The first light of dawn crept over the fields, painting the mist with a faint glow. Inside the small, ramshackle hut, Alden stirred beneath a thin, tattered blanket. It barely shielded him from the cold that crept into his bones, a constant companion in the damp air. The hut was little more than a crooked structure of reeds, its walls sagging with moisture. The roof, too thin to keep the rain out, had leaks that dripped steadily when it rained. There were no windows—just cracks where the wind could sneak through and bite at them. The floor was covered with nothing but a thin layer of straw, offering little comfort against the wet, muddy earth below.

Alden groaned as he pushed himself up from the floor, the stiffness of his body protesting against the cold and the years of hard labor. His hands, rough and calloused, moved automatically to adjust the few scraps of clothing that hung from his thin frame. His shirt was threadbare, and his trousers were patched in places where the fabric had long since worn away. The cloth barely provided any warmth, but it was all he had.

He was a young man of eighteen, but his body showed the signs of years spent toiling under the weight of the landowner's demands. His face was pale and drawn, the once youthful features now gaunt from hunger and exhaustion. His dark brown hair was unkempt and fell in loose waves over his brow, a stark contrast to the weathered look in his deep-set eyes, which were brown but held a distant, weary expression. His body was slender, though it carried a faint trace of muscle from the endless labor. The muscles were not strong in the way a soldier’s might be, but more like those of someone who had spent his life enduring rather than thriving. At 1.75 meters, he wasn’t particularly tall, but his posture was slightly bent from years of physical strain.

Alden glanced over at the other figure in the dim light of the hut. Finn, his only companion in this bleak existence, lay huddled in the corner, his frail body wrapped in a similar patchwork of worn rags. Finn’s broad frame was clearly more robust, though now also weakened by hunger and fatigue. He was larger than Alden, standing taller with muscled arms and a more solid build, but the years of hard labor had stolen his vitality. His face was similarly hollowed, the sharpness of his features softened by his brown curls, which lay in untidy tufts on his forehead. Like Alden, Finn was only eighteen, but his tired eyes, once bright and filled with warmth, now seemed distant, as if he too was just going through the motions of survival. His cheeks were sunken, his skin weathered by days in the fields under the harsh sun, and his hands—like Alden’s—were rough and cracked from years of hard labor.

Finn had been through much the same as Alden—both of them orphans, both having lost their parents to the plague that had swept through the land years ago. There were no tears left for their lost families. The grief had faded long ago, replaced by the sheer struggle of surviving from day to day.

“Finn,” Alden whispered hoarsely, his throat dry from the chill and the heavy sleep. “It’s time.”

Finn stirred, his bones creaking as he sat up slowly, his movements sluggish from exhaustion. His gaze flickered toward Alden with a faint sense of recognition, though it was evident he wasn’t fully awake. His body was stiff, his muscles aching from the constant physical toll of the life they led. Despite the defeat that hung in the air, there was still something in his demeanor that spoke of a quiet resolve. Even in their dire circumstances, Finn was stronger, in both body and spirit, than Alden could sometimes bring himself to be.

They had grown up in this cursed life together, and while they weren’t related by blood, they had become brothers of a sort. There was no other way to survive except to cling to each other in this unforgiving world.

The hut was silent except for the sound of their breathing and the occasional creak of the reeds as the wind pushed against the fragile walls. Alden’s eyes drifted to the crack in the hut’s wall, where the faintest light of dawn was beginning to creep through. It was the only sign of hope in a day that was sure to be as harsh as any before it. The landowner would be coming soon, and Alden knew they couldn’t waste any time. The fields waited for no one, and the promise of a day’s work—if it could even be called that—would earn them nothing more than the barest scraps of food.

The only things that remained for them were their labor and the constant fear of the whip. The lash of their master was an ever-present threat, a reminder that they were nothing but tools, to be used and discarded when their usefulness had worn thin. They were bound to the land of a landlord on the Pelennor Fields, not far from the great city of Minas Tirith, a place they would never belong to, a world apart from their own. Here, they were nothing but serfs, their fates determined by the whims of their master.

“Breakfast,” Alden muttered, pulling himself to his feet. He reached for the dry, crumbly bread they called their meal, tearing off a piece and handing it to Finn. It tasted like dust, rough and bitter, and it did nothing to ease the gnawing hunger in his stomach. But it was all they had. It had to be enough.

They ate in silence, the only sound the crackling of the stale bread between their teeth. Alden’s stomach growled, but he knew better than to complain. Complaining wouldn’t change anything. It never had.

“Where will we go if we ever leave this place?” Finn asked suddenly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn’t meet Alden’s gaze, but the question hung in the air, a question that both of them had asked many times but never answered.

Alden didn’t reply immediately. His eyes wandered toward the small crack in the wall again, his mind drifting to the distant city of Minas Tirith, barely visible over the horizon. He had never set foot there, never seen its walls up close, but he had heard the stories. The city was a world apart from their own. It was a place where the strong and the rich ruled, where the noble houses feasted and lived in splendor. It was a place where people like him and Finn would never belong.

The idea of it, the thought of the wealth, the comfort, the power—it felt like a dream too far to reach, a place he could never belong. The only time he saw the people from the city was when they passed by on the road, highborn young men and women dressed in fine clothes, traveling to and from their homes in Minas Tirith. Sometimes Alden would see them in the distance—beautiful, carefree, a stark contrast to the dirt and struggle of his life. They laughed and joked, oblivious to the lives of those who worked the land they passed through.

“I don’t know,” Alden finally replied, his voice rough. “But we don’t have time to think about it. We need to work.”

Finn nodded, and they fell into a heavy silence again. Alden’s mind wandered, as it often did, but there was no escape from the reality of their life. Not here. Not now.

The day was starting, and the work was waiting. Alden could feel it in his bones—the familiar weight of the land, the endless stretch of fields that never seemed to end. He had no choice but to keep moving forward, to keep working, because that was all he could do. Every day was the same. There was no other way to survive.

As they finished their meager meal, the two boys stood up together. The cold mud seeped through their thin shoes as they made their way to the door. The world outside was just as unforgiving as the one inside. There was no warmth here, no shelter from the constant weight of their lives.

“Let’s go,” Alden muttered, his voice barely audible above the wind. Finn nodded, and together they stepped out into the world, into the fields, where the land stretched endlessly before them.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat as they moved into the field. The vastness of the land felt oppressive, the soil unforgiving beneath their feet. Alden’s legs ached from the endless walking, the weight of the day's work pressing down on him even before it had truly begun. There was no end to it—just the rhythm of toil, the labor that consumed every part of his day.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the landowner’s voice carried over the fields, sharp and demanding. The man’s presence was like a shadow, always looming, always ready to strike. Alden didn’t need to look up; he knew what was coming. “Faster!” the landowner barked, his voice cutting through the stillness. “Move! Move! You’re wasting time!”

Alden’s back tensed at the sound of the whip being cracked in the distance. The constant threat of punishment was a cruel, ever-present companion. It made them work harder, faster, never allowing even a moment’s pause. The work was grueling. The tools they used were worn and dull, made more for efficiency than comfort. Each step in the field was a battle against the land itself, the soil heavy and thick from constant tilling, barely offering any reward for the pain it demanded.

Finn, always close beside him, didn’t speak. There was no time for words, not here. They moved in time with each other, their bodies working in unison. Every movement was calculated, every step taken with the knowledge that even the slightest mistake could bring pain. Their hands were rough and cracked from the constant work, their fingers blistered, but they had long since stopped feeling the sting. The ache had become a part of them, like the dust that clung to their skin.

Their world was defined by the land—by the endless rows of crops that needed tending, by the earth that would never offer respite, only more work. There was no future here. No hope. Only survival, day after day. Every task was the same as the last, and the only thing that ever changed was the pain, growing deeper with each passing year.

Alden stole a glance at Finn. His friend’s face was a mirror of his own—thin, gaunt, eyes dull from exhaustion. There was no time for dreams here. The fields took everything from them, leaving nothing behind but tired bodies and empty stomachs. The other workers, scattered across the land, were no different. They, too, had lost the spark of hope long ago. They worked like machines, their faces impassive, their movements automatic.

Alden’s heart sank as he looked across the field. The other workers—the serfs—were little more than shadows to him. He saw them every day, but there was no communication, no acknowledgment between them. There was a distance, something unspoken, a gap that Alden and Finn could never seem to cross. They weren’t part of the silent, weary community of laborers. They were always on the edge, on the outside looking in.

The work continued. The sun beat down without mercy, the dirt clinging to Alden’s skin as he worked the fields. It was hard to believe that this was all he would ever know. He had been doing this for as long as he could remember, the endless cycle of labor and punishment. It was a life he had never chosen, but it was the only life he had.

The hours stretched on. The pain in his hands and back grew, but still, there was no escape. There was only the work—the endless, unforgiving labor that filled every waking moment of his life.

As the day wore on, Alden’s thoughts drifted again, but this time, they were darker. He couldn’t help but wonder—what was the point of all this? What was the point of this never-ending cycle of servitude? The more he worked, the more he realized how little control he had over his life. He was nothing but a cog in a machine, a tool to be used, and when his usefulness ran out, discarded.

As the day wore on, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the barren fields. The rhythm of labor slowed, but the weight of the day’s work did not lift. The distant crack of the whip echoed in the fading light, the landowner’s harsh voice still barking orders to the few remaining workers.

Alden felt the tension in his back release, but only slightly. The day was done, but the exhaustion, the hunger, the sense of defeat—those would not stop. The workers began to shuffle toward their homes, a silent procession of weary bodies. Finn moved beside him, his pace as slow and heavy as Alden’s, both men retreating to the edge of the village where the rest of the laborers had long since found their place in the ranks of the forgotten.

The village was small, but there was a clear divide between those who had a place and those who didn’t. The landowner’s grand house loomed high above the cluster of humble homes below, a stark reminder of the divide. The walls of his mansion gleamed in the fading light, while the huts at the base of the hill were dark, their straw roofs sagging with the weight of neglect. He did not look down on them. He did not need to. His world was in the clouds, far removed from their daily struggle.

Alden glanced up at the imposing structure, its windows dark and silent, as if the mansion itself was a silent observer to their pain. The landowner had little concern for the likes of him and Finn. They were just bodies to work, tools to be used. Once the work was done, they were discarded—nothing more than shadows in the background of a world built for the powerful.

But it wasn’t just the landowner who defined their place in the world. It was everyone around them. The villagers, the workers, even the children—they all had their place, their roles, in the system. Alden and Finn were not part of it. They were not even considered laborers by the others in the village. They were outcasts. There was an unspoken divide between them and the rest of the workers, a barrier that no one ever acknowledged but that was felt in every passing glance, every hushed whisper.

As they walked through the village, their heads down, Alden could feel the weight of the isolation pressing in. The other workers, the ones who were accepted into the fold, moved past them without a word, without a look. They were ghosts to them. Alden had long ago stopped trying to make any connection, any attempt at friendship. It wasn’t worth it. They were different, and it showed. They had no family here, no ties. They were alone, and the village knew it.

The silence of the evening was heavy as they reached their small, decrepit hut on the outskirts of the village. The smell of damp wood and rotting straw filled the air. It was a far cry from the warmth and comfort of the houses up on the hill. There was no cheer here, no place to rest or recover. Only the thin, tattered blanket they would share, and the hard floor beneath them.

Alden sank down beside Finn, his stomach growling louder than his tired limbs. There was no food tonight. No bread, no stew, no scraps to take from the landowner’s table. They had worked all day, but for what? The hunger gnawed at them, a reminder that survival wasn’t a guarantee, even after all their labor. The fire in the hearth was weak, just a flicker of warmth in the cold night.

They didn’t speak as they lay there in the dark, the hunger stretching out between them. Alden closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. The same thoughts, the same aching sense of hopelessness, kept him awake. What was the point? Was this all there would ever be? A life of endless toil, of being nothing more than a shadow in a world that would never notice them? His eyes burned, but there was nothing left to do.

Tomorrow, they would rise again. They would return to the same fields, under the same oppressive sun, with the same hopelessness pressing down on them. And the cycle would continue.

The first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the hut, casting a faint, gray glow across the cold, hard floor beneath them. Alden stirred, his body aching from the day before. His limbs were stiff, sore from hours of labor in the fields. His stomach, still empty from the night before, twisted with hunger as he slowly pushed himself upright.

The cold air of the morning wrapped itself around him like a blanket of misery. He could hear the distant sounds of the village waking up, the low murmur of voices, the clatter of the other workers preparing for another long day. The rhythm of it all was familiar—so familiar it almost felt like a prison, the same sound, the same smells, the same faces, day in and day out. There was no escape.

Alden glanced over at Finn, who was still lying there, eyes half-closed, his face gaunt and tired. They had never spoken of their situation, not in words. They didn’t need to. It was enough to share the silence, to feel the hunger and the weight of their lives pressing down on them. Their bond was one of survival, nothing more, nothing less. Finn stirred and sat up slowly, his movements sluggish, the same dull expression etched into his face.

Another day,” Finn murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Alden nodded silently, pushing himself to his feet. The routine was as inescapable as the sunrise. Another day of labor, another day of hunger. They would return to the fields, where the landowner’s demands would be unyielding. And they would toil until the day bled into night once more. The thought of it made Alden’s chest tighten with frustration. What was the point? What would change? The same labor. The same hunger. The same endless repetition.

He glanced over at Finn, who was already moving toward the field, his steps heavy, his face blank with the same weary resignation. The land stretched before them—wide and empty, the soil stubbornly resisting their efforts to work it. They had no choice but to keep going, to keep moving, even as the weight of the day pressed down on their shoulders.

As they trudged onward, the sound of marching feet reached their ears. It was faint at first, but it quickly grew louder, the rhythmic clatter of soldiers’ boots, sharp and purposeful. The soldiers, heading to Osgiliath, passed through with that same sense of purpose they always carried. Alden and Finn paused for a moment, glancing in the direction of the soldiers, but their eyes didn’t linger. There was nothing for them in that direction. The soldiers lived in a world they would never know.

And then, a sudden, terrifying shriek cut through the air—high and frantic, echoing across the fields. The sound of hooves followed, a wild, desperate pounding that sent a jolt of alarm through Alden’s chest. He turned sharply, eyes wide, just in time to see the massive form of a horse charging toward them, its mane flying like a banner of panic.

The rider had been thrown violently from the saddle, his body crashing to the ground with a sickening thud just in front of Alden and Finn. The horse continued its wild gallop, no rider in control, its hooves striking the earth with deafening force as it raced past them. Alden barely had time to react as the beast thundered past, its frantic energy rattling the ground beneath their feet.

The soldier groaned faintly, his body twitching in the dirt. Alden froze, his gaze fixed on the gleam of armor catching the sunlight, each intricate detail speaking of a world far above his own. Finn’s hand shot out, gripping Alden’s arm.

“Don’t,” Finn hissed, barely above a whisper. His eyes darted toward the horizon. “Leave him.”

Alden didn’t move. The man’s chest rose and fell faintly, his breaths shallow. “He’s hurt,” Alden said, his voice rough, uncertain.

Finn’s grip tightened. “And we’ll be hurt too. Worse, Alden. You know the rules.”

Alden swallowed hard, his eyes still on the fallen figure. The thought of stepping closer made his chest tighten, but the sight of the soldier sprawled in the dirt was unbearable. “We can’t just—”

“Yes, we can,” Finn interrupted, his tone sharp. His gaze flicked back toward the road, scanning for movement. “We have to. If they find us near him…”

The groan came again, softer this time. Alden flinched as though the sound had struck him, but his feet were already moving before he could think better of it. Finn cursed under his breath.

“Alden!” Finn hissed, glancing wildly around. He didn’t follow, but his voice was hoarse with panic. “Get back here. Now.”

Alden crouched beside the man, his hands trembling as they hovered just above the polished armor. The metal was smooth and cold, utterly foreign. He hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. The knight groaned again, his head lolling to the side.

Alden gritted his teeth and grabbed the man’s shoulder. His pulse thundered in his ears as he tugged at the soldier’s heavy frame, trying to drag him toward the edge of the field. Each movement felt like stepping deeper into forbidden territory.

Finn remained frozen a few paces back, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Alden, stop,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. But when Alden didn’t look back, Finn muttered a low curse and stepped forward.

Together, they pulled the soldier’s limp body toward the shade of a tree. The effort left their breaths shallow and ragged, and the knight’s armor felt heavier than anything they’d ever lifted. When they finally laid him down, Finn stumbled back, his eyes wide with fear.

“This is madness,” Finn whispered, his voice thin with fear. “We’re dead if anyone sees us.”

Alden didn’t answer. He stared at the unconscious man, his hands trembling as though the act of helping had left an invisible brand on his skin. The stillness around them seemed fragile, too thin to hold, and then it broke—a low, distant rumble stirring the air.

At first, it was only a faint tremor beneath their feet, a sound that could have been imagined. But it grew, steady and deliberate, each beat cutting through the quiet field like a warning drum. Alden’s heart quickened. Finn turned sharply, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Do you hear that?” Finn whispered, his voice thin with panic.

The pounding grew louder, closer. The earth beneath them trembled now, the rhythm relentless and unyielding. Both boys snapped their heads toward the horizon. Over the crest of a hill, a line of soldiers appeared, their armor glinting in the sunlight, banners rippling sharply in the wind.

Alden’s breath caught in his throat. “Finn…” he whispered, his voice hollow.

The soldiers descended swiftly, their formation precise and imposing. They dismounted as one, their boots striking the ground in unison—a sound as sharp and deliberate as the beat of the hooves that had brought them. At their head strode a tall man, his cloak trimmed in silver thread, billowing with each step. His sharp features and piercing eyes radiated authority and disdain.

“Captain Alaric!” one of the soldiers called out. “The knight is here—injured!”

Alaric’s gaze swept over the scene, landing first on the knight and then on Alden and Finn. His lips curled into a sneer. “What,” he began, his voice low and venomous, “is the meaning of this?”

Alden stumbled to his feet, his heart pounding as he tried to find his voice. “He… he fell. His horse threw him. We… we were just helping.”

“Helping?” Alaric repeated, his tone dripping with contempt. He took a step closer, his presence looming. “You filthy serfs think you have the right to touch a knight of Gondor? To lay your hands on someone so far above your station?”

Finn flinched at the venom in Alaric’s words, his head bowed, but Alden forced himself to stand straighter. “We didn’t mean any harm,” he said, his voice cracking. “We just—”

“Silence.” The word was a whip crack in the air, cutting through Alden’s protest. Alaric’s cold gaze bore into him. “Do you think your excuses mean anything? You are nothing. Less than nothing. And yet you dared to lay your filthy hands on a man of rank?”

Behind him, the knight stirred, groaning as he slowly sat up. His eyes flicked briefly to Alden and Finn, but he quickly looked away, his face twisting in discomfort. He said nothing.

“Bind them,” Alaric commanded, his voice calm but unyielding. “These two will answer for their insolence.”

The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, their hands rough as they seized Alden and Finn. The boys resisted instinctively, but their struggles were futile against the soldiers’ iron grips. They were forced to their knees, the dirt cold and unyielding beneath them.

“Captain,” one of the soldiers ventured hesitantly, his voice cautious. “If I may… the knight appears unharmed, apart from his fall. Perhaps these boys meant no harm—”

“Enough.” Alaric’s glare silenced the soldier instantly. His voice was as cold and sharp as the steel at his side. “Intentions are irrelevant. Their actions speak louder than their words. They must learn their place.”

The weight of Alaric’s words pressed down on Alden like a stone. The ropes tightened around his wrists, the coarse fibers biting into his skin. He glanced at Finn, whose jaw was clenched tight, his expression betraying both defiance and fear. Alden’s heart sank further. They had tried to do what was right, but the world had twisted their actions into something shameful—something punishable.

“Summon the landowner,” Alaric ordered, his tone final. “This insolence cannot go unpunished.”

The soldiers moved around them with precision, their faces devoid of empathy. Alden kept his head bowed, his breaths shallow and uneven.

The captain’s sharp, patrician features betrayed no emotion as he turned his attention back to Alden and Finn. His gaze was heavy, assessing, as though he were appraising livestock. There was no acknowledgment of their humanity in his calculating eyes—only a cold determination to maintain order.

As the soldiers moved to retrieve the rogue horse, Alaric remained still, his hands clasped behind his back. The silence between him and the boys was suffocating, broken only by the sounds of the preparations happening around them. Alden felt the captain’s stare bore into him, stripping him down, as if his very existence was an affront.

The landowner arrived shortly thereafter, his heavy footsteps echoing across the field. He dismounted quickly, his face flushed from the exertion. His nervous eyes flicked toward Alaric before he straightened himself, his posture stiffening as he adopted an air of forced composure. His gaze shifted to Alden and Finn, bound and trembling, and then back to the commanding figure of the captain.

“Captain Alaric,” the landowner began with a low bow, his voice carrying an edge of apprehension. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence? I trust the steward’s army fares well under your leadership.”

Alaric’s eyes remained fixed on the boys, his tone cutting as he replied, “Your honor is not in question here, my lord. Your laborers, however, have disgraced themselves.” He gestured sharply toward Alden and Finn. “These serfs dared to lay hands on a knight of Gondor. They claim they were aiding him, but theft seems a more likely motive.”

The landowner stiffened, his face betraying his shock for only a moment before he masked it with a forced cough. “Steal, my lord?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “I find it difficult to believe such an accusation. My workers, though simple, are loyal to their duties.”

Alden, his heart racing with fear and frustration, managed to find his voice. “We weren’t stealing!” he cried, his desperation cracking through his words. “We just moved him off the road—he was hurt, and we thought—”

A sharp slap from one of the soldiers cut him off. The crack of the blow echoed across the field, and Alden staggered, clutching his face in shock. Finn flinched but dared not move, his own face pale with restrained fury.

“Silence!” the soldier barked. “You will speak only when spoken to.”

The soldier they had tried to help stirred weakly, his eyelids fluttering open. For a fleeting moment, Alden dared to hope that the knight might speak in their favor. But the injured man’s gaze fell briefly on the bound boys before he turned his head away, his face hardening with indifference. That rejection weighed heavier on Alden than the ropes biting into his wrists.

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Alaric’s voice broke the silence, cold and authoritative. “Summon all your peasants,” he ordered the landowner. “Let them gather in the open square. They must see the consequences of defying their place.”

The landowner hesitated for a brief moment before nodding stiffly. “At once, my lord,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance. With a wave of his hand, he ordered his men to gather the workers.

Alden and Finn were dragged roughly toward the square, their wrists burning from the ropes. The landowner’s expression was unreadable, though his eyes lingered on the boys with a flicker of unease. He knew their punishment would be harsh, but he also understood the necessity of maintaining order.

The square filled slowly, the other serfs herded together by the soldiers. They avoided looking at Alden and Finn, their gazes fixed on the ground or darting nervously to one another. Even here, among their own kind, Alden felt the weight of their isolation. The whispers that reached his ears were not of pity, but of fear—fear of guilt by association, fear of anything that might draw the captain’s gaze.

“This is it,” Finn muttered, his voice barely audible. “They’re going to make an example of us.”

Alden didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind raced with fragments of the day, from the moment the knight fell to the overwhelming silence that now surrounded him. He looked at Finn, who kept his head down, his body trembling. Alden clenched his fists, the ropes biting into his wrists, but he refused to bow.

Alaric stepped into the center, his presence cutting through the murmurs and stilling the crowd. He moved with deliberate precision, his eyes scanning the assembly before settling on Alden and Finn.

“These two,” he began, his voice slicing through the air like a blade, “have defied the natural order. They dared to lay hands on a knight of Gondor. An act that cannot and will not be tolerated.”

The crowd remained silent, their unease palpable. Alden’s heart pounded, but he forced himself to meet Alaric’s gaze, even as it felt like staring into the sun. He braced himself for whatever words came next.

Alaric gestured toward the boys with a sweeping motion. “This is not about their intentions. It is about their actions. An insult to the order that binds our society together. Their punishment will serve as a reminder to all.”

He paused, his voice hardening. “Their hands will be severed. Let this stand as a warning to anyone who dares to defy their place.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by stifled murmurs. Alden’s chest tightened, his breath catching as the weight of the sentence settled over him. Finn stiffened beside him, his body trembling visibly.

The landowner stepped forward, his hands clasped tightly. “My lord,” he said, his voice cautious but firm. “I do not question your wisdom, but these boys are critical to the work on my fields. Their labor ensures the harvest, and without it, Gondor will feel the loss. Perhaps their punishment could reflect their crime, but spare their ability to serve.”

Alaric’s sharp gaze shifted to the landowner. For a long moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his tone icy. “You suggest leniency, my lord?”

The landowner stiffened but pressed on. “Not leniency, my lord. Practicality. Severing their hands would render them useless. They could serve Gondor better with their labor intact.”

Alaric studied him for a moment before exhaling sharply. “Very well. Their hands will remain, but mercy will not mean weakness.”

He turned back to the soldiers, his voice cold and commanding. “Twenty lashes each. Let it be a lesson that mercy is not forgiveness.”

The crowd stood in tense silence as two soldiers stepped forward, their movements brisk and mechanical. Alden and Finn were untied from the poles they had been tethered to, their arms yanked forward as they were led to the center of the square. Their wrists remained bound, and the rough rope dug into their raw skin with every step.

The serfs watched with downcast eyes, their expressions a mixture of fear and resignation. Not a single word of protest rose from the crowd; even the landowner stood silently to the side, his face drawn tight with unease but carefully devoid of dissent.

Alden’s heart hammered in his chest as he was forced to his knees, the gritty dirt biting into his skin. Finn was dragged beside him, his face pale, his breathing sharp and erratic. Alden tried to meet Finn’s eyes, but his friend refused to look up, his head bowed in silent dread.

The soldiers positioned themselves with the precision of routine, their actions practiced and unfeeling. One soldier gripped the long-handled whip, the leather coil hanging ominously in his hand. The other soldier stepped closer to the boys, his presence a looming shadow over their kneeling forms.

The first strike came without warning.

The crack of the whip split the air, sharp and unforgiving, and Alden flinched as Finn let out a muffled gasp. The leather lashed across Finn’s back, leaving a vivid mark on his already torn shirt.

Another blow followed, and this time Alden clenched his jaw as the sound alone sent a chill down his spine. His turn came next.

The whip bit into his back like fire, the pain searing through his body. He refused to cry out, biting down on his lip so hard he tasted blood. Each strike landed with ruthless precision, and by the tenth lash, his strength began to falter. His knees buckled slightly, but the soldier behind him barked an order, forcing him to remain upright.

Finn shuddered beside him, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as the punishment continued. The lashes fell in rhythmic succession, each one a brutal reminder of their defiance, their helplessness.

By the time the final lash struck, both boys were trembling, their bodies slumped forward as far as their bindings would allow. Their backs burned with the cruel patterns of the whip, their wounds sticky with blood and sweat.

The soldiers stepped back, their duty complete, and Alaric’s cold voice rang out once more. “Let this serve as a reminder to all. Order must be maintained. The balance must be upheld.”

No one dared to move. The crowd of serfs remained frozen, their silence deafening. Alden lifted his head weakly, his vision blurred from the pain. He saw their faces—worn, fearful, and utterly resigned. No one would come to their aid.

The landowner cleared his throat, his voice shaking slightly. “Release them,” he said, his words barely audible over the oppressive silence.

A soldier stepped forward, cutting the ropes binding their wrists. Alden collapsed immediately, the strength in his legs giving out. He felt Finn’s trembling hand brush against his own as they both sank into the dirt.

The crowd began to disperse slowly, their heads bowed as they shuffled back to their work. The square emptied, leaving the boys alone in their pain.

Alden and Finn, too weak to stand, crawled toward the safety of their small hut. They did not speak as they moved, each one lost in the weight of their suffering. The pain from the lashes still burned, but they made their way together, side by side, their only hope now in the quiet darkness of their home.

When they reached the hut, they collapsed inside, too exhausted to speak. The door creaked shut behind them, leaving them in a heavy, suffocating silence. Their breaths came in shallow gasps, the agony of their wounds pulsing with every movement. They could only rest, their bodies aching, their hearts heavy with the knowledge of what had been done to them—and the painful realization that they had no choice but to endure.

The hut was cold, the air thick with the damp chill of the night. The faint, distant whisper of the wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, a reminder of the outside world that seemed so far removed from their pain. The thin layer of straw beneath them did little to cushion their battered forms or shield them from the hard, unyielding ground. Hunger gnawed at their insides, but even that primal ache felt distant, overshadowed by their exhaustion.

Finn shifted slightly, a low groan escaping as the movement sent a sharp jolt of pain through his body. He rolled onto his back, wincing as his raw skin pressed against the rough straw. Staring at the uneven planks of the roof, his eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere between the present and the weight of their shared suffering.

After a long silence, his voice broke through the stillness, hoarse and barely audible. “We can’t keep doing this,” he murmured, the words trembling with both anger and despair. “Every day, it’s the same. We work, we suffer, we’re punished, and nothing changes.”

Alden’s body ached from the lashings, but it was the weight of his thoughts that held him still. The same thoughts that had plagued him for years. “Our parents,” he muttered, his voice heavy with bitterness, “they worked themselves to death in those fields. And what did they get for it? Nothing. The plague came and took them, just like that. They gave everything to this land, and it gave them nothing in return. Just like we will. Work until we drop, and when we die, they’ll just throw us away and replace us.”

Finn turned his head slowly to meet Alden’s gaze, his eyes filled with frustration. “That’s the landowner’s fault,” he spat, his voice sharp. “He’s supposed to protect us, keep us safe. But he doesn’t care about us. He sees us as tools—nothing but capital. We’re nothing to him but a way to make more money. He doesn’t speak for us. He speaks to protect himself. He protects his own interests, not his workers.”

Alden nodded slowly, the weight of the situation settling deep in his chest. “I know,” he muttered, his voice thick with sadness. “He should have protected us. That’s what he’s supposed to do. He’s the one who’s supposed to stand up for us, to keep us from harm. But when it came down to it, he did nothing. He let Alaric do whatever he wanted to us, and worse, no one—no one in the whole community—lifted a finger. Not when we were tied up. Not when we were whipped. Not a word from anyone. We’re alone in this, Finn. Why? Why do we have to live like this? Why does it have to be so... so rotten?”

Finn’s expression hardened as he sat up slightly, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “It’s because the whole damn system is rotten, Alden. It’s built on cruelty, on control. It’s the landowners, it’s the stewards—they’re the ones who hold all the power. They make the rules, and we’re nothing more than pawns to them. We wanted to help that soldier. We wanted to do something decent. And what did Alaric do? He accused us of defiance, of daring to step out of our place. He wanted to cut our hands off for trying to show mercy. Mercy, Alden. And when the landowner’s greed got in the way of that, it was only then that Alaric decided not to follow through on his punishment. But that didn’t stop him from doing everything he could to make us suffer.

Alden closed his eyes, his mind swirling with the bitter truth of it all. “So, we’ll never have a better life. Not here. Not in Gondor. The way things are, the rich have all the freedom and justice they want. They get to live in Minas Tirith, with their fine clothes, their horses, their power. And we? We’re nothing. We’ll never be part of that world. We’re nothing but ants. We see the lords and ladies on their horses, riding through the streets, and it’s all a dream. A mirage. Something we’ll never touch. Minas Tirith will always be out of reach for people like us. It’s just an illusion.”

Finn's gaze softened, but his voice remained steady. “You’re right. We’ll never be part of that world. Not here. Not in Gondor, where justice is reserved only for the strong and the rich. But that doesn’t mean we have to stay here, Alden. We don’t have to keep living like this. We don’t have to die in these fields, stuck in the same broken system, serving people who think they own us. There’s always another way. There’s always a choice.”

Alden turned his head slowly, looking at Finn, the words taking a moment to register. “An alternative?” he asked, a touch of disbelief in his voice. “Where would we go? What choice do we have? We’re serfs. There’s nowhere to run. We’re trapped. They’ll find us. We’ll be hunted down, dragged back here.”

Finn’s eyes met his with quiet resolve. “There’s somewhere they won’t find us, Alden. There’s somewhere we can go, somewhere we can disappear.”

Alden frowned, confused. "Where?"

Finn’s voice was steady but tinged with quiet urgency. “I’ve heard whispers, Alden. Whispers about a land far to the east, a place beyond the reach of Gondor. They say it’s a land where they can’t touch us, a place where they won’t find us.”

Alden’s brow furrowed as he tried to process Finn’s words. “But… what land is that?”

Finn hesitated for a moment, then continued, his voice lower now, almost as if afraid someone might hear. “I don’t know much about it. But... Mordor. That’s what they call it. It’s far from here. And they say no one from Gondor has the power to follow us there.”

“Mordor…” Alden repeated, his voice trailing off as the words lingered in the air, uncomfortable and foreign. It felt almost like a curse. His mind drifted, the faint echo of something his mother had once told him resurfacing. "Years ago, when I was still a child, and my mother was alive, I remember hearing her speak of a dark lord, sitting on a dark throne, ruling over Mordor, where the shadows lie..." He paused, his voice faltering as the weight of the memory pressed on him. “Wait… isn't that the land Gondor is at war with? The soldiers we see marching toward Osgiliath?”

Finn looked at Alden, his gaze steady but laced with uncertainty. “I don’t know much about Mordor,” he said slowly. “I’ve only heard the name. The soldiers marching toward Osgiliath. But what do we really know? We’re serfs, Alden. We live under the landowner’s thumb, scraping by for nothing. He treats us like animals, and everyone around us does the same. I don’t know what’s out there, but I know we can’t stay here. We’re not even allowed to exist, not truly. They’ll break us down until we’re nothing more than dirt beneath their boots.”

Alden hesitated, his thoughts swirling. "But..." he began, his voice softening as he recalled something that made his heart pound. "A little while ago, when I was working in the fields, I heard the landowner and his wife talking. They mentioned an attack on Gondorian soldiers by creatures from Mordor. It sounded... terrifying. I don’t know, Finn, it felt like more than just a rumor."

Finn met Alden’s gaze firmly, his voice unwavering. “It’s just fear-mongering, Alden. Old women’s stories meant to keep us in line. What do we really know about Mordor? We don’t have the luxury of worrying about what’s there. What matters is that we get away from here, from this place. The landowner’s tyranny, the way they treat us—it's worse than anything we could find in Mordor."

Alden still wasn’t fully convinced. The stories and rumors lingered in his mind, making it hard to ignore the feeling of unease that tightened in his chest. "I don’t know, Finn. It still doesn’t sit right with me. Mordor sounds so… dark, so dangerous. But what choice do we have?”

Finn’s face darkened with urgency. “We have to decide soon, Alden. This life—it’s not sustainable. Every day is a battle, and we’re losing. We can’t keep going like this. But not now. We can’t make a decision like this in one night. Tomorrow, we get up, work the fields again, and we’ll think more. But we need to decide quickly. I know it’s hard, but we don’t have forever to figure it out.”

Alden nodded, though his heart remained heavy with doubt. “Tomorrow then. We’ll think on it more. But tonight... we need rest.”

The two of them lay down on the cold, hard floor, the pain from the lashings still fresh. Sleep was difficult, with their backs aching from the brutal punishment they had received, but the weight of the decision they faced made it even harder to rest. Every time they shifted, the pain flared, but neither of them spoke. The silence stretched on, both of them trapped in their thoughts, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

The next day, as the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in their hut, the brutal reality of their situation hit them again. The day began just like every other: with the heavy sound of the landowner’s boots approaching, his voice cutting through the silence.

“Filthy serfs,” he sneered, stopping just outside. “Alaric wanted your hands. Said it was justice for touching what isn’t yours to touch. But I convinced him to spare you.” He let the words linger, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “You owe me for that.”

Alden clenched his fists, the sting of the lashes still fresh, his back a map of pain. Beside him, Finn’s jaw tightened, his glare fixed on the ground. Neither spoke; there was nothing they could say that wouldn’t make it worse.

The landowner stepped closer, his shadow falling over them like a weight. “You should be thanking me. On your knees. Kissing my boots.” He tilted his head, the sneer deepening. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be crippled now. Begging in the dirt with stumps for hands. But instead, you get to keep your lives—and your use to me.”

His voice turned low and biting as he turned to leave. “Don’t forget who saved you. Now get back to work.”

The rest of the day unfolded in its usual crushing monotony. Alden and Finn went back to work, their bodies aching from the lashes, but the demands of the fields never stopped. The endless rows of crops seemed to stretch on forever, and the weight of the shovel in Alden’s hands felt heavier than ever. He was used to the pain, but today, it seemed unrelenting. He kept his head down, trying to focus on the task, his mind elsewhere, planning.

As they worked, they could feel the eyes of the other serfs on them, though no one dared speak. They had always been outcasts—orphans, without family, without protection—and now, after their punishment, they were even more isolated. The workers kept their distance, the whispers that once followed them now replaced with open avoidance. They were marked men, carrying the stigma of defiance and now the scars of their punishment. The other workers, though they, too, suffered under the landowner’s cruel hand, had their families, their communities. Alden and Finn had nothing. They were just orphans. No one believed them when they had tried to help the fallen soldier, who had been thrown from a wild horse and landed at their feet. They had only reached out to help, but their intentions were twisted into accusations.

Amidst the weight of their toil, Alden’s mind wandered. The sting of the lash was still fresh, but his thoughts were elsewhere, drifting back to the days long ago when his mother’s voice had told him stories. He could still remember her gentle voice, whispering to him in the quiet nights of their small hut, far away from the world that would never acknowledge their suffering. “Mordor,” she had said, “a place of shadows, where a dark lord sits on a dark throne. His eyes see all, and the world is swallowed in darkness there, where no light can reach.”

He hadn’t understood then, and he didn’t fully understand now. But the words stuck with him. Mordor. A land so dark, so distant, that it almost felt like a dream. His mother had spoken of it with fear, but there was something else in her tone—something that now echoed in Alden’s heart. Perhaps it wasn’t just a warning. Perhaps, in her words, there had been a hint of longing. For the first time, Alden wondered: was it the darkness of Mordor that had frightened her? Or was it the thought of escaping to a place where there would be no more men like the landowner, no more cruelty?

The thought lingered in Alden’s mind as he bent over the earth, shoveling the dirt with mechanical precision. His world was heavy with pain, but the thought of Mordor, mysterious and unknown, burned brighter than ever. It was the only place left where they might find a chance to live beyond the reach of men like the landowner. If Mordor was truly as dark and terrible as his mother had warned, perhaps it would be better to face that darkness than to continue living in the suffocating light of oppression.

As the sun began to dip low in the sky, the work slowly came to an end. The boys stood, their backs aching from the unrelenting labor, sweat dripping from their brows. The other serfs began to slowly gather their things, casting sidelong glances at Alden and Finn, their expressions filled with a mixture of disdain and fear. One man, his eyes filled with contempt, spat in their direction as he passed. The others followed suit, some muttering curses under their breath, others avoiding their gaze entirely.

Without a word, Alden and Finn gathered their meager belongings, the weight of the day’s toil pressing down on their shoulders, and slowly made their way toward their small hut on the outskirts of the village.

Once inside, Alden sat heavily, his expression troubled. He turned to Finn, his voice filled with uncertainty. "Finn, I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday. You’re right. Life here is terrible and unbearable. We’re oppressed by the landowner, and now, even our community has turned against us, treating us with hostility. But I have serious doubts about Mordor. It sounds so ominous. Are there no other options? Could we flee to Minas Tirith? The hills of Gondor, or even further west, where the powerful horse-lords live?"

Finn sighed, sitting down across from Alden. "I wish it could be different, Alden. I wish there were better places for us to go. But the reality is, the guards of Minas Tirith will recognize us as runaway serfs, and before we know it, we’ll be handed over to the vengeful landowner. As for the hills of Gondor, we’d be hunted down by mercenaries or the Gondorian army. We won’t survive that. And even if we did manage the long journey west, it’s not certain the horse-lords would take us in. No, Mordor is the only option."

Alden looked down, conflicted. "I understand, Finn, but Mordor… it’s so dark. It feels like a death sentence."

Finn met Alden’s gaze, his voice firm yet understanding. "I get your fear, Alden, but maybe that’s just the thing. Mordor is at war with Gondor— the very land where we’ve known nothing but misery. Maybe, just maybe, it could be a place for us to find freedom. I know it’s a risk, but it’s the only real chance we have. All the other options will only lead to our capture, or worse."

Alden sighed, rubbing his face, the weight of their situation pressing down on him. "So, you think this is it. There’s no other way."

Finn nodded, resolute. "I do. It’s everything or nothing. We can’t stay here any longer, Alden. We have nothing to lose. I know it sounds terrifying, but Mordor might just be the place where we can finally start over."

Alden hesitated, the idea of Mordor still feeling impossible. But deep down, he knew Finn was right. There was no safe haven left. "Alright," he said after a long pause, his voice quiet but determined. "We’ll go. But we need a plan."

Finn leaned back, his gaze distant but focused. "The next few weeks will be the hardest. We’ll have to keep doing the same routine, no matter how miserable it feels. We can’t let anyone suspect anything. But during that time, we gather everything we can. We’ll have to be careful, scrape together food, cloth, and anything else that might help us survive the journey."

Alden nodded, his mind racing with the thought of the journey ahead. "And our wounds...?"

Finn paused, his expression darkening slightly as he glanced at Alden’s back, still marked by the brutal lashings. "We need time for them to heal. It’ll take weeks, but we can’t leave until we’re strong enough to survive the trip. The last thing we want is to be caught half-starved or too weak to escape."

Alden sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Finn’s words sinking in. They both needed to heal—physically and mentally—before they could leave. And that would take time. But he felt the urgency growing with every passing day.

"So, we wait," Alden said quietly, his voice full of determination. "We wait until we’re ready. When our wounds are healed, and we’ve gathered enough to leave, we’ll go. We’ll leave before the winter comes."

Finn’s eyes softened, though there was still a fierce glint in them. "We’ll be ready, Alden. We’ll get out of here before the cold sets in. And we’ll do it together."

The two of them sat quietly, the weight of their plan pressing down on them. It was a fragile hope, but it was enough to keep them going. They didn’t speak for a long time, each lost in their thoughts, but they both knew the decision was made.

Finally, the silence was broken by Alden’s tired voice. "We’ll make it, Finn. We will."

Finn’s face softened, and a small smile appeared. "One step at a time, Alden. One step at a time."

And with that, they lay down to sleep. The cold night air crept into their small hut, but there was a warmth between them—however small—a spark of hope that the coming weeks would bring the freedom they so desperately longed for.

And with that, they lay down to sleep, the cold night air creeping into their small hut. Yet, there was a warmth between them—however small—a spark of hope that the coming weeks would bring the freedom they so desperately longed for.

The following days were unbearably heavy. The relentless rhythm of work never stopped. The rows of crops stretched endlessly, as did the hours, all spent beneath the scorching sun. Alden and Finn grew accustomed to the pain—both physical and emotional. Their backs ached, their hands bled, and the air around them thickened with the weight of their isolation. The work continued without pause, each day blending seamlessly into the next. Shoulders bent under the weight of their labor, leaving no time to rest, no space to think beyond the immediate demands of the fields

Each evening, after the last stroke of the shovel had been made and the landowner’s heavy footsteps faded into the distance, the boys would retreat to their tiny hut. The others never spoke to them, and Alden could feel the tension in the air whenever they walked past the workers. The other serfs would avoid their gaze, pretending not to notice them, as if they, too, had been marked by something untouchable. It was easier that way, easier to ignore the ones who had been punished so visibly.

In the quiet of their hut, Alden and Finn would sit, their bodies sore and tired, but their minds racing. Every night, in the secrecy of the shadows, they would begin their quiet work. Slowly, without alerting anyone, they started collecting what they could. A scrap of cloth here, a piece of food there. They stored the small items carefully, hidden beneath the straw of their bedding, where no one could see.

The days grew into weeks, and the weight of their routine was relentless. Still, they did not speak of their plans, but they worked with a quiet determination. The pain of their lashes slowly began to fade, though the scars remained. Their backs, once raw and bleeding, had healed into angry red lines, a constant reminder of their suffering. But the scar tissue also reminded them of something else: their will had not been broken. They could still move, still work, still dream of the future. And slowly, each small act of preparation, each scrap saved for their escape, brought them closer to their goal.

They were careful, always. The landowner’s presence was a constant, a looming threat. His eyes watched them closely, always looking for a reason to punish them further. But Alden and Finn kept their heads down, working in silence, biding their time. They knew the landowner would never let them go willingly. If they were to escape, they would have to be prepared.

Weeks passed, and their plans took shape. Every day they worked, their bodies aching, but their spirits steadily growing stronger. Each night, they gathered their small supplies—coins, bits of cloth, and dried food. They kept it hidden, not daring to tell anyone of their intentions. They knew that if they were discovered, their lives would be forfeit. So they worked quietly, moving in the shadows, preparing for the day they would finally leave.

The landowner’s cruel rule remained unchallenged, but Alden and Finn had found something that would never be taken from them: hope. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep them moving forward. With that hope came the quiet certainty that one day, when the time was right, they would leave this place behind.

As the days dragged on, the cold of the approaching winter grew more biting, and the work in the fields showed no signs of easing. That evening, after yet another long day of labor, the two boys sat in the corner of their small, damp hut. The fire, weak and flickering in the center of the room, offered little warmth against the chill that had begun to creep into the very walls of their home.

Finn looked over at Alden, the dim light casting shadows across his tired face. “Our wounds have healed,” he said softly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “The pain is gone, but the scars... they’ll never fade. But it’s not just the scars that remind me... it’s everything we’ve been through. We can’t keep living like this. The longer we wait, the more we risk. If we stay any longer, they’ll find us out. And winter’s coming—our chances will get even slimmer.”

Alden nodded, his mind already made up. "We can’t stay, Finn," Alden said, his voice steady. "We’ve prepared as much as we can. We’ve gathered enough to get us started. Tomorrow, we leave."

Finn’s eyes flickered with a mix of relief and uncertainty. “Osgiliath,” he muttered, as if testing the word, letting it settle in the air between them. “And from there? What’s next?”

“We’ll go to Osgiliath,” Alden said, his voice firm. “It’s the only place we know in the east. We don’t know exactly what will happen once we get there... but it’s the best chance we’ve got. From there, we’ll figure out how to get further. We’ll find a way.”

The silence that followed was thick, each of them lost in their thoughts about what was to come. They didn’t know what awaited them—only that Osgiliath was the first step. Anything beyond that was a mystery, and that uncertainty weighed heavily on their hearts.

Suddenly, a noise outside cut through the heavy silence. The voices of several people, raised in heated conversation, echoed through the thin walls of their hut. Alden’s heart skipped a beat as he glanced at Finn, who was already standing, his expression unreadable.

“What is it?” Finn whispered, his voice low and tense.

“They’re outside,” Alden said, his words barely audible.

A group of serfs stood just outside the door. The tension was thick, the hostility evident. One of the men stepped forward, his voice sharp and bitter. “You two,” he said, “You think you can just sneak around, gathering things in the dark? Plotting your escape like thieves?”

Finn’s fists clenched. The accusation hit him hard, but he was starting to lose his composure. His anger flared.

The man continued, his eyes narrowing. “Alaric was right to punish you. But now, you’re making it worse. You think you can just walk away from the community? Abandon everyone and bring the landowner’s wrath down on us? You think we’ll let you drag us into your mess?”

Alden stepped forward, but Finn was already shaking with rage. The other men stood by, silent but watching, waiting for something to break.

“You think we’re the only ones suffering?” Finn spat, his voice rising. “We’ve been under his heel just like all of you. And you’re still going to stand here and say we’re the ones bringing shame? We’re done waiting!”

The tall man sneered, his expression twisted with contempt. “You’re no better than thieves. You think you can escape without consequences? You’re traitors to your own kind.”

Finn’s fist flew before Alden could stop him. The blow landed squarely on the man’s face, sending him crashing to the ground. Blood poured from his head, his body falling limp in the dirt. The other serfs shouted in shock, some scrambling backward, others rushing forward, but the tension was palpable.

“RUN!” Finn shouted, grabbing their stash and hurling it into his pack. His voice was frantic, desperate.

Alden’s heart raced. He knew this moment had come. They had no choice now. Without another word, he grabbed his pack, and both boys ran out into the night.

The night air was thick with panic and adrenaline as Alden and Finn sprinted through the darkness, their hearts pounding in their chests. The escape had been forced upon them, and now there was no turning back. Every breath they took felt like it might be their last, but the fear in their veins was nothing compared to the weight of what lay behind them—the serfs, the landowner, and the wrath that would follow them if they were caught.

Behind them, the angry cries of the other serfs echoed through the night, the sounds of chaos rising as the word spread. Some shouted at each other to stop them, while others yelled for the landowner to be woken. But no matter how much they screamed, it only fueled the boys' desperate flight.

“They’re coming,” Finn muttered through gritted teeth, his eyes scanning the shadows behind them. He could hear the shouts getting louder, the sound of angry voices rising over the stillness of the night.

Alden didn’t have to look back to know that they were being chased. He could hear the pounding of footsteps, the voices of the serfs shouting accusations, and the unmistakable tension in the air as the boys raced toward the open fields. They were closing in.

Alden’s breath came in ragged gasps as they pushed forward, running toward the east—toward Osgiliath. It felt like an eternity with every step, but there was no time to stop, no time to think about what they had left behind. They were traitors now, branded as such by the very people who had once shunned them, and their lives would be forfeit if they were caught.

The ground beneath their feet was uneven, the fields surrounding the village offering little cover. But even as they ran, the sound of pursuit grew louder, the voices of the serfs angry and full of accusation. The boys pushed harder, knowing they had to reach the edge of the community to be free. There was no safety in the village, only the relentless judgment of the people who had always seen them as lesser.

Finn stumbled, his foot catching on a hidden stone, but he regained his balance quickly. “We can’t stop!” Alden shouted. “We have to keep moving!”

They crossed the boundary of the village, their feet pounding against the open fields. The land, once worked by the very people chasing them, stretched out before them. The moonlight was the only thing guiding them now, the long grass and weeds brushing against their legs as they ran.

“Almost there!” Finn gasped, but his voice was tight with exertion. His eyes flicked over his shoulder, scanning the distance, but there was no sign of the pursuing serfs. For a moment, it seemed as if they had gained a lead. But the wind carried the sound of their pursuers’ voices, still shouting from behind, and the boys knew that they were not out of danger yet.

But then, as the distance between them and the village grew, a new sound reached their ears—one that made Alden’s heart stop.

The unmistakable bark of hounds.

They were still far off, but it was enough for the boys to realize what it meant. The landowner and his men had released the dogs, and they were coming after them with deadly precision.

“We’re not out yet,” Alden whispered, his voice thick with panic.

Finn’s face hardened with grim resolve. “We run. We don’t stop. Not until we’re out of their reach.”

The boys pushed forward again, their legs burning with fatigue, but the sound of the hounds grew louder with every step. The barking was growing nearer, the deep, guttural growls echoing in the night air, and with it came the horrifying realization that they weren’t as far ahead as they had hoped.

Behind them, the men of the landowner shouted, urging the hounds on. The boys could hear them clearly now—they were closing in.

“Keep going!” Finn shouted through gritted teeth, but Alden knew it was only a matter of time before the dogs would pick up their scent. The landowner’s men were relentless.

They ran faster, the dark expanse of the open fields seeming to stretch forever, and yet it was still not enough. The hounds were getting closer. The boys’ hearts raced, the tension unbearable, as the night air seemed to press down on them.