The heavy wheels of the slave wagon groaned against the muddy road as it trudged forward under the dim morning sky. In front of the wagon sat a short, chubby man stroking his full mustache, his bulbous nose twitching in irritation. His fine silk robes, now damp from the morning mist, clung uncomfortably to his rolls of fat. He scowled at the overcast sky before barking,
"Fucking rain, making my life even more of a misery. Oi, Luke! Speed up!"
The driver, a wiry man with sunken cheeks, barely acknowledged the order, but he snapped the reins nonetheless. The horses trudged forward, their hooves splattering mud onto the wooden wheels. The fat slave trader groaned in frustration.
"If we don't make it to the camps by night, I'll only pay you half a gold coin!" he added with a sneer.
A faint chill clung to the air, the scent of damp earth mixing with the stale stench of unwashed bodies. Inside the cramped, rusted cage, nearly a dozen slaves huddled together. Some were young, their faces tight with fear, others were old, their eyes hollow with despair. The wooden bars were worn smooth from years of suffering hands grasping them in desperation.
Among them sat a 19-year-old boy, Asher, his wrists bound in iron shackles, his clothes little more than ragged scraps. His dark, messy hair clung to his forehead, damp from the morning drizzle. He had learned long ago that names meant nothing in places like this. He was a body to be used, another tool thrown into war. But in his mind, one thought burned brighter than all others.
'I have to survive. But why? Only to be used and suffer over and over again?'
Across from him, another boy of similar age sat hunched, his arms wrapped around his knees. His name, at least the one he'd been given, was Ren. He had been sold alongside Asher in the town of Solime just three weeks ago. Like Asher, he bore the dull, bruised look of someone passed from hand to hand. But unlike Asher, who remained silent, Ren still had some fight left in him. His sharp eyes darted around, taking in every detail of their surroundings, his mind likely trying to piece together an escape that would never come.
Asher thought back to Solime, the town where he'd been sold yet again. His previous master, a cruel merchant who worked his slaves to the bone, had deemed him too rebellious and troublesome. With little hesitation, he had been dragged to the marketplace, where the fat slave trader, who introduced himself as Master Orlin, had appraised him like livestock. "Broad shoulders, strong arms… A bit too defiant, but that can be broken. I'll take him," Orlin had said, his plump fingers prodding Asher's ribs. War had made men like Orlin rich. Armies always needed bodies to throw into the grinder, and slaves were cheaper than trained soldiers. With the battles raging on, demand for expendable fighters had never been higher. To him, Asher and the others weren't people, they were investments, tools to be sold for profit before they broke. A few exchanged coins later, Asher had been thrown onto the wagon, joining the others in their shared misery.
The journey had been a grueling one. Asher had thought about escaping more than once. He was only bound by chains during this journey, his true shackles would come when he was branded with a Slave Mark. Once that was done, his will would no longer be his own, tethered by the Weaving ability that made disobedience and escape impossible. This was his last chance. But even if he broke free of his chains, where would he go? Every town, every road, was watched. And if he failed, the punishment would be far worse than what he already endured. This was their fifth day in the cage, and each passing day blurred into the next. They had traveled through thick forests, and past crumbling villages, stopping only for food and rest. Orlin was careful with his "merchandise," ensuring they were fed just enough to keep them from collapsing. He even refrained from outright beatings, though his guards were not as disciplined. Slaves who dared to speak too much, who questioned too loudly, received quick and brutal reminders of their place.
A few of the older slaves sat in grim silence, too weary to hope. Some of the younger ones still sobbed at night, clutching at each other for comfort. Others, like Ren, still watched and waited for an opportunity that would never come.
It was on the third day that one of the new slaves, an older man with frail limbs and sunken cheeks, had whispered in a trembling voice, "We're heading toward the battlegrounds."
Fear rippled through the wagon. The battlegrounds. A place where slaves were thrown into the meat grinder of war, sent to die for causes that weren't their own. The frail man had continued whispering prayers to the Sun God ever since, his lips moving feverishly as if divine intervention would somehow spare him from his fate. He clutched a small, wooden sun pendant in his bony fingers, his knuckles white with desperation.
Orlin had laughed when he overheard him. "Pray all you want, old man," he sneered. "Your god won't save you from the frontlines."
***
Now, as the wagon rocked and lurched forward through the mud, the murmured prayers of the old man continued, mixing with the rattling chains and the occasional curses of the guards. Asher's fingers tightened into fists. He had seen many broken men before. He refused to become one of them.
The sky above remained heavy with gray clouds, but no one looked up. As the wagon crested a small hill, the distant glow of campfires flickered on the horizon. The war camps had come into sight. Rows upon rows of tents stretched far into the distance, barely visible through the misty dusk. The scent of smoke and damp earth thickened in the air. The cries of distant voices, the clanging of metal, and the faint sounds of marching feet reached their ears. Night was about to fall, and their journey was at its end. The reality of what awaited them settled over the slaves like a suffocating blanket. Orlin, noticing the sight ahead, smirked with satisfaction. "Right on schedule," he muttered. "Time to make some coin." Their futures were set, their fates sealed. The only thing left was to endure.