Oly waited.

He was tucked up in the dark, creaking rafters of some long-abandoned farmhouse. He could smell the rot in its bones. The windows were half missing, and the razor edges of what little remained cut the moonlight, illuminating the constellations of dust he’d kicked up getting up here. Oly shifted, high above the dirt floor, a position that gave him a good view out of the shattered window and out onto the gravel road. Fog smothered the air, clung to his aspen skin, and made him shiver faintly. Right foot planted on the window sill, other foot braced against the rafter, he hugged the roll of blankets pinched between his legs.

Listening for the signal took so little headspace that he soon got bored. He let himself zone out and study the glow of the heavy golden moon through the fog, the warm light thawing through the midnight’s icy blue. It gave his restless mind a moment of peace, even if the slightest sound made him flinch back to attention. What if he missed the signal because he’d distracted himself with pretty lights? No, that was too humiliating a thought to bear.

He wasn’t supposed to break into the blanket roll, but the night air coming through the window was making his toes numb.

I won’t be able to run with them if I can’t feel my feet, right?

After checking the road carefully, Oly untied the string wrapping his bundle of blankets, then pulled apart the waterproofed packaging to extract one: a faded blue curtain. They had to steal what little they could find and stow away, so most of the materials they had for the journey were castoffs. He draped it over his shoulders while he worked at recreating the original knot and wrapping, but it was much easier to pull things apart than it was to put them together with such stiff fingers. He eventually came up with something that would be much harder to pluck away, but at least it wouldn’t undo itself while he was running. Besides, it might be warmer the next time they all needed to unpack.

He thought about the others when his mind inevitably drifted again. Laya’s deft and elegant hands, calloused with work yet capable of incredible delicacy. Still, he could imagine her failing to undo the knots once, twice, then swearing until the earth was salted.

Oly thought of Leon. He’d forgotten his strength many times and crushed, torn, shattered, and spilled quite a few of his old duties, yet he was overflowing with patience. Ever-tolerant, ever-resilient, he was the mountain that withstood any weather and provided shelter to those around him. Nevertheless, if he couldn’t get the knot undone then he would most likely just snap the string entirely.

Jacivik would scowl and cross his arms. What a waste of good string, he’d say, why’d you untie it at all? Practical and analytical, he would still eventually grow to understand eventually. He cared more than he said, so Oly knew he’d forgive a need for warmth and comfort on a night like this.

More playfully, Mavani would wrap her arm around Oly’s shoulder in her overly familiar way and tease him for it. Did ya get the shivers, little prince? That thin skin hasn’t thickened up yet, huh? Bet it never will. Never mind that he used to be from the high north, and it was his transport down here that thinned his skin. Oly rubbed his cheek, recalling how many times she’d pinched his cheek to infantilize him. He believed it was her way of caring.

Outside he heard the crunch of gravel, footsteps on the path, and he fought down the urge to jump up and check for his companions.

Don’t make a damn sound. Don’t do anything until you hear our signal, ok? Laya was very firm on that point.

Oly pulled the curtain tighter around himself with a shudder. He’d acclimated to Kishalon’s late summer too quickly, this fall chill ill-suited him now.

The signal, where’s the signal? The footsteps are getting closer…

Oly rose to his feet and nimbly leapt over to the next rafter, away from the window. The moment his heel slammed down on mossy wood, the beam gave a dangerous buck and creak that reminded him just how old the building was, but he was never practiced with quiet or stealthy landings. He restrained himself enough not to slap his hand against the wall for stability, instead he widened his stance and carefully extended his hand until the pressure of his fingertips against the grain of the stucco wall gave him a point of friction to anchor against. Oly took a deep breath to steady himself and closed his eyes to focus.

The rafter’s creaking stopped. He let out the breath.

The sound of footsteps on gravel drifted up through the window and crunched in his left ear, then disappeared. He strained his hearing to determine where they went, then his right ear picked up the noise through the open door. He’d tried to close it the best he could when he first arrived, but the hinges were broken and he had no real way to inch it across the floor aside from his own meager strength. He’d only made it move a pace or so.

He watched the door from the shadows and froze when he saw three soldiers enter and scan the room. Oblivious, yet looking with obvious purpose.

One ventured further to start looking behind and under the pieces of rusty equipment, using his sword to slice open the bellies of various half-rotted baskets. Dust bled from the gashes, mice and mold having long since consumed the harvest within.

“Look,” the second soldier called. He pointed to the ground, where Oly’s efforts to close the door had turned up the dirt accumulated on the floor, exposing a streak of moist and loose earth. “What do you think?”

“Within the last few hours, at least. We’re close.”

Very close.

Oly dared not move his body, he cursed the trembling of his legs, the awareness that he couldn’t hold this position forever. He feared the beating of his own heart, though he knew he was the only one who could hear it. He slid his eyes over to the bundle of blankets, then to the broken window. He couldn’t jump through without injuring himself, either by the landing or by cutting himself.

It was a bad idea, but he could feel the ghost of movement in his muscles as the impulse to escape hit him anyway.

“There are tracks inside, but none going out. It’s been waiting for hours.”

There was a fourth set of footsteps. “He’s here then? Scrap!”

Oly forced the breath to freeze in his lungs. That voice was far too familiar.

“Scrap, your friends are halfway across the country. We lost their trail hours ago, they weren’t even going this direction.” Oly smirked. The attempt to rile him up was a bit too obvious, especially coming from his handler.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Oly was a patient man, but there was no resisting the urge to run when one of the guards finally looked up and practically locked eyes with him. Maybe he would have been cloaked by shadow, maybe he was glowing with pale light. He had to move, regardless.

The guard opened his mouth to say something, but Oly didn’t even wait for him to make a noise before he was bolting down the rafter. Before it ran out, Oly deftly used the same route down that he used to climb up; the last sturdy shelf in the barn held firm under his heel, even as he pushed off to the ledge of a stable door. He screamed when the rusted hinges gave way, his ankle rolled, and he toppled over into the clutches of a guard. He only had a moment to register the pain before the man growled with annoyance and shoved him into the wall, making his head knock against something sharp and metallic. He didn’t see what exactly it was, as his vision started fading and warmth dripped down the side of his face.

“Don’t worry, we’ll heal you up.” His old handler reassured as Oly’s legs buckled and he slid down the wall, his friend’s names on his lips. “Again and again, until you’ve taken the punishment for all your little traitors too.”

---

Oly curled up into a tighter ball on the cell cot. He hadn’t endured thousands of lashes, but his back still tingled and itched from the healer’s artful job of knitting flesh and muscle together. The ache was bone deep, but at least he had no scars.

He’d never known how much noise four friends made--even in their sleep--until they were gone, and the resulting silence was suffocating. When he tried to escape that, he was met by his own train of thought. The more he lingered on it all, the more clever it all was, really.

Even if he’d wanted to rat, the others didn’t tell him about the real hidden exit, only the obvious one. It might seem odd that a group of slaves would escape where they’d be looked for first, but Oly’s tracks would lead a search party to believe that, obvious or not, it was a lead worth pursuing. They found one slave with supplies for others, so it led the party to stick around and waste time on dead ends. All the while the others were using the smarter routes, evading attention, and taking advantage of the diluted focus.

It doesn’t mean they’d intended for me to get caught, the efforts were diluted for me too. Just that I wasn’t in their group.

Nevertheless, with Oly left behind to fulfill the job they were being trained for, there was conveniently even less cause to look for a flock of flight risks with loyalty only to each other. However, Oly still believed this was just a mistake. Perhaps he’d misheard the location, botched the directions, or been too quick to run.

He still had to face one reality, even if he wanted to evade or justify it. No matter how much it hurt, he knew that the entire time he was punished, his friends were putting as much distance between themselves and Oly as they could. If his handler thought the healer was capable of erasing quite that many scars, then Oly speculated the man would hold true to his threats: a lash for every step.

He’d walked for miles to get to that farmhouse.

Leon, Laya, Jacivik, Mavani; did they hate him?

Did it matter? He was never going to see them again, which left himself as the only one with the authority to confirm. He decided then that no, they didn’t. Couldn’t have. Shouldn’t have.

His training would resume in the morning. Nothing had changed, but now he was utterly alone.

---

Oly was yanked out of his cell every morning in about the same way you would pull a shirt out of the drawer. The guards opened up the door and used to slap him once on the arm to wake him up, but at this point he was bolt-upright at the sound of the lock turning. They pulled him up by the wrist, pushed him in the direction they were going, and he pliantly went along with them to whatever they had planned for his day. If they went left from his door, it was time to be trained physically. If they went right, then he was to be trained mentally.

They went right. He smiled to himself, lowering his head and spacing out for the walk.

He liked the behavioral exercises, they felt like a game. Last week he was told that his name was Davir Lask. His trainer gave him a few facts on which to base his identity: he was a Haevan prostitute hired to entertain at a noble lady’s birthday. His teacher pretended to be a guest at the party, and together they improvised a long conversation as he came up with new lies about his life. If he invented something “out of character,” she’d smack him once on the back of the hand with a switch. It was hard not to tip his hand that he had a formal education during low-born identities like these – “I don’t know how you know so much about astronomy, Oly, but that hobby attracts attention to Davir.”

If the details were too boring, then the stories would all blend together and he might mix up his identities. If they were too outlandish, then he’d be punished for being suspicious. Worst of all--something that earned him 5 strikes to each hand-- was getting caught in a lie. She was the only person in this hell who rewarded him for doing well, so she was the only one he genuinely wanted to please… If not for the honey candy, then the praise. He hated knowing what he was being trained for, and that messing up would get him killed, but for now he delighted with the balancing act.

In contrast, he disliked the physical training. He didn’t even like thinking about it, full of exercises which made him practice swallowing his pride and doing whatever was asked for him, no matter the disgusting deed. Though it killed him little by little, the agony of debasing himself could only last so long before it had grown old and boring. It was best for his health that he learned to suck it up, high upbringing or no.

He slowed to a stop outside the usual door, but let out a sound of surprise when he was pushed forward and around a different corner than usual. He looked up at the guards, but they gave away nothing.

He was led into a room with a steaming tub, a few weathered vanities, and several sets of fine clothes hung on pegs. Slaves he’d never seen before were already bathing, dressing, and putting on makeup, but he didn’t know what for.

“We’ve invested much time into you, Olymarté.” Oly flinched at the sound of his handler’s voice. He only dipped into Oly’s world to wield a whip or check in on his lessons, so the conditioned terror he felt on arrival covered up for his slow reaction to the fake name. Oly turned to regard the monster leaning against the wall.

There wasn’t anything remarkable about him: dull eyes, thinning blonde hair, and a belly distending with age. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin, his arms were muscular with the work of cruelty, and Oly theorized he got that bitter twist to his mouth from overdosing on the drug of belittling others as a break from belittling himself.

“Indeed, master.” He answered, smoothing his features over into pleasant neutrality.

“One year, we’ve trained you. Do you think it was enough?”

He smiled and replied on the next heartbeat. “I only think of my master’s satisfaction.”

“Of course I’m not satisfied with you, Scrap.” He sneered, pushing off the wall to get closer. Oly’s mind flashed with the usual scenes of violence, but he stood his ground and nothing came. It puzzled him, and then he realized. The handler didn’t want to bruise him.

“Yet you’re giving me away today?” Oly guessed. Unsightly injury had never stopped the man before--healing magic being what it was--so there must have been no time for it.

“The anniversary is today. We couldn’t delay even if we wanted to. I suppose my real question is this…” He leaned in close enough for Oly to smell his breath. “It’s been six months since your little stroll outside the castle walls. Do you think you’ve been punished enough?”

Oly took a heartbeat longer to respond. “I only think of my master’s satisfaction.”

“Four promising candidates lost to the wind, leaving behind the dumbest, weakest, and malformed brat of the bunch. I will never be satisfied, but I would have loved to hear your screams until the day you died. If you fail us, I’ll get that privilege again, and you’ll only wish I would let you off so easy. Do you understand?” He threatened.

Oly tilted his head to the side. So he can’t really hurt me today, huh? “You talk a lot about training when you only offer punishments, and never any rewards.” He remarked. The handler’s hand shot out and grabbed his ear, twisting until the cartilage threatened to pop. Oly wailed theatrically, turning the attention of the entire room to him. The handler stalled for a moment, basking in the audience, yet hesitant to rattle them.

“I forgot to mention disobedient.” He whispered in Oly’s captive ear. “Do not fail us.”

“And if I succeed?” Oly grunted. The handler hissed out a laugh.

“Then we’ll have no more use of you. You’ll be free.”

Oly froze, stumbling away when his ear was released. He raised a hand to rub it, watching the handler’s retreating back. All he needed to do to begin his journey back home was grab some information? It was going to be harder than it sounded, too good to be true, and his only option.

His only shot at freedom was doing exactly as he was told. Why should I care about dooming someone just like you and your king?