Reborn As A Slave: The Fallen God's Revenge

Chapter 8

That night, Teresa could not sleep.

She had been lying down for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling of her lavish chamber — gold carvings along its edges, silk cloth hanging from the posts of her bed, all the luxury she usually paid no attention to. Tonight, everything felt heavy. Oppressive. Like stones being laid slowly on her chest without her realizing it.

The candles in the corners of the room flickered in the silence. Her own shadow on the wall moved languidly, as if more restless than she was willing to admit.

*"She looks so much like you. I even thought it was you."*

Her servant's words kept spinning in her head, over and over, like a needle piercing the same spot without end.

Teresa rolled over and stared at the window. The night sky stretched out full of stars, cold and distant, indifferent to everything churning beneath it. A thin breeze crept in through a gap in the window that hadn't been shut all the way, carrying the smell of wet earth and the late hour of the night. Her hands gripped the blanket without thinking, her fingers pressing hard into the fabric.

So the man had not been lying.

There was someone out there who truly looked like her. Not just a passing resemblance — a likeness so close that her own servant could not tell them apart. And that man, a slave who had not even flinched when faced with Libradon, had called her *beloved* with such certainty — as if the word were not something foreign in his mouth, but a name he had spoken a thousand times before.

Teresa let out a slow breath and closed her eyes, trying to quiet her thoughts.

It didn't work.

She thought again of the man's body on the cross. Lash after lash landing on his back without enough pause between them to breathe. The sound of skin splitting open. The blood that ran freely, dripping onto the stone floor beneath him, pooling slowly, the puddle growing larger by the minute.

And the man did not complain. Did not cry out. Did not beg. Did not say a single word asking for mercy — not even when the whip landed for the tenth, the twentieth, the thirtieth time.

Only silence.

A silence that was hard and hard and hard, until Teresa herself had felt suffocated watching it. A silence that — for whatever reason, was far more agonizing than any scream of pain she had ever heard.

Teresa rose from her bed.

The palace corridors felt quieter than usual at this hour. No sound of guards exchanging words at the end of the hall, no footsteps of servants hurrying past with something in hand. Only a thick, cold stillness, and within it, the sound of Teresa's footsteps and those of a single servant following behind, carrying a small torch.

The torch flame shivered each time they passed through a draft, their shadows stretching long and shrinking short against the stone walls of the long corridor.

"My lady," the servant whispered, her voice held back so it wouldn't echo too far. "Where are we going at this hour?"

"Just follow," Teresa answered without looking back.

The servant did not ask again, though her unease was plain in the way she quickened her pace to avoid falling behind.

They stopped before a door at the far end of the palace wing, in a section that was rarely passed through, rarely cleaned, rarely thought about. The wooden door was heavy and old, its paint peeling in places. The moment it swung open, a sharp smell hit them from inside. Blood. Dampness. Straw that had gone too long without being changed.

A smell that had no place in a palace this grand.

But apparently, no one cared.

In the corner of the room, on a stone floor covered by nothing more than a thin layer of straw, the body of God Mervous lay on its side. No mattress. No blanket. His hands were still bound behind his back, though the rope had gone a little slack, as if someone had loosened it slightly — whether on purpose or not was unclear. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, proof that he was still alive, if barely.

Teresa stepped toward him. The stone floor felt cold even through the soles of her shoes.

In the dim light of the torch her servant held from behind, God Mervous's face looked pale as paper that had been soaked in water too long. His lips were slightly parted. His hair clung to his forehead and temples from sweat that had already dried. The wounds on his body, visible through the torn edges of his ragged collar, had partly begun to dry into dark red crusts, but several were still open and deep, their edges still raw and angry.

Teresa crouched down and studied that face up close.

Hard. Even in a state like this, even with all the wounds and pallor and unmistakable weakness, there was something in the lines of his face that had not been broken. His firm jaw. Brows that had not folded in fear even in this restless sleep. Something that radiated a strange kind of authority — not arrogance, not pride, but something deeper and quieter than either of those. Something she had never found in any slave she had ever seen.

"Who are you, really?" Teresa murmured softly, more to herself than to the man lying before her.

As if he had heard her voice, God Mervous's eyelids moved. Slowly. Very slowly and very heavily, like someone trying to lift a weight too great for the state his body was in. His eyes opened halfway, struggling to focus in the dim torchlight, searching for a moment, before finally finding Teresa's face directly in front of his.

Something shifted in the man's expression. Faint, but there.

His lips moved. His voice came out hoarse and barely audible, buried beneath his labored breathing.

*"...My goddess..."*

Teresa went still.

Not because the word was annoying the way it had been this afternoon. Not because she felt mocked or belittled. But because of the way the man said it, with a longing that was genuine and unguarded, like someone seeing a face that had been missing from their life for a very long time, like someone who could not believe they were finally looking at that face again.

Like someone who had been waiting.

A moment later, the man's eyes closed again. His body stopped moving, returning to that uneasy stillness.

Teresa rose slowly. There was something in her chest that felt tight in a way she did not recognize — not anger, not pity, not discomfort. A feeling with no name she knew, but one that would not simply go away.

"Bring medicine from my room," she told the servant, her voice heavier than usual. "Bandages too. All of it. Now."

---

The following morning, Teresa walked into the main hall with steps that were quicker and more deliberate than usual.

Libradon was already seated on his throne since early morning — the man rarely slept long. A cup of red wine was in his hand even though the sun had barely risen, his face relaxed as if nothing had happened the night before, as if he had not ordered someone to be punished until they could barely breathe.

"Teresa." He greeted her with the faint smile that always reminded Teresa of someone playing cards and confident they were holding the better hand. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"Your Majesty." Teresa bowed briefly, then looked the man directly in the eye. "I want to ask something of you."

Libradon raised one brow, his cup stopping midway. "Speak."

"End the punishment for that slave. Hand him over to me."

A short but heavy silence fell between them. Libradon set his cup down slowly on the arm of the throne, his eyes narrowing in a way that was not quite angry but not quite friendly either.

"Wasn't it you who returned him to me just yesterday?"

"I know. Now I'm asking for him back."

Libradon was quiet for a moment. Then his laughter erupted — a long laugh that wasn't truly amused, echoing off the tall walls of the hall like a sound that wanted to be heard by everyone.

"Teresa, Teresa." He shook his head slowly. "Yesterday you came in looking like someone about to take a head. Now you come asking for him back before breakfast. What happened between then and now?"

"That's none of your concern, Your Majesty."

Libradon's brow climbed higher. His tone shifted — still light on the surface, but with a warning underneath, like ice that looked thin over deep water. "None of my concern?"

"What I mean is..." Teresa softened her tone slightly, not out of fear, but because she knew when to choose which battles were worth winning and how. "I can't explain everything right now. But trust me. I have my reasons."

Libradon leaned back on his throne, studying the woman before him with an expression that was difficult to read, like someone weighing something from every angle and not liking what he found on any side.

"He is nearly dead, Teresa." His voice lost a little of its lightness. "His wounds are deep enough. Even if you were to take him away right now, I'm not sure he would last a week."

"That's my risk to take." Teresa did not waver. "Please, Your Majesty. Hand him over to me."

"No."

"Your Majesty—"

"No." This time firmer, colder. "He has received his punishment. This is a matter that has been resolved in its own way. I will not have anyone interfere with what I have already decided — not even you, Teresa."

Teresa clenched her hand inside the folds of her clothing, out of sight, but tight enough to channel something that needed to be channeled so her mind could stay clear.

She knew Libradon. She had known him long enough to understand that the man was stubborn in a way that could not be fought head-on, like a cliff face that only grows stronger the harder the waves crash against it. But Teresa also would not be leaving empty-handed. Not tonight, not after last night.

"Your Majesty." Her voice dropped lower and softer — not weak, but chosen with great care, like someone who knew exactly which key fit which lock. "I have never asked much of you. All this time, in everything you have ever asked of me, I have always complied. You know that better than anyone."

Libradon did not answer, but his eyes made a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Teresa saw it.

"Just this one thing." Teresa took one step closer, holding his gaze. "Hand him over to me. Let me handle the rest. If I turn out to be wrong about that man — if he truly means nothing, as you believe — I will never ask anything of you again."

A long silence hung between them.

Libradon stared at Teresa for a long time. A very long time. His face shifted subtly, various unspoken calculations running behind his eyes, and from all of them, not one appeared to give him an answer he liked.

At last, a long and heavy breath left his mouth. Like someone yielding not because they had lost, but because they had decided this was not worth holding out for any longer.

"Fine." He waved his hand lazily, as if shooing away a fly. "Take him then. But don't come to me complaining if that man dies in your hands, Teresa. That is no longer my responsibility."

Teresa held back the smile that almost rose to her lips. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

She bowed respectfully, then turned and walked out of the hall before Libradon had the chance to find a reason to change his mind.

---

It didn't take long for two guards to carry God Mervous's body to the wing of the palace where Teresa resided. Teresa walked ahead, leading the way, while behind her the guards half-dragged the man's body with heavy steps they made no effort to conceal, as if wanting to show just how much trouble all of this was.

Once they arrived at the room Teresa had indicated, she immediately ordered her servant to prepare warm water, clean cloth, and all the medicine in her cabinet.

"Lay him down on that cot."

The guards set God Mervous down roughly — rougher than necessary, rougher than one ought to handle even an animal. Teresa shot them a sharp look, and they read it correctly.

"Get out."

They left without a word.

The room fell quiet again. Only the sound of God Mervous's labored and uneven breathing, and the sound of her servant moving quickly to bring the requested items before retreating to a corner of the room to wait for further orders.

Teresa sat down in a small chair beside the cot. She studied the face of the man now lying before her — the same face as the night before, with all its wounds and pallor and the strange authority that neither had broken. A face that, the longer she looked at it, made something in her mind keep searching and finding nothing.

She picked up a cloth, dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and began cleaning the deepest wound on the man's left shoulder. Her hands moved carefully, more carefully than she had planned.

The man did not stir.

"You said you knew me," Teresa murmured softly, her eyes still on the wound she was cleaning. "You said there was someone who looked like me."

She dipped the cloth back into the water. It turned pale pink, then slowly deep red.

"Who is she?" she whispered. "And who are you, really?"

God Mervous did not answer. Of course he didn't.

But for the first time since the man had arrived at this palace, those questions did not make Teresa angry. Did not make her chest feel tight with a sense of irritation she wanted to be rid of as quickly as possible.