Part IV: War Slaves
When consciousness returned, Nex found himself caged in a moving carriage with his friends—and the infant. Goat milk, food, and water sat within reach, enough for a long journey.
Actaeon spoke first, his voice hoarse from the drugs.
"Where are we going?"
The coachman's face was hidden beneath a robe. Even when he glanced back, they could not see his features. A grim smile twisted his lips—there was no kindness in it.
"West, boy. To the war front."
"What war?" Actaeon's archer instincts sharpened—danger, deception, survival—all flashing through his mind as he analyzed their situation.
"The one your deaths started," the coachman said, his tone laced with matter-of-fact cruelty. "There was an ambassador. He was royal blood from Wu. You have met him—red feathers on the ear of his helmet, a tiger drawn on his helmet and armor as well. Jian was his name. They demanded land as compensation."
Nex's stomach dropped.
"He was royalty?"
"Distant, but enough to matter. Stella saw an opportunity and threatened war to reclaim lands Emperor Bewolf conquered. But Lavat..." The coachman paused, savoring their growing horror. "They lost their crown prince. Their only heir."
"That guard's master," Tazan whispered, remembering the broken-backed man in the hole.
"Their only prince, and the king's only child. They demanded one of the emperor's sons as a hostage. When he refused..." The coachman shrugged. "Three fronts. Three wars. All because you four crawled out of that hole."
Actaeon's world tilted.
"We're going to fight?"
"You're war slaves, heading to what is believed to become the bloodiest front. Officially dead. Announced by your own families."
The words hit like cold steel.
"What do you mean, 'announced by our families'?" Actaeon's voice cracked.
"Some believed you died in that hole. Others..." The coachman's gaze lingered on Actaeon with something like pity. "Others took coin to forget they ever saw you breathing."
"Whose parents took coin?" Actaeon asked, already expecting the answer.
The coachman looked back without showing any of his features.
"Looks like you already know, young hunter."
Shame burned through Actaeon as understanding dawned. His parents—the hunters who'd trained him, who'd praised his leadership—they'd sold him.
Nex placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.
"At least your father took money to forget you. Mine did it with an empire's wealth at his disposal."
Despite everything, Nex managed a bitter chuckle. He glanced at the infant, now stirring in his lap. Tiny fingers curled around the fabric of his tunic, clinging with quiet trust. Nex's expression softened just for a moment before he looked back to Tazan and Actaeon. Without words, they understood—if they were going to survive, it would be for this child, who had seen nothing of life yet.
Arriving at a camp guarded by foot soldiers—the most common and weakest soldiers of the empire, but their numbers were tenfold any other army—the camp was protected by a small number of them and natural trees and bushes. The tents weren't visible until they crossed into the bushes: a stronghold camp.
The twins greeted them at the tactical camp, having ridden ahead on horseback.
"Hello, boys," Abigail said softly, as if she weren't the reason they wore chains.
When she reached toward the infant, Nex lunged forward, trying to bite her hand. Her quick reflexes—honed by Sarah's training—saved her as she dodged back.
Alexander, seeing the attack on his sister, kicked Nex in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured down his chin as he fell backward. The violence came naturally, despite everything Lucy had taught them about protecting their families.
Tazan's massive frame strained against his chains, rage filling his white eyes.
"You coward! Fighting children!"
Guards struck him repeatedly with clubs until he collapsed, unconscious.
Actaeon helped Nex sit up, his archer's eyes burning with hatred as he stared at the twins.
"Re-dye his hair golden brown," Abigail snapped. "And from now on, he answers to Servus. It means slave. Also, don't think someone is coming to help you. Your father was relieved to know you're dead. And Lucy? She didn't care."
As they worked, Alexander leaned close to Nex.
"Use the name 'Nex' again, and we'll kill your friends one by one. Starting with the baby."
The twins didn't see this as cruelty—in their minds, they were being merciful. They believed this was a necessaty they needed Nex to disappear so their battle for the throne with Damon would be head to head without any potential backstabbing from Nex.
"You should be thanking us," Abigail said, her voice filled with twisted justification. "We're saving your life. Your father would've killed you when you crawled out of that hole. Instead, we're giving you a chance to live."
Their plan was simple: make Nex disappear so their father's throne would be between them and Damon. With Nex gone, Lucy would return to caring for them as she had before—reading them stories and teaching them to depend on each other, as their mother had wanted.
But they had miscalculated.
Back at the palace, Lucy sat alone in the dim chamber—the place where she kept her secrets. Rune-scrolls lay scattered, their edges curling like dead leaves.
Her fingers trembled as she traced the fading symbols, each line a pulse of guilt beneath her skin.
A soft voice echoed in the silence—her own, but not quite.
"They will never forgive you," it whispered, thin and cold.
She blinked. The room shifted. A mirror hung on the far wall, but the reflection that stared back was fractured—three faces blurred and overlapping, eyes filled with grief, anger, and something darker. Something hungry.
The candle beside her flickered three times—then died, the sound of her breath and the rustling paper the only noises left.
"Mother?" a fragile voice called from somewhere deep inside her mind.
Another voice snapped back, sharp and bitter.
"We carry the truth alone."
Lucy's breath hitched. She tried to stand, but the weight of memories—shattered lives, burning flames, the children's cries—pulled her back into the chair.
The shards of her mind rattled, each fragment wrestling for control. One face smiled sadly, the next scowled, the last vanished into shadow.
A sudden knock at the door startled her, and she froze.
Who's there? The question splintered into three answers—none clear, all trembling with fear.
The past was not done with her. And neither was the darkness.