The wheels of the wagon groaned against the uneven road, kicking up clouds of dust that clung to the sweat-drenched slaves. The group sat in silent misery, each lost in their own thoughts—or despair. Amid them, Arlen, the youngest by far, sat quietly, his small figure tucked into a corner of the wagon. He remained still, observing everything with a calm intensity that seemed out of place for his age.
Daren and Mira sat beside him, their chains rattling softly with the wagon’s jostling. Daren, the elder of the two, had a sturdy build and a protective demeanor. Mira, smaller and gentler in appearance, glanced repeatedly at Arlen with quiet concern.
“You alright, little one?” Mira asked softly, leaning toward him. Her voice was kind, carrying a warmth that most had long lost in the harsh reality of their situation.
Arlen turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze briefly. “Yes,” he replied, his voice so soft it nearly disappeared under the wagon’s creaks.
Mira frowned but pressed on. “You don’t have to be afraid. Daren and I will look out for you.”
“I’m not,” Arlen said simply, shifting his gaze back to the dirt road stretching endlessly ahead.
Daren chuckled lightly, though there was an edge of unease in his voice. “He’s a tough little guy, huh? What’s your name?”
Arlen hesitated for a moment, as though weighing the necessity of answering. “Arlen.”
Mira smiled at the response, her relief evident. “That’s a nice name. I’m Mira, and this is my brother, Daren. We’re… well, I guess we’re in this together now.”
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Arlen didn’t respond, his attention drawn to the merchants walking alongside the wagon. Their voices carried fragments of conversation—talk of routes, cargo, and the worth of each slave. His sharp mind absorbed every detail, processing and storing them.
Mira leaned closer again, lowering her voice to avoid the guards overhearing. “Do you miss your family?”
Arlen didn’t answer right away. He stared ahead, his expression unchanged. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but certain. “I don’t know.”
Mira blinked, surprised by the response. “You don’t know?” she repeated gently.
Arlen shifted slightly, his chains clinking against the wooden planks of the wagon. He wasn’t lying—he truly didn’t know. Somewhere deep inside, he felt something when he thought of his mother, a pull he couldn’t name or fully understand. But to miss something, to grieve it? He didn’t know if that was what he felt. “I don’t know,” he repeated, and Mira nodded as if she understood, though she clearly didn’t.
The conversation halted abruptly when a shout rang out from the front of the caravan. Heads turned as the source of the commotion became clear. One of the slaves had made a break for it, slipping from the wagon and bolting toward the trees. A guard was already on him, dragging him back by his ragged shirt.
“Trying to run, huh?” the guard barked, his voice laced with cruelty. Without hesitation, he struck the man with the butt of his spear, sending him sprawling into the dirt. The other slaves in the wagon flinched at the sight, some turning away, others frozen in silent horror.
Arlen, however, didn’t react like the others. He watched intently, his expression unreadable. The guard struck the man again, yelling insults and threats while the merchants barked orders to keep the rest of the slaves in line. Blood smeared the dirt as the slave groaned in pain, his escape attempt crushed under the guard’s boot.
Arlen’s gaze lingered on the scene, not with fear or disgust but with curiosity. Six years of his life had been spent in quiet routine, surrounded by his family. Now, suddenly, he was thrust into a world where violence was a casual display of power. He didn’t feel fear—it was more like fascination, tinged with a faint sense of detachment.
He thought about the guard’s actions, the unnecessary brutality, and the slave’s futile attempt to flee. Why, he wondered, did humans treat their own kind with such stupidity? The guard’s aggression, the slave’s desperation—it all seemed so primitive, so inefficient. Was this how humanity operated, driven by emotion and short-sightedness?
“Arlen,” Mira whispered, her voice trembling. She must have seen his unflinching stare and mistaken it for shock. “Don’t look.”
Arlen turned to her briefly, then back to the scene. “Why do they do that?” he asked, not to Mira or Daren specifically but as a question to himself.
Mira hesitated, unsure how to answer. “Because they’re cruel,” she said softly, sadness in her voice.
Arlen tilted his head slightly. Cruelty, yes, but more than that. It was stupidity—a lack of understanding or control over their own nature. He shifted his gaze away, returning to his quiet contemplation. The lesson was clear: strength and control were the rules of this world, and weakness invited suffering.