The March of Chains
Feeling better, Sam walked slowly back toward the camp.
Around him, slaves were packing what little they had. Some were dismantling the tents with quick, practiced movements, while others tore down makeshift wooden shelters, salvaging what could be reused and discarding the rest. Anything unfit for the journey was left behind without hesitation.
The scene stirred a deep unease in Sam's chest. He turned to Teron.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
Teron, tightening the straps on his pack, replied, "The city of Pyrethorne. It's one of the prominent cities under the Ember Nest Kingdom."
Sam's breath caught for a moment. Pyrethorne. A proper city. That likely meant a proper slave market.
"Oh... okay," he said, feigning indifference. But inside, dread took root.
He paused before asking again, this time more cautiously. "How long will it take to get there?"
"If we don't stop much," Teron said, "we'll reach by late evening."
