The old man's eye sharpened. "I was never a slave," he said. "Not until they decided I should be."
Something in his tone shifted—less weariness now, more steel beneath the rust. "I was a noble once. Accused of treason." His fingers curled slightly around the chain, knuckles whitening. "They stripped my rank. Stole my land, my wealth. Turned my name into a curse people spit on the ground." He exhaled slowly. "I became nothing. But unlike you, boy, I remember every single moment of it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "A nightmare that never ends, even when I sleep."
The young man listened, silent. There was sympathy in his eyes, but no pity. After a brief pause, he asked, "How can I get a name?"
The old man snapped his head toward him. "I am being emotional here," he hissed, irritation flashing, "and all you care about is getting a name." Then, after a heartbeat, he sighed. "Still… I can't blame you. Having a name is everything."
The young man frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"A name," the old man said, "is identity. Proof that you exist as something more than just livestock." He leaned closer despite the chains. "And name carries power."
"Power?" The young man echoed the word, curiosity outweighing fear.
"Yes. Power." The old man's voice carried a quiet conviction now. "Power granted by the gods themselves. Power that keeps men alive in this cruel world full of monsters."
The young man absorbed that, then asked, "Where can I get a name?"
"There are three kinds of people who can give one," the old man replied. "The rich. The powerful. And the holy. Anyone who possesses one of those can bestow a name."
The young man met his gaze steadily. "So… you can give me a name?"
The old man opened his mouth—
"Up!" a voice barked.
The tent flap was torn open, light flooding in. Soldiers stood there, armored, armed, faces bored and cruel all at once. "On your feet. Fall in line. Pairs."
Chains were yanked, curses hissed, bodies dragged upright. The young man pushed himself up despite the ache in his head, steadying the old man when he wobbled. They were linked together by chains, shuffled forward like cattle.
Outside, the morning light caused the slaves to cover their eyes for a moment. The young man knew he was unconscious for the whole night.
The camp was alive with movement. Caged carriages waited, iron bars gleaming. The smell of smoke and sweat hung thick in the air.
As they neared one of the cages, a man stepped forward.
He wore gold-trimmed armor, polished despite the dust, a sword resting easily at his side. His smile was thin and practiced.
"Well," he said pleasantly, "look what we have here. The former Duke of Hallosbel." His eyes gleamed. "Duke Leopold de Vedre. I'm pleased to see you."
Leopold, the old man, scoffed, the sound sharp despite his frailty. "I wish I could say the same, Hevert. Or should I call you the filthy dog of Hallosbel?"
The punch came without warning.
Hevert's fist drove into Leopold's abdomen. The old man folded with a sharp gasp. Before he could hit the ground, the young man moved, instinctively catching him under the arm, lowering him carefully despite the chains.
"Learn respect," Hevert said coldly, "old slave. You think you still hold power? You have nothing."
Leopold wheezed, then forced himself upright with the young man's help. His eye burned with fury. "I have nothing because of you—and the Warhog family," he spat. "You conspired against me. Planted false evidence. Framed me as a traitor. Took everything. My land. My wealth. My family."
Hevert leaned in, voice low and venomous. "And soon your life," he said softly. "Just be grateful. Your beautiful wife and daughters still draw breath—thanks to Duke Sebas Warhog."
Something snapped.
With a surge of desperate strength, Leopold lunged.
Hevert reacted instantly, driving a boot into Leopold's chest. The old man crashed back, chains clattering. "Stay still," Hevert said calmly. "It's not your time to die."
His gaze shifted to the young man, seized the chain and hauled him toward the carriage.
The young man didn't resist. He helped Leopold up again, supporting him as they climbed into the iron cage.
As the door slammed shut, Leopold looked back through the bars, his eye locked on Hevert.
"You're nothing but a pawn," Leopold said hoarsely. "Sooner or later, Sebas will discard you like trash. I only hope I live long enough to see it."
Hevert's jaw tightened. "Shut up, old man."
The carriage lurched forward.
The young man watched Leopold in silence, something heavy settling in his chest. Awe crept in first—unwanted, unasked for—followed closely by sympathy. It was difficult to reconcile the frail old man beside him with the image Leopold had painted of himself: a duke, a ruler of lands, a man whose name once carried weight. Power reduced to chains. Authority to dust.
He finally spoke, voice low so the guards wouldn't hear. "Looks like you were telling the truth, old man."
Leopold cracked one eye open and snorted. "Of course I was. You imbecile kid." His lip curled faintly. "And you didn't even try to help me beat that disgraced Keeper."
The young man glanced toward the iron bars, then back at Leopold. "He had a sword."
Leopold huffed, the sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. "Fair enough." He shifted, wincing as the chains tugged at his wrists and ankles. "My whole body's aching. I need rest." Without waiting for another word, he closed his eyes again, breathing evenly out despite the jolting carriage.
The young man leaned back against the bars, careful not to disturb him. He let his gaze wander.
Only now did he truly see the scale of it.
The caravan stretched far beyond what he'd imagined—dozens of caged carriages like theirs rattling along the road, escorted by dozens more standard wagons stacked with supplies and foot soldiers. Hundreds of horses kicked up dust as they moved, soldiers riding in loose formation around them, alert and unbothered. This wasn't a raid or a patrol.
This was an army on the march.
The carriage lurched forward as the caravan began to move in earnest. The sun climbed steadily, and with it came heat—unforgiving and dry. Sweat clung to the young man's skin, his throat tightening with thirst long before noon. The forested terrain fell away behind them, replaced by flat, barren land. Trees thinned, then vanished altogether. The earth cracked under the sun's gaze, lifeless and pale.
No one spoke much as the hours dragged on. Groans and quiet sobs drifted from neighboring cages, but even those faded as exhaustion set in.
By the time the caravan stopped, dusk had already begun to creep in, painting the horizon in bruised shades of red and purple.
The soldiers didn't let the slaves out.
Instead, hands shoved coarse bread through the bars—one small piece per person—and passed along waterskins just long enough for a few gulps. It was all they would get for the day.
No one complained.
The young man watched people tear into the bread as if it were a feast. Crumbs fell, quickly scooped up with trembling fingers. He ate too, slowly, forcing himself not to rush. The bread was dry and tasteless, but it filled the hollow ache in his stomach just enough to quiet it.
Leopold chewed in silence, muttering under his breath between bites. "Hard as stone… tasteless… disgraceful…" Still, he ate every last crumb.
As the camp settled, the young man noticed movement beyond the cages. A lone horse passed by, ridden by a gray hooded figure. The rider didn't slow, didn't glance their way, but the guards straightened instinctively. The horse headed toward a tent larger than the rest—its canvas thicker, its shape reinforced with wooden beams. Lantern posts surrounded it, casting steady light, and guards stood watch on all sides.
Leopold's eye followed the rider, sharp despite his weariness.
"That one," he murmured, lowering his voice further, "might be a scout. They send them ahead to watch the fortress—count fires, measure walls, see how the goblins move at dusk."
The young man looked at him. "So they're close."
"Close enough," Leopold said quietly. "Which means we won't be far behind."
He fell silent for a moment, listening to the distant clink of armor and the murmur of soldiers. Then he turned his head slightly toward the young man. "Rest well tonight, kid. Tomorrow will be the big day." His tone lost its bite, leaving only hard-earned certainty. "Try to survive."
The young man met his gaze. There was fear there, yes—but beneath it, something steadier. Resolve, quiet and unyielding.
"I will," he said simply.
Leopold studied him for a second longer, then nodded, as if committing the answer to memory. He leaned back and closed his eyes again.