Nones, 34th Day of Refinement

“Alright, we’ll make camp here tonight. Go inform the guard captains.”

“Yes leader!”

The attendant next to the Eagle’s leader responded at once, immediately yanking the reins of his horse forth to go back and tell the other mercenaries.

For several days, this contingent of the Eagle’s mercenary camp had been riding north into the heartlands of one of the Empire’s southern provinces.

There, they would go to market with the several slaves that were following along. The caravan was only one of many of the caravans the Eagles were sending out at this time, but even still there were more than a dozen and a half slaves present.

Among them were Kalen and the group he had come with, as well as the two boys Wellynd and Maurice.

As the caravan slowed and steered off into the prairie to set up camp, Kalen heard a familiar voice speak up beside him.

“We’ve been traveling north for more than a week, it looks like they really intend to sell us at the capital.”

Ayana turned to Wellynd.

“That can’t be. We’d have to travel for at least another month to reach the Imperial city.”

“Ah, no, you’re right. Not the capital of the Empire, but of the province. I mean that they’re taking us into Whitefinger, the capital city of Jasper.”

Kalen, who had been squeezing his sister’s hand in reassurance, turned to Wellynd. The past week of traveling and setting camps had been difficult for all of the slaves, but especially so for Kalen, who had double the work to do as he covered for Layla. Bags wore heavy under his eyes as he asked the distinction.

“Why does it matter where we’re being sold? Isn’t it all the same?”

Wellynd shook his head.

“If it were anywhere other than the capital, it wouldn’t, but Whitefinger is famous for its arena. It trades more slaves than anywhere else in the Empire, other than the Imperial city, because of it. Being sold there means we will very likely end up in service to the arena, as combat slaves or in other positions.”

Seeing the tired expression of Kalen, Wellynd ended the explanation there.

As they were shuffled out of the wagons, they would remain in silence for the rest of the night. Speaking was disallowed while setting up camp.

…

Later that same night.

In the temporary encampment of ‘The Eagles’ mercenary company

Seventy-seven miles from the provincial capital city of Whitefinger

For the Eagles company, the purpose of each of their traveling caravans was only to sell a portion of their slaves and then return quickly to the main camp.

Ideally they would come back with a refill of rations and goods that couldn't be hunted or created, but sometimes things just happened.

Owing to that, these caravans didn’t require nearly the amount of guards to travel along with them as were present in the main camp. With fewer guards, came fewer tents each night they would set up camp, so every day the slaves in each caravan had only about one to two hours of camp construction and disassembly required of them, which was considered generous in the industry.

For the slaves this still meant that following their nightly work, they would end up in the center of the ring of tents, much in the style of the main camp.

This was still in effort to enclose the slaves in a condensed and easily observable area, so as to limit hopes for escape by the maximum value.

Yet in the particular caravan Kalen and the other’s were in, they might as well have been free to sleep on the outside of the tents, as no one could even consider the idea of escaping. With the towering man who had been responsible for the mass murder and display of cruelty just a week prior present in their caravan, they had no hope of escape.

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Unless of course they believed it was better to live as a cloud of ashes than on their own two feet.

Yes, the leader of the Eagles had chosen to travel with this specific caravan for reasons unknown to any of the slaves.

Though Wellynd had guessed it was something to do with the significance of their probable destination, it didn’t really matter.

The leader yawned as he looked forward from his seat. Within the biggest tent in the caravan, the man looked onward through the open flap at the slaves milling about outside, most of whom had gone to sleep already.

His hand opened and closed in a fist on the armrest of his chair as he watched the group coming toward his tent. A man dressed in Imperial colors, who Kalen would have recognized as the Publicani, entered the tent with others behind him.

He bowed before speaking to the leader.

“My leader, here are the ones you asked for.”

“Hmm.”

The Publicani stepped aside, behind him were a group of slaves, standing in chains. Against what most would expect, they were not young, strong, good-looking, or even useful in any measurable sense.

They were all old. Their skin and hair showed signs of graying, and their features were full of wrinkles.

“They all have it?”

The leader’s voice intoned deeply, with one hand lazily scratching at his chin.

The Publicani nodded. Briefly he looked at the expressions of the other guards in the tent before responding.

“Yes. I believe so. Many of them I have sourced myself, and others were found by those I trust. While we cannot know for certain until you see for yourself, I have faith that this is our best batch yet.”

The Publicani worked through his words in a measured way, though still nearly flinching when the leader suddenly got up from his seat.

The actions of the leader from a week ago were still present in everyone’s mind, and the weapon that was used in that event were still on display everyday, as the leader had a habit of wearing clothes that revealed the inscriptions across his chest and arms.

Neither the Publicani nor the men in the tent had the desire to see them in use again, so he ran through his prepared lines with a tinge of nervousness.

The leader seemed to ignore this fact however and stepped in front of the gathering of slaves.

He looked into the eyes of the first old man in the line.

“Old man, you’ll go first.”

The old man shivered. The leader’s voice felt like hot lashes against his face.

“You were once looked up to in your village as an elder. Like your family before you, you’ve spent much of your life managing the affairs of your village, the harvests, disputes, small construction projects and such. Yet for all that time, I’ll bet you never told your fellow villagers where you really come from?”

The old man had practically shrunken into himself. He cried out in confusion.

“Sir! I can tell you that I have no knowledge of that! I swear my family is nothing special. We’ve always lived near the border as traders. Yes, it's true that we’ve been able to manage our village for generations, but we’re nobodies! Just fruit farmers at most!”

The leader shook his head at the elder’s stammerings and reached his hand to the side.

“Todd, the file on the Yurth family.”

The Publicani silently passed over a piece of parchment, from which the leader read out.

“I’m not interested in your governance, Village elder of Yurth. But it’s partially true, yes, that one hundred and twelve years ago, your family settled within the region known today as Yurth as simple fruit farmers.

But before that, the Empire had recorded the history of a family with the last name ‘Uerthe’ that lived in the Jasper province, working as chamber attendants of the Church of Alizare.”

The old man’s eyes widened, in shock from the information.

“I-I-I don’t know about any of that! E-even if that’s true, it’s not a crime to serve Alizare!”

The leader rolled up the parchment, nodding.

“Of course not, it’s perfectly acceptable to worship any god of the Vermillion Faith, but that’s not why you're here.

According to his document, certified by the Church itself, your family was found to be compatible for receiving Inscriptions, and so your ancestors received training as casters of Ignis magic. Though due to circumstances, it seems that they were unable to pass that knowledge down.”

The leader looked down coldly on the old man, having fallen to his knees from shock. Perhaps if the old man’s ancestors had been able to pass their knowledge down, this situation would’ve been reversed.

The Eagles’ leader turned to the rest of the old slaves. Standing next to the elder were aged men and women wearing forlorn expressions as they too realized their situations were the same.

“And it’s the same for the rest of you. At some point in the past, it was determined that your bloodlines have the talent necessary for fire magic, which happens to be my specialization.”

The leader rolled up his sleeves, motioning to the nearby guards to close the tent’s flap.

“Therefore, being too old to receive Inscriptions, and lacking the legal autonomy to say otherwise, you six elders with the failed spark of something great in your pasts, will become my nutrients.”