In a land beyond that of mortal comprehension, this story begins...

Beneath a scorching sun marched a convoy of tens of thousands of men, women, and children, trudging to the tune of cracking whips, as they pass through a sweltering desert. They were locked in shackles and trapped in chains, they were all broken in some way, whether it be the mightiest of warriors or the meekest of babes, they all possessed the same looks in their eyes. Despair. Fear. As they dragged their feet through the fiery red sand that blankets the landscape, they were akin to broken dolls, worn out by years of neglect and misuse. Thousands upon thousands of broken dolls… perhaps they were once happy, perhaps they used to laugh and cry. Now, however, within their hearts existed only despair and fear.

Indeed, they did not even appear to possess hate for the very creatures who had broken them into this pitiful state. These are the beasts who ripped them from their homes and placed them in a state of eternal servitude. Yet, not even the cracking of their leather whips upon their already beaten backs is sufficient to produce hate. Truly, they felt nothing. These broken beings had become so accustomed to their fate that even the smallest girl doesn’t let out a yelp when she is met by the lashes of her slave master. 

For all, this was the only life they could remember. Perhaps they had one beforehand, but it was lost to the sand that now underscored their journey. Knowing no life other than this, entertaining the thought of escape was an impossibility. Moreover, they had all experienced first-hand the cruelty of their captors.

A scene from a few days prior was still fresh in their minds, where a young boy tripped and fell in front of one of the slave masters and one of his many concubines. The slave master claimed that the boy was disrespecting him and that the only penalty for such disrespect was torture. To him, and his fellow slave masters, the life of a single slave was worth almost nothing… maybe a few copper coins at best. 

Thus, he went up to the young boy and thrust his sword into his chest by the backbone and severed all the boy’s ribs down to his loins. Then he pulled the boy’s lungs through the bloody hole he had made with his blade, creating what he affectionately called a ‘blood eagle’. The boy’s bloody and curdled screams coupled with the scene of his mangled body and the maniacal laughing face of the master seemed to give the captives a fleeting reminder of an important emotion, fear. This fear bound them, restricted them, more so than any physical chains ever could. 

Within this captive group of manifested misery walked a girl, she could be no older than 16 and appeared neither unique nor impressive, simply another Brethonic slave, with her short blonde hair dirtied by the crimson sands. Indeed, she was an ordinary slave. Servitude was all she knew, and she was for all intents and purposes, an ideal slave. Polite, careful, and most importantly, utterly subservient.

However, hidden deep within her eyes, beneath the despair and fear, there was an undetectable spark of hope. Its concealment has resulted in it being unknown to even herself, which was perhaps for the best, as a hopeful slave in this caravan was not long for this world. Usually, within the first few months of captivity and ‘re-education’, the idea of hope was beaten and broken away, leaving behind an empty shell of a person.

The girl walked through the desert, the soles of her bare feet blistering and peeling against the hot sand, in the same way as her fellow captives. Yet, suddenly, the crack of a slave master’s whip came down onto her back like a sabre, but she did not scream nor yelp. She knew she couldn't afford to. The whip came down again... and again… and again, soon her back had received thirty lashes. Despite the pain, the girl mustered the strength to wonder why she was receiving so many lashes, usually, it is only one or two before the slave master moves on to the next unfortunate victim; but, she doesn’t dare let that thought crawl onto her face. She would never know, yet the most likely answer is that the slave master felt like it. It is now that she started to discover herself, discovers that previously hidden spark of hope; the hope of rebellion, of freedom. Yet, she didn't let any emotions betray her expressionless façade. She knew that any hint of emotion would result in her receiving the same punishment as the unfortunate boy. 

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Thirty-one… thirty-two… thirty-three… by the seventieth lash, the girl stopped counting. Her mind wouldn't let her concentrate on anything else but enduring the pain. If her mind wasn’t dedicated solely to withstanding the brutal onslaught of leather on skin, she would have noticed that she had become the centre of attention for the surrounding slaves and masters. In fact, some masters had even temporarily halted their march so as to stay, watch and enjoy the spectacle. 

Soon, the girl could handle no more as she dropped to her knees and grabbed the torn and mangled skin and bone that had once composed her back. Her blood covered her hands and stained the rags that had been her clothes for as long as she could remember. Her surroundings had been transformed into a splattering of red blood and sand. Her face had grown pale. It was clear that she was only an inch away from death, with her very existence quivering before the gates of Hell. 

As the girl tried with all her dwindling strength to not close her eyes for what would likely be the final time, she heard a vicious laugh followed by a dreaded voiced’, “HAHAHA. Well done, most of you Brethonii can’t even handle fifty lashes of my whip, let alone ninety-seven! Well done, well done! Now, girl, I’ve been watching you for a while now… and you seem to be very… obedient.” The daunting slave master stepped her body, the clattering his ostentatious weaponry ringing in her blood-filled ears. He pressed his fingers down into her disfigured back, “Very good! You’re not dead yet, excellent.” With a sinister grin he callled out to nobody in particular, “Somebody fix up this little Brethonic whore. I’ve decided to make her my personal ‘aide’, so make sure she lives... or else."

Following this, he bent down to her further, placing his face mere centimetres from her own, and whispered something inaudible to those spectating. To this, the girl, weak and close to death, extended her arm towards the body of the slave master; the slave master did not react, perhaps this was what his whisper demanded. Then, in a flash, the girl adjusted the trajectory of her hand, angling up and grabbing a dagger from his belt. Instantly, the girl buried the dagger deep within the slave master's neck. She drew it out, then back in; this time, a few centrimetres to the right. Within mere seconds, she had inflicted a dozen deep wounds on the master's neck and face. Whatever despair and fear that used to exist within the girl had been sidelined. In their place, she now carried a multitude of emotions. Rage. Anger. Hope. As for the slave master, his face had been crafted by the girl's blade into a mangled mess, oozing with blood. His screams brought those spectating to attention, but it was too late for him. His face had been thoroughly mutilated and his death delivered.

For the girl, there was no happy ending. After the act, she lunged at the other masters; alas, she was too weak, and she no longer possessed the element of surprise. She was quickly beaten unconscious. As punishment, she was flayed alive before a crowd of slaves and slave masters. However, this death was merely temporal. Her actions - her defiance of the existing order - made her immortal to those who succeeded her; that is, to those who carried that same spark. Indeed, to those of the caravan, she had inspired that hope through her defiance of despair and fear. Moreover, she had demonstrated mortality and fragility. Her actions sparked something; now, a rebellion was brewing, and a new age beckoned.