Heron sat limp against the stone wall of the black abyss he had been thrown into. His arms were suspended above his head, held by the rusted shackles built into the wall. Blood ran down his arms from where the corroded metal cuffs cut into his wrists with every movement. How long have I been in here? The cell was void of daylight; he was sure he had been in there for several days at least but didn’t know for certain. His stomach growled; all he had eaten was the slop that was poured down his throat by Matron Camilla.

Heron’s entire body screamed in agony, his skin a tapestry of purples and reds, his breath was heavy. He was sure that he’d broken a rib at the very least. His face was a swollen unrecognizable mess. His back no doubt ran crimson with blood, the sting of the whip that had torn it to shreds.

Heron had only a vague memory of what happened after Niko seared his flesh. He had been lashed, though he couldn’t say how many times as he lost consciousness from the pain. Judging from the wetness of his tunic and the searing pain radiating from his back, he didn’t think Niko pulled his punches.

But Heron didn’t care. The bruises would fade and his ribs would men with time. The flogging would leave scars, terrible scars, but that was all. It won’t kill me, he thought, He remembered waking with Matron Camilla applying ointment to his back. Pain was the goal, not death. And the pain of the brand, his skin blackened with a fire unlike any other. Heron had known many abuses and tortures in his lifetime as a slave. But none compared to the brand. Even now he could still feel the fire of the rod, searing deep into his mind.

But this was not what weighed on Heron’s heart so heavily. The pain would fade with time, the mark would not. He could only imagine what his face looked like, a swollen chunk of charred meat.

His skin had been permanently scarred black by the shape of a wheel, a permanent symbol of his fate as property of house Avanntian. Rage consumed Heron’s mind. The blood of the man-god Heranothal, founder of his divine dynasty ran through his veins. He was born a prince, destined to journey with his host into foreign lands and return with bounteous riches for his people.

A destiny now forever out of his reach. What fool would follow a wretch like you? You’re pathetic Heron. Image was everything in this world. To lead men one had to be in the image of the gods themselves. Faultless, without fear, and unstained with shame. To be marked as property in such a visible way, no man would ever respect him; would never fight for him.

And even that didn’t matter anymore. His escape was foiled because he was unprepared and because he was recognised. On the surface slaves and freemen were the same, a little dirtier perhaps, but the same. But now no matter what he did, everyone would see him for what he was. His escape would be near impossible, the best he could hope for was to live like a scavenger. Hiding in the woods away from the eyes of everyone, surviving off leaves and carrion.

Fuck! He tried to slam his hands to the ground in his fury. Only to be held back by the bronze cuffs holding him to the wall. He would have continued to wallow in his shame, but he was interrupted when light flooded the room. The rotting wooden door to the prison opened and through it emerged a giant. Standing at least three heads more than Heron, he was the tallest man Heron had ever known. Tibeios walked towards him, the light gleaming off his dark bronze skin as if it were armour. His voice reverberated around the room, far more lyrical than he would expect from a man of his stature.

“Niko wants you back to work, can you walk? Do you need help to stand?”

From his hand emerged a small key that was buried in the manacles above his head. The cuffs opened with a crack and Heron’s hands fell to his sides. Heron didn’t know much about Tibeios, he had heard rumours that he was a warrior from Acta, but much like Heron he kept to himself. He had arrived in the same waves as the other Actan slaves in the previous summer.

“I’m fine, I can work.”

Heron replied, his anger and bitterness barely hidden from his voice. If only I could hide away, get lost in the forests never to be seen again. His hands pushed against the cold damp floor, soaked with the blood and piss he leaked during his days there. His legs rose shakily, before giving out, leading him to the ground. He was saved from crashing into the stone by two hands grasping at his chest.

“Take it slow, give yourself some time to recover. Lean on me, we have some time before Niko comes looking for you.”

Heron resented his weakness, angry at the pity being shown to him. But he wasn’t so arrogant to delude himself into trying and failing alone. He accepted the hand offered to him and leaned on Tibeios as he was helped to his feet. His arms now free, they wandered to his head as he touched the mark that now scarred his image. The lack of pain was a lie, no doubt his nerves had been fried to nothing. He felt the gristle as his fingers traced the shape.

“You need Juran fruit, take the leaves in the shape of a serpent's tongue and grind them into a paste. Apply it to your burn, it stinks worse than a dozen horses, but it will soothe the pain.”

Heron winced at his words; he still maintained some distant hope that the brand had failed. That Niko held it on too long leaving just a burnt and infected chunk of dead flesh. But Tibeios’ words dashed this hope, it was now clear to the world who and what Heron was. Nothing more than a slave who didn’t know his place.

“It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t feel like anything.” He said bitterly, his voice full of loathing and despair.

To this, Tibeios was met with the clear judgement of the stalwart giant. “It will hurt, believe me. You aren’t a gargant with skin like bark, you're just a small, battered slave.” The words were like spikes to his heart as rage burned through his veins.

Heron, finding his footing pushed himself away from Tibeios. His legs were steady, fuelled by his emotion. His hands moved faster than his thoughts. Anger overcame him, anger at Niko for branding him. Anger at himself for getting caught. Angry at Tibeios for mocking him. Angry at the world. A balled fist flew towards the face of the half-giant Tibeios. He lashed out at Tibeios with his fist as it balled and flew toward his jaw.

In a flash, his fist was redirected from its path, and he felt himself locked in place by the larger man. His arm stretched as Tibeios wrapped around his shoulder and neck. How did he move so fast? Heron thought as he prepared himself for the devastating counter that would surely be coming.

But to his surprise, the only thing that came was a hearty laugh from the half-giant's mouth. His body shook with mirth as a smile spread across Tibeios’ face. “Save your energy friend, don’t waste your anger on me, it won’t go well for you.”

The half-giant relinquished his grip, the fight gone from Heron’s eyes as he recognized its futility. He hastily looked away and trudged up the stairs, the anger that filled him now joined by embarrassment. He had been trained in combat when he was a boy, but that was a long time ago. And even then, he had never seen real combat. But none of that mattered to Tibeios, who could have brutalised him with ease. He glanced backward, with shame in his voice.

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They emerged from the basement onto the surface, Heron covered his eyes, having adapted to the pitch black of the cells. After his vision returned, he noticed just how much had changed. The walls of the villa while still crumbling were clean, the chipped and decaying paint replaced with fresh coats of bright yellow and orange.

The grounds had been swept, the weeds running rampant through the gardens and creeping through the broken cobblestone now vanished. He even noticed that some of the overseers and more privileged slaves wore fresh clothes. Tunics without any stains from food or dirt. Still, even this was little more than a fresh coat of paint over a crumbling and rotting interior. The walls still had large cracks running through them, and the wooden beams supporting the building were splintered and rotting. Nonetheless, Heron was still surprised. He’d never seen the estate like this in his year there.

“How long was I down there? It felt like a few days, but it looks like months.” Heron said, directing his question to the bronze warrior at his right.

“Four days. We’ve been getting worked like dogs while you’ve been down there. Preparation for the master’s visit.” Heron noticed an edge to his words not there from the previous conversation with the jovial giant. Master? Heron thought. He had vague memories of Niko saying something about their master during his branding, but his mind was concentrating on something else at the time. His blood ran cold at the thought of seeing patriarch Avanntian again.

“Patriarch Avanntian is coming here? Why? For how long?” a slight quaver could be heard in Heron’s voice. It's too much, the brand, and now I’ll have to see that monster again. It's not fair.

“Not the patriarch, the heir, or at least he was. Aurelian Avenntian, the ‘great conqueror’ is on his return tour of all the finest shitholes of Urr. I heard his armies were destroyed in Acta, no doubt coming here to hide himself and his shame. No place for disgrace on the battlefield.”

With that, Heron could see clearly the pride on Tibeios’ face. Makes sense, he’s from Acta. No wonder he’d be proud that his countrymen vanquished the Urran invaders. But he was relieved, he had only spent a short time in the main house of the Avanntian dynasty, and he was forever grateful that he was sent to work on this villa. The patriarch had no tolerance for rebellion.

“When does he get here?” Heron asked, his relief visible on his face. His horrible, scarred face.

“Today, that's why you’ve been released early. Niko wants him to see everyone. You weren’t the only one who got flogged the past few days. We’re to be paraded around like horses to show how good he is at taming us. Come on, he wants everyone in the courtyard now.”

Tibeios hurried Heron along, clearly not wanting to delay too much as to warrant punishment from Niko. From the looks of some of the gathered slaves, many were clearly rearing from beatings unseen on the villa for years. A man three people to his right with greyed hair from many winters and a face like bark was hunched over, only able to stand thanks to sheer willpower. His Tunic was ragged and stained black with blood. Others in the crowd shared similar postures. Niko stood on the steps leading towards the villa’s entrance wearing his finest clothing. An orange tunic with red stripes crossing his midsection, small yellow tassels decorating the collar and cutouts.

It took all of Heron’s willpower not to close the distance and beat him to death with his bare fists. His fists trembled with rage and his knuckles turned white. Rage coursed through every fibre of his being. Niko is only a few steps away, I could get to him, take him to the ground and paint the cobble with his brains.

He felt his legs start to move, but he was stopped by a hand grabbing onto his shoulder. The granite-like fingers of Tibeios held him in place as he whispered under his breath. He struggled against the man's hands and grunted.

“Why are you stopping me? Let go!”

Tibeios’ hands remained firm, locking Heron in place.

“Don’t waste your rage Heron, you won’t even get near him. You won’t survive this time; you’ll be hanging from that tree within the hour.”

The words brought Heron back to reality. He’s right, If I act now I’ll achieve nothing but a painful death. He could feel the brand on his face as if it was still burning, the pain and humiliation would never fade. At this moment he swore that when the time came, Niko’s life would end at his hands.

Heron tried to reply, but his words were drowned out by the bell's music ringing throughout the courtyard. A host of two dozen men, wagons, horses, and a single horse-drawn carriage. The riders were adorned with the gilded bronze armour of the elite personal guard of the great Urran houses. Scenes of battles between mortals and monsters decorated their breastplates. The blue plumes of their golden helmets contrasted with the bronze bells chiming together as they rode.

The ringing was replaced by the shout of Niko, straining his voice to be heard as the procession entered the courtyard, the blue carriage stopping in the centre surrounded by riders. “Slaves! Kneel!”

With that command, the gathered 60 or so slaves prostrated themselves on the ground. The aura of fear in the air was clear to Heron. Niko had changed from the kind if somewhat lazy man he was a week prior to a ruthless autocrat. The white-haired man struggled to kneel, barely able to keep himself from collapsing from his injuries. He wobbled in place as he stood, drawing the eye of the household guard. Jumping from his horse, his bronze greaves crashed against the stone, his armour rattled as he advanced towards the elderly man, his hand on the sword at his hip.

No one moved, the crowd grew still as they watched the warrior descend on the old man. This can’t happen His legs moved faster than his thoughts, pushing Tibeios to the side as he ran to the old man's side, pulling him to the ground as he fell with him forcing his head down while supporting his body with his own, despite the pain coursing through him.

The guard stopped in front of them both, his glistening form blocking out the sun and casting a shadow over the world. The rasp of metal being unleashed from its sheath rung out through the courtyard, accompanied by a choir of gasps as the warrior pulled his arm back ready to strike.

“Hold your blade, Marius. We have business to attend to.”

The voice belonged to the young princely figure emerging from the carriage. Features that would be at home among the cult statues at any great temple. His long flowing toga was like water, blow silk flowing around his form like water in a creek flowed around his form as he stepped from the carriage to the cobble below.

“This slave has disrespected you, imperator. Allow me to preserve your honour.” The man called Marius replied, the sword hovering in the air ready to strike.

The young adonis marched towards the unfolding scene and placed his hand on the shoulder of Marius. “Your defiance is a greater insult to my ‘honour’ than two crippled slaves. Sheathe your sword Marius and join me.”

Without sparing a look at either Heron or the old man, the adonis walked into the villa, ignoring everyone but Marius. Not even sparing a word for Niko. The golden statue of a man sheathed his blade before running to his master's side like a dog.

“Thank you... You saved my life.” Heron heard a raspy voice from his side. The old man looked at him, eyes full of pity. You’re mocking me, you won’t stop looking at my brand.

“You almost got me killed, I won’t be around to help next time.” as he helped the man to his feet. Taking care to hold the man by his chest, not his back which was no doubt still raw from the whip.

Niko hadn’t moved from his spot, the awkwardness clear on his face with the man's refusal to even acknowledge him. He was speaking to another man, clearly of lower status than the adonis who he assumed to be Aurelian, heir of Avanntian before his voice rang out through the courtyard. Commanding them to get back to work.

Tibeios appeared behind Heron, casting a shadow over him. “Do you crave death, fool? That centurion would have split you in two.”

Heron agreed with Tibeios. It was stupid, he knew that. To risk himself for a man he barely knew before he had gotten his revenge. But still, it was the right thing to do. Even if to spare them from having to deal with the mess.

“What business is it of yours if I live or die?”

Tibeios shrugged. “Cleaning your guts from the stone would be a pain.”

With that Tibeios left Heron, joining one of the many chain gangs that worked the fields. The man thanked him again before hobbling alongside Tibeios. Heron stayed still for a moment; his eyes glued to the door of the villa as he saw the last of the Urrans disappear inside.