepest shadows of my life, glimmers of hope and resilience had shone through. I grew weary of this prospect; the incessant chain of tragic events seemed insurmountable, leading me to question the very meaning of the struggle.

 

Without letting me sink any deeper into despair, my double confidently clarified: "Don't define yourself solely by the dark moments of your existence. He tenderly reminded me of the day when, in the innocence of my childhood, I had unwittingly made my sister cry. "Remember, she tried to mask her tears with a smile, wanting to show you that everything was fine," he emphasised, highlighting my sister's strength and childlike tenderness.

 

Then he took me back to another defining moment, when, faced with the loss of my grandfather, I had sought answers from my father. "Dad, will I ever see Grandpa again?" I asked, my voice full of curiosity mixed with sadness. My father, his eyes filled with a melancholy softness, replied with soothing conviction. "Yes, one day we'll all meet again.

 

Finally, he directed my attention to a facet of my life that I had neglected: the moments shared with my only two friends, both fellow slaves. "And don't forget the bonds forged in adversity," he added. "The laughter and hopes shared with your friends, despite the chains of your captivity, are testament to the human spirit's ability to find light even in the deepest darkness." These memories, though tinged with the harsh reality of our condition as slaves, were also moments of solidarity and resilience, islands of humanity in an ocean of despair.

 

"Every memory, every ordeal, builds you up, guiding you along the path you must take," he told me, shedding new light on the experiences that had shaped me.

 

As I dried my tears, a question crossed my mind about the unfinished dream on the hill. "Why is there no follow-up to this memory?" I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity mixed with sadness.

 

"That's precisely where you went wrong," he replied with a gentleness tinged with firmness. His correction was not a reproach, but a call to recognise a decisive turning point.

 

Confronted with this revelation, an inner metamorphosis took shape. "I refuse from now on to hide in the shadows of my aspirations," I declared, my voice full of renewed determination. "I long to be brave, resilient and worthy of respect. But beyond that, I want to be the spark that fights the darkness engulfing this world, to finally fulfil my true quest..."

 

He smiled at me, inviting me to take his hand, promising that if I aspired to fulfil my dream, the necessary strength was within my reach. "Become who you want to be. If the Soulmaster doesn't exist, then it's up to you to become him."

 

In that moment suspended between sleep and wakefulness, I was seized by a powerful sensation, transcending mere physical pain to reveal an inner strength emerging from the depths of my being. This energy, vibrant and new, seemed ready not only to release the shackles that had been holding me back, but also to usher in an era of profound change in my existence. It was the spark of my awakening, a pivot that would irreversibly redefine my destiny.