The manacles served as Kakavasha's sole weapon. With the chain coiled tightly around his fists, he navigated through the clump of slaves, his expression stoic and brimming with determination as they succumbed, one by one. His hands, however, belied his inner turmoil, seeing as his fingers trembled when he came face to face with you.

He had vowed to himself that he wouldn't allow any attachment to weaken his resolve, but with each exchanged glance and shared word, he realised that even in this dreary environment, you were akin to a beacon of light. What would become of him if he were to extinguish his only star?

The urge to seize your hand overwhelmed him. He wanted to shield you from the horros and carnage. Ironically enough, he was the only threat present. All around you, lifeless bodies lay limp, their blood creating a morbid painting on the ground. It was a battle waged in desperation, a battle for life, where even the victor turned out to be a loser. If he were to win, he would fall right back in the hands of his master. In the grand scheme of things, they were naught but pawns, moved across a checkered battlefield, and Kakavasha knew that the regret would gnaw at him for the entirety of his miserable existence.

His mind was a battlefield of its own. Was the taste of triumph really sweet when achieved at the cost of his morality? He was convinced that surviving would bring about more pain than death. In death he could reunite with his family, but he had to honor the name of his kin. He couldn't be forgotten, nor remembered as a mere number.

His chest heaved with the weight of his guilt, but what really managed to painfully twist the knife was a poignant detail; the pristine chains that bound your wrists, so starkly different from his sullied ones. You were too pure, and he knew that he was too weak to hurt you. A dangerous seed of hope had already planted itself in his soul. Perhaps, against all odds, the two of you would be able to survive this together.