''Four men each gate, three men each tower . Two gates , eight towers'' A young man muttered as he carried a heavy sack on his frail body. The sack made a hissing sound , as the grain inside hit his back, up and down each time he made a step.The worst was during but after the whipping. The 'during' last few seconds, the after remain for days.

And without fail at each step, the young man would tremble, the wounds on his back stinging at him , as the heavy sack slapped at whipped wounds hidden by a small and light shirt.

He was no king , no prince, no noble, hell he was not even a free-man , a mere shadow in the eyes of those who held power over him. To them, he was nothing more than a disposable tool, a means to an end.

As he approached the large tent where the kitchen was housed, the clamor of clashing steel and angry voices reached his ears. Despite his exhaustion, he took a deep breath and pushed aside the flap, entering the tent with caution.

In a normal occasion, the presence of a slave in the kitchen tent would warrant a brutal punishment - most likely a whipping. The cooks and camp followers glared at him with disdain and disgust as he cautiously entered the tent, but made no move to throw him out.

'A second time and I will be three meters underground' he thought as those gazes fell on him 'Actually cut that, the bastards will not dare to even bury me , dogs will make a feast of my flesh'.

Suddendly , a raspy and high-pitched voice echoed from the depths of the tent. It belonged to a large and intimidating woman, her cruel eyes boring into the slave's very soul. Her hair was greasy and unkempt, just like her attitude towards him.She was Virvana , and right now there was not a person in the whole world that he would have desired to kill more.

"If you dare break another sack, even hell itself will not match the horrors I will unleash upon you," she bellowed in warning, her eyes boring into his with malice.

'Kind as a lion , and as beautiful as a roach' Alpheo thought as he bowed his head.

As the young slave lowered the sack to the ground, he couldn't help but resent the woman before him. 'I wonder if the bitch would be gentler if she got a good fuck,' he thought bitterly. 'I bet the only thing she doesn't eat are dicks.'

He wanted to say that but he kept silent as he probably would not survive another whipping.

And with those same pitiless and merciless eyes watching his every move, he made his way out .

The intense rays of the sun relentlessly beat down upon his face, forcing him to squint his eyes against the blinding light. He slowly lowered his head, his gaze falling upon his hands. They were calloused and rough, bearing the marks of hard labor with ragged fingernails and dirty skin. Blisters and untreated cuts adorned his fingers, evidence of the grueling work he had endured for years.

He couldn't help but let out a humorless laugh at his current situation, though he quickly stifled it, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. As he forced himself to look at the sun once more, he couldn't help but think about the irony of it all. "Five years," he thought bitterly, "For five years I have known peace, even if I treated it as hell. And now that I am in hell, I realize the heaven I was in."

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But even as he cursed his current state, the rays continued to beam down upon him, their heat intensifying and causing him to wince in pain. His back ached from the long hours of physical labor, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart for the life he once had.

He had known luxury , he slept on a warm and comfy bed, he had loving parents . He was a student, and a good one at that , history was his subject. He had loved it so much , story of conquerors and kings, wars and betrayals.

They always sing about the heroes, the kings and emperors, none sing about soldiers, so who is to weep upon the slave's pain?Who shall remember his name after he die? He had once lived in a city where food would never lack, nor entertainment nor friends.

He met his end and was reborn in a foreign land, filled with customs and language unknown to him. He lived on as a simple farmer, the son of two humble people whose names he couldn't recall. Poverty was his constant companion, hunger an ever-present ache in his belly. Yet, amid all this hardship, he found peace. Until even that peace was brought away.

He could not discern which king or lord they served, but it mattered little as they swept through the village on horseback, dragging bound and helpless people behind them as they rode. These were not invaders, but slavers . Instead of pillaging their homes, they came with silver coins in hand, offering to buy slaves. And just like that, he was sold for a single coin – the fifth son with four others still needing to be fed. He must have been ten or nine years old at the time; it was hard to remember amidst the six long years of torture and misery that followed. He was sold for a silver coin , that was his worth- ten good meals for a family of five in a tavern .

His name was Alpheo , it was a mythical name, albeit the context was missed on him , it was a strange name and the fate of the one he belonged to was even stranger.

If Alpheo had to choose a word to summarize his existence, it would be that of a pet, after all, throughout his life just like a mere pet , he was bought and sold at the whims of his masters.

He had lived in many homes, his first master was a noble , his son liked his stories and the father bought him , his sister instead liked his body. Despite his cute appearance with warm brown eyes and an endearing puppy-like face, Alpheo was not that cute to make her be defiled by a slave. And the sister was 'that' type of person. The only thing she did not hit was the face, she liked it too much to ruin it. Everything else was free game.

Each morning, Alpheo would entertain the boy with his stories, only to be tortured in the evening for her pleasure before being sent off to sleep. This routine continued on until the sister was married off and he was sold once again.He smiled when he saw her being shipped to a fat bastard.

He would have brought her a wedding gift, if he was invited. The boy stopped liking his stories after six months, he took liking to other things instead, and he was sold again and again until he reached the age of twelve when he was purchased by a soldier.

The soldier died during a campaign, leaving Romio to be kept by the army. This time, he was relegated to working in the kitchen as a carrier and cleaner.

The boy learned to act weak and meek,punches, slap and whips were his master, yet he never forgot who he was , nor what his desire was , freedom. So simple and yet so unattainable

Yes he wanted to be free… to bring steel and fire to this world.