I have no name.

I've been a slave for a little over a year now but it's been five months since I arrived here.

I was brought to this outpost to construct a fortress city for the Alliance—a stark symbol of their relentless expansion and greed. Nestled between the borders of the Uncharted Forest and the Council of Hisperia's goblin domain, the outpost loomed like an unyielding scar upon the land.This outpost once finished would server as a city to extend their reach towards the deeper portions of the forest. Each day, we are forced to cut and till the land, driving deeper into the forest’s heart. Exhaustion has become my constant companion; we are granted no more than five hours of sleep, a single meager meal, and long hours of labor. When I fall asleep, my dreams, when they come, are haunted by the faces of those I let down. They linger at the edges of my mind, their voices calling to me in whispers that fade as quickly as they come. Each time I close my eyes, I relive the moments of failure and loss, trapped in an endless cycle of regret.

They took everything from me—my name, my loved ones, my freedom, even the memories of my homeland. Now I am just a tool, like the hammers and picks they force into our hands. A nameless slave, one among many.

Unlike my homeland, the air here reeked of death and misery, blending with the oppressive weight of the forest’s ever-looming presence. The thick canopy above let in little light, casting everything in a perpetual gloom, while the cries of distant creatures echoed ominously through the forest. Every breath carried the weight of despair, pressing down on those who toiled within its confines. This outpost was one of many the Alliance had begun constructing to assert control over untamed lands. I came from an outpost near the Unowa Sea and kobald domain. They were both the same but at least over there, when I die, I would be surrounded by my homeland.

As I start my day the dwarves bark their morning orders, their voices cutting through the humid air. “Get up, you worthless lot! The city won’t build itself!” Their whips crack for emphasis, though no one would dare to defy them. We shuffle to our feet, our movements sluggish but automatic. Survival demands obedience.

I was once a proud warrior. My body was muscular and full of vitality, but ever since my city fell to the Alliance, my body has turned into a shadow of my former self. I used to weild a sword that gleamed in the sun, striking down my enemies with ease. Now, these same hands grip an axe, not for battle but for labor. My life as a warrior is gone. The Alliance took it, replacing it with a life that was barely worth living. The only thing keeping me alive is the hope that our heroes could destroy the Alliance and free us or to be transferred back to my former outpost.

As I walked towards my workstation, the forest came alive with noises from deep within its depths. Birds called out in urgent warnings, their cries sharp and frantic, while unseen creatures rustled in the underbrush, their movements barely visible through the thick foliage. The air carried the earthy scent of damp leaves and rich soil, mingling with the faint sweetness of distant blooms. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting fragmented beams that danced on the forest floor. It was a stark contrast—the forest’s untamed beauty only heightened the despair of those forced to carve it apart. One day, this place will undoubtedly transform into a city teeming with laughter and life. But for us, it is a graveyard, patiently awaiting our bodies.

When I reach my station, the other slaves and I begin our work in oppressive silence. The rhythmic thud of axes against wood is our only company, accompanied by the cold, watchful gazes of the dwarves. The trees here are unlike any other—the bark is hard like iron and their roots twist deep into the earth. It takes everything we have to bring one down. Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes, but I don’t stop. Stopping invites punishment, and punishment could lead to death.

The scars on my back are a testament to that. Once, my body was strong, resilient enough to withstand punishment. But now, I am a shadow of my former self. Even a few lashes could severly wound me.

By midday, the sun blazes overhead, though its warmth barely penetrates the dense canopy. My body screams for rest, but the dwarves grant none. I glance at the others, their faces hollow and pale. A goblin’s bright eyes and sharp features stand out among the crowd. Like me he has no name. Names are dangerous here. They remind us of who we were, and remembering is too painful.

The goblin’s sharp eyes lock onto mine, just for a moment. In their depths flickers something rare in this desolate place—defiance, or perhaps a fragile ember of hope. Here, hope is not just dangerous; it’s a death sentence.

Still, I can’t help but wonder. Could we escape? Could we fight back?

The thought is fleeting, crushed beneath the weight of reality. Even if we managed to flee, we'd be hunted down by the dwarves and tortured to death.

As the day drags on, the dwarves’ tempers fray. One of them, a stocky dwarf with a whip coiled at his side, walked towards a young drow elf who has faltered in her work. “Move faster, twig,” he snarls, his hand already on the whip.

She stumbles, her thin arms trembling as she raises her axe. It’s too heavy for her, and the blade falls awkwardly against the tree trunk. The dwarf’s whip cracks through the air, slicing across her back. She cries out, the sound piercing the oppressive silence. I quickly looked away, I'm not a warrior anymore. I'm just a slave.

The Drow crumples to the ground, her sobs stifled by the dirt beneath her. Her frail body quivers, each sound wrenching the silence apart like a blade. The dwarf sneers, his lips curling in cruel satisfaction as he raises the whip again, poised to strike. Around us, the other slaves also avert their gaze, their faces a mixture of fear and resignation. No one dares to intervene; we’ve all learned the cost of defiance. The air feels heavier, the oppressive silence broken only by the crack of the whip and the Drow’s stifled cries. For a moment, the forest itself seems to mourn, its leaves rustling faintly as though whispering their condolences. The dwarf raises his whip again, but stops as the forest around us falls into an eerie stillness. Even the birds have stopped their calls, as though the trees themselves are holding their breath.

The tension is palpable, and for a fleeting moment, I imagine the forest itself striking back. But it doesn’t. It remains silent, an indifferent witness to our suffering.

The rest of the day is a blur. The dwarfs’ anger festers, their whips lashing out with renewed cruelty. By the time we’re headed back to the outpost, my body feels like it’s made of lead. I collapse onto the cold ground of my cell, the chains rattling once more.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind churns with thoughts of the dwarves’ cruelty, of the goblins defiant gaze, and the drow’s sobs. This place is designed to break us, to strip away everything that makes us who we are. But tonight, as the scenes from today play in my head again, something stirs within me.

It’s dangerous to let your mind have thoughts other than following orders. The more you let your mind wander, the shorter your life becomes. As pathetic as it sounds, I want to live as long as I can. The longer I live the better my chances at being freed are. The Council could end the war sometime in the near future. Till then I have to survive.

In the stillness of the night, when the dwarfs’ drunken laughter fades into snores, I find moments of clarity. The chains bite into my wrists as I shift, but I’ve grown used to the discomfort. It’s the silence that unnerves me more. In silence, my mind tends to recall memories of my past. Memories I wish I could forget.

I remember the day they arrived. Soldiers bearing the Alliance’s banners, their armor gleaming under the sun. We fought, of course. My homeland was a bastion of resilience, its warriors fierce and its walls high. We were not known for surrendering easily. It was a land of proud warriors and traditions steeped in resilience. We trained from an early age, practicing in the art of the sword, and our walls were sturdy and tall. Even our surrounding allies acknowledged our capabilities. But we were outnumbered, and they they had a hero amongst them. It was a dwarven man, with arms and legs as thick as logs. His body radiated an oppressive aura that felt like we would explode just getting near him. When the battle started, the dwarven hero smashed our walls with his hammer and the army behind him poured in like a raging tied. We didn't stand a chace, our city had no hero. Our strongest warrior was only at the champion level and he suffered a misserable death, the Dwarven hero cracked his head open like an egg. Shortly after, the rest of the elites and warriors fell. They were flanked on all sides. Only a few of us warriors survived the battle, the Alliance needed strong slaves so they couldn't kill everyone.

As morning starts, the dwarves begin their daily routine of getting the slaves out of their beds. As a dwarf enters our quarters, he begins to bark out his orders. As he's making his rounds, he arrives at the foot of the young drow girls bed. Apparently she had still not gotten out of bed yet. She would surely suffer another beating, but as the dwarf got closer, he grabbed her body. He let out an annoyed muffle and began dragging her out of the room. She had died from her wounds becoming infected. You would think that witnessing something like this would stir up a wave of anger or grief for the rest of us. But having withnessed this far to often, me and the others were numb to it.

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I don’t know how many of us are left. The outpost breaks everyone that enters it, grinding them down until they’re unrecognizable. Some die from exhaustion, others from punishment. The rest simply fade, their spirits crushed under the weight of the misery that surrounds us.

Looking around the room, I notice the goblin glaring at the dwarf that's dragging the drow's lifeless body. His fists are clenched tightly, his body shacking with rage, but he knows how to quickly calm down and avoid the dwarfs attention. Somehow, he remains defiant, his spirit unbroken despite everything. I’ve seen him endure lashings that would cripple others, yet he still stands. There’s a fire in him that refuses to be extinguished, and though it’s dangerous, it’s also infectious. I’ve caught myself glancing his way more often, wondering what keeps him going.

Perhaps it’s the same thing that keeps me alive: the hope that the Council wins the war.

The next morning, the routine repeats. Chains clink. Orders bark. The forest greets us with its deceptive serenity. But something feels different today. The dwarves aren't yelling at us to hurry up or to pick up the pace. Instead, I see them in the distance, laughing and jumping for joy. I try my best to think what this could mean. Are they celebrating because they get to leave this outpost, or maybe one of them found some sort of treasure. As we get ready to head into the forest a dwarf runs towards our overseers yelling "Horaaay, its finally over!" My heart begins to tighten, my pace slows down, the dwarves around us begin shouting, "The war is over, the Alliance won!" "long live our heros, long live the Alliance!" In that momemt, my whole world shatters. The faint hope of the Council’s victory was all that kept me alive, a fragile thread I clung to in a distant land. But with that thread severed, my body trembled, and tears blurred my vision. The weight of despair pressed down harder than ever.

“Keep moving. hey wake up already, if you don't want to die keep moving” the goblins words brought me back to reality. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me directly. His voice is low, barely audible, but it carries weight. I compose myself and head towards the worksite with everyone else. Today was no different from anyother really, each day just grinds my will further into despair. This was just another one of those days.

As we arrived at the worksite, the dwarves tasked us with clearing a particularly dense section of the forest. The trees here are massive, their trunks wide enough to require several of us working together to fell one. The work is grueling, and the dwarves’ whips snap with alarming frequency. By midday, the air is thick with the scent of blood and sweat.

Then it happens. An elderly oger breaks the collar chained to his neck and runs towards the foreset.

The workers pause, axes hovering mid-swing, and even the dwarves exchange looks of disbelief.

“Back to work!” one of them snaps, while the others cast earth binding spells, capturing the oger with ease.

Dragging him back toward us, the dwarves bind him to a tree with their magic, his guttural roars echoing through the clearing as he struggles fruitlessly against his restraints. The ogre thrashes wildly, every sinew of his massive frame straining against the restraints. His defiance burns in his eyes, a fierce refusal to submit even as his efforts prove futile. Each guttural roar reverberates through the forest, a desperate cry that demands to be heard. His eyes burn with madness and desperation, a signal to the rest of us that someday we too would lose our reasoning.

The dwarves laugh cruelly, their voices echoing in the stillness, mocking his struggle. "Looks like this guy has finally gone insane," one sneers, raising a heavy whip. "He's just a beast now."

Around us, the other slaves remain frozen, their faces a mixture of fear and silent resignation, while the ogre’s resistance slowly comes to an end. At the corner of my eye. I noticed the goblin is looking on with clenched fist and gritted teet, not breaking his eye contact with the brutality before him.

Right before our eyes, they spend hours beating him to death, their actions a brutal spectacle meant to crush any lingering thoughts of resistance. They wanted to remind us, what will happen to those that try to run. In a fit of rage, a younger oger breaks from his collar and swings the axe towards the dwarves but it was useless, his head was pierced by a spear. As their bodies layed before us, the smell of death and misery lingering around us grew thicker. This too, was just another day that would serve to break our wills.

As night falls, I lie awake on the cold, unyielding floor, my gaze fixed on the ceiling as shadows dance across its surface. How much longer could I endure this life? My body ached with every movement, each shallow breath a reminder of the day’s labor. The ogres escape and the goblins demeanor still lingered in my mind, mingling with the faint, mournful rustling of the forest beyond the outpost. I wondered if the trees, so full of life, pitied us.

As the night carried on, the question kept gnawing at me—how much longer could I hold on before my body broke or my mind gave in to further despair? I've seen death far to often here, I know its only a matter of time till this outpost consumes me. I don't fear death anymore, it's the uncertainty of it all. Not knowing when my end will come, has been slowly eating away my reasoning.

For the next few days, the dwarves celebrated day and night. The chaos of their revelry brought an unsettling stability; we woke, ate, worked, and slept under the weight of a fragile, eerie calm. It was the first time since coming here that i've seen it like this. Even if its for just a moment longer, I hope that this calm can continue.

In the following morning, the dwarves came to wake us up and our daily routine continued. As we approached our workstation, something caused a commotion in the distance. A sea of deafening roars echoed throughout the forest, causing beast to frantically escape towards our location. Loud horns started to ring out, a group of shadowy figures in the distance were starting to come into sight. The dwarves that were with us yelled, rallying the entire outpost.

There were too many to count. The dwarves' faces seemed to tighten, they were still in formation but a few seemed to feel the preassure of the oppsing side, worried looks plastered on their faces. When the shadowy figuers finally came into view, they were armed, some had pale green skin, others a shade darker and the one leading them at the front had pale yellow skin.

The commanding dwarf overseer amplified his voice with mana, "ORC HOARD, MAGES READY YOUR SPELLS. ALL SLAVES MOVE TOWARDS THE FRONT"

Our overseer called out to us, "You hear the commander, get moving." He cracked his whip around our feet, forcing us to move. "Don't forget, if you try to runaway, we'll kill you. So if you want to live, use those axes to fend of the orcs."

When we reached the front, the orcs started to look like the grim reaper. I looked away and noticed the other slaves had a lifeless gaze, their faces paler than a ghost, and their bodies were shacking uncontrollably. Amid the trembling slaves, only the bright eyed goblin stood apart. He was looking away from the orcs, but there was no fear in his eyes. They were full of life and his face had a wide grin as if this battlefield was no big deal. Just what makes him so confident?

"LOK'TAR OGAR!" "CHARGE!" "LOK'TAR OGAR!"

The roars of the orcs brought me out of my thoughts. Several slaves couldn't control their fear and broke from the line. Dropping their weapons and fleeing away from the battlefield with all their might. Sadly the dwarves slaughtered them.

The dwarves started shouting"Flee, and you die!!"

while dwarf commander shouted towards us "Advance and hold the orcs back!"

Reluctantly, we advanced, a pitiful force of no more than thirty—goblins, a lone ogre, a handful of drows, and me, a kobold. As we headed towards the orcs, the goblin's defiant voice cut through the chaos,"If you want to live, follow me!" His conviction was unshakable. As we were moments away from clashing with the orcs, everyone choose to listen to him. As we were getting closer he shouted "Turn right, head towards that sea of trees. the dwarfs won't chase after us untill after they kill the orcs!" Everyone dropped their weapons and followd behind him. I noticed that three orcs hand splintered off from the main group to chase us. It was only a matter of time before they cought up to us. I stopped running I took one last look at the goblin. His body was small, weak from malnourishment, and had a collar chained around his neck. Yet his back looked like it could hold up the sky. Had he not been a slave, he surely would have gone on to accomplish great feats.

As the orcs closed in, my mind was clear. Slavery had taken everything exceot my life away. But this time, instead of taking it I’ll trade it for theirs. I picked up an axe and ignited my life force.

Hoping to encourage them, I shouted "Keep running, I will buy you some time!"

With all my strenght, I ripped the colar that marked me a slave and clashed with the orcs. As we exchanged blows, a few older slaves had decided to stay behind. They were not trained to be warriors, so they were unable to summon their life force. Yet, they still held their ground. Sadly, the orcs were too much for them, they were killed after a few more exchanges.

I was fairing no better. My life force was quickly running out, making it painful to breath. The orcs were too much for me, but the others were still running. I couldn't let them get passed me or all of this would have been meaningless.

On the otherside of the battlefield, the dwarves had seen the slaves defy their orders and were aiming their spells at them. Before they unleashed their spells onto them, one of the commanding dwarfs shouted

"Don't waste you spells on some worthless slaves, we can always hunt them down later. Focus on those stupid orcs!"

Following his order, the dwarfs aimed their spells away from the fleeing slaves and aimed at the charging orcs.

After a few more exchanges, my axe broke. I could barely maintain myself upright, my life force won't last much longer.

One of the orcs looked at me and said in a sincere tone "I didn't expect much from you, but once we kill you. we'll honor your death by eating you."

"Don't kill me off yet...pant ...I'll make sure to...cough.. take one of you with me " The others needed more time, if these orcs get passed me they'll slaugher them.

The orcs approached me and with one swift motion, they had impaled me with their swords. Pain erupted as a blade sunk deeper into my chest, its icy bite spreading like fire through my veins. I collapsed, the damp earth beneath me cold and unyielding. My vision blurred, narrowing to faint silhouettes of the fleeing slaves. Had I done enough? I could only hope they reached safety. As the darkness consumed my conscience a beam of sunlight warmed my face, and a thick scent of lavender tickled my nose. It reminded me of my homeland, and the memories I had long forgotten. It seems the forest did feel pity towards my suffering. I only hope it can take pity on rest and grant them their freedom.