As the sun reached it zenith, its glare bore down on them with bitter resentment. The clearing was filled with a cacophony of dull thudding and the barking of the overseer. His eyes always searching for signs of resistance and conspiracy. Like a dog, desperate to bring a rabbit to its master so that he may feast on the scraps. 

Heron looked down at the axe in his hands. A crude and battered thing, worn from what seemed like decades despite it only being a month old. A smile came to his face, knowing that it would soon break, perhaps today depending on his mood. Such few acts of rebellion available to wretches like them. Even a few coppers wasted was enough to satisfy him until the time was right. 

Heron continued his labours; joining the orchestra of groans and thuds in the clearing. The other wretches he called his companions strained under the work, unused to the burden of the chains around their necks, and the labour with no rest. 

Most from the conquered lands of the far North, crushed under metal boots and forced to nurture lands they do not know. Heron took solace in their presence. He was better. The weak toil under the strong as nature decrees. They lacked the strength to defend their lands and suffered the consequences. Not like him, Heron was born for greatness. If it hadn’t been for the scheming of his treasonous teacher, he would be leading bands of warriors into foreign lands, he would be holding the chains. 

Heron scowled and cut into the tree with renowned vigour at the memory. Seeing his teacher, he released his frustrations and fury into the wood. Cutting deeper and deeper until the tree crashed towards the ground, littering the grass in leaves. He quickly chose his next target and repeated the process. He was a warrior; carving through his enemies just like the heroes of old. One by one they fell to his blade, be it monsters, giants or... trees. 

He inhaled deeply, holding it for moment before exhaling; the tension now gone from his body. His hands rose to wipe his brow, sweat flicking off as if he had just been caught in a storm. He couldn’t afford to act like this. Rage wasn’t something to be wasted working hard for his master, it was a precious resource that must be bottled and saved. Still, his venting soothed him, he would need the practice Afterall. 

Heron looked up and saw the hateful of the sun had began to calm, perhaps mimicking his emotions. The other slaves had exhausted themselves and had slowed to a crawl. They wouldn’t last long Heron thought. They would burn out like so many had before them, overworked and underfed. Sickness would take some, exhaustion others. This had not escaped the gaze of the overseer, a short runt by the name Niko. Heron noted that he looked more like a rat than a man, with his eyes always straining to escape from their sockets.  

Heron loathed Niko, greater than even his masters. They both wore chains, yet while Heron had sworn to never submit, Niko had eagerly abandoned his dignity to eat from the master's hand. 

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Niko gathered Heron and group of weary slaves, organising the group of ten into lines of five. He took time to ensure that everyone was present, and that their tools were accounted for in preparation for the march back ‘home’.  

One of the Northern looking slaves, a man in his later years with greying hair struggled to keep pace. Weak, he wouldn’t survive long in his new life. 

The group slowed at the command of Niko, issuing no reprimands or threats to the elderly man. Utterly without empathy, Niko had been no doubt told to conserve the strength of the slaves under his watch. Dying early would just lower his masters' profits; they had to be squeezed for all they were worth. Ever the dog walking at his masters' feet. This infuriated Heron to no end, he had so little time to himself. The slow walk back would eat into his time. Time he could spend preparing. 

By the time they returned to the estate, the suns heat had been replaced by the cool breeze of dusk. The villa centred in the middle of a scenic field, with gardens and an orchard surrounding it. The owner rarely visited, and it left much to be desired in beauty with only basic maintenance undertaken. Nothing like the palace he saw every night in his dreams.  

The estate manager oversaw the return of Heron and the other groups. Being sent to their quarters after granted their rations. A pathetic number of cereals and what was technically ‘wine’, just enough to keep him working. Reminding him of his childhood when he would be served fine food every day. Particularly fond he was of the memory of the feast that was held in honour of his father returning from far off land. Roast suckling pig with golden skin, so much fat and oil that it dripped. Olives as big as his fist... Heron continued to fantasize as he walked to his room. 

In the corner of the basement, a dark and dusty place devoid of hope or joy. There he shared with another slave, a tall strong man by the name of Tibeios. A man of very few words, which was how Heron liked it. There was no point in associating with those who lacked his ambition and drive. 

The first thing Heron did, before his bunkmate joined him was pull out his bed and uncover the hole he had dug. Hidden to prevent confiscation. Inside a small pouch filled with coins; he had obtained them any way he could, theft, trading with his fellow slaves. A handful came from the time he had been rewarded by the manager for good work. Some stolen tools such as a small knife. And the most precious thing he owned; a golden ring, with the face of a king engraved into the stone at the top. He had found it by chance one day while bathing in the river, and he dare not tell anyone about it, knowing that it was valued more than his life. 

Satisfied that his stash was untouched, he replaced the cover and moved his bed back. Promptly collapsing on it, eating his meagre rations, he dreamed of his home. The only thing that fuelled the fire that was his desire for freedom in his long years as a slave. The walls were like pearls, shined so bright that the sun would bounce making it seem like it was glowing. The door was fit for a giant, greater than anything he has seen since. Art littered the palace, with paintings so detailed he believed them to be real. He dreamt of the sun shining down on him gently, caressing him with comfort. He dreamt of his parents, their clothing as fine as flowing water. Though, so long has past that he can’t remember their faces. Heron often found himself intensely thinking, trying to remember the name of the place he called home. 

The only thing he could remember with certainty, a face burned into his very soul was his teacher. The man he trusted and relied on for so much. The man who doomed him to this wretched life. The man who stole him and sold him into slavery.