[ his body is awkward with the way it lays on the mattress, face down with his arms and legs still connected by an obnoxious golden chain, and kaveh would almost have had half the mind to say, unchain me if it weren't a foolish request to make. he's already doing what he does best: defying the impossible, challenging authorities. no other slave would have dared to talk back, to speak out of turn. they would have been beaten, tortured, punished, taught a lesson they would never forget. alhaitham does not do any of that, and kaveh hasn't yet had the time to wonder why. he doesn't bother to worry about what alhaitham thinks of him at all.

silence is, still, always so telling. kaveh listens, wishes he didn't, thinks on it. it is not something he would ever like to admit: that alhaitham is right. how is he to help another when he cannot help himself? how is he to ensure the safety of so many other people, when he can barely make sure he himself is safe?

with what autonomy, and under what authority? ]

Am I to accept my fate, then, and discard my personhood with so much ease? [ is what he goes with, quietly, from the bed. it is a half-minded reply, defeated. his body is sore, he's sleep-deprived, and when kaveh stops to think, he's also starving. he hasn't had an actual meal in an entire day.

what reason is there to argue, when all he has is words and not a sword? ] Do you treat all your slaves like decoration as well?