The towering gates of the Empire's capital loomed ahead, casting long shadows over the caravan as it rattled to a halt. Months of grueling travel had left the slaves worn and silent, their chains clinking softly as they were pulled from the wagons like cattle. Arlen, now accustomed to the unyielding monotony of captivity, stepped down carefully, his small frame nearly swallowed by the sea of figures around him.
Merchants barked orders, separating slaves from the rest of their cargo. The slaves were lined up and counted with cold precision before being led away, down a path that veered sharply from the city’s bustling streets. The main caravan disappeared into the city, while the slaves were herded toward an ominous destination—a sprawling camp in the distance.
Rumors among the group had already reached Arlen’s ears: this was no ordinary camp. It was a staging ground for the Empire’s war machine, a place where slaves were molded into soldiers, healers, and expendable workers. The faint clang of metal and distant shouts carried on the wind, painting a grim picture of their fate.
Arlen walked in silence, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The camp was surrounded by high fences, with guards stationed at every corner. Inside, the chaos was overwhelming—lines of soldiers drilling under the harsh sun, slaves moving supplies, and overseers shouting orders. The stench of sweat, dirt, and blood hung heavy in the air.
As they entered, the group was corralled into a large, barren yard where overseers began shouting instructions. One by one, the slaves were pulled forward, their skills and strengths assessed in a crude, indifferent manner.
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When it was Mira and Daren’s turn, the overseer’s sharp gaze landed on them. “What can you do?” he barked, his tone making it clear that hesitation was not an option.
Mira spoke first, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “We’re healers. It’s in our bloodline.”
Daren nodded in agreement. “Our family has always specialized in healing magic. We’re strong in it.”
The overseer’s eyes narrowed, and he scribbled something onto his parchment. “Good. You’re valuable. Don’t think that makes you special, though. Do your job, or you’ll be replaced.”
Mira and Daren exchanged a glance, relief and unease mingling in their expressions.
Then it was Arlen’s turn. He stepped forward, his small stature earning a scoff from the overseer. “What about you, kid? What can you do?”
Arlen met the man’s gaze without flinching. “Nothing,” he said plainly.
The overseer sneered. “Figures. You’re too young for the frontlines anyway. Fine, you’ll run errands. Don’t get in the way.”
Without another word, Arlen was shoved back into the group, his assignment decided with as little thought as one might give to a stray dog. Mira and Daren watched him anxiously as they were separated, their chains leading them toward a different part of the camp.
Mira knelt briefly, her chains clinking as she grasped Arlen’s hand. “Stay safe, okay? We’ll see each other again,” she said, her voice trembling with forced optimism.
Daren nodded, placing a firm hand on Arlen’s shoulder. “Keep your head down, kid. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Arlen didn’t reply, only giving a small nod. As the two were led away, he stood still, watching until they disappeared into the throng of activity.
Now alone, Arlen was thrust into the camp’s chaotic rhythm. His tasks were menial—cleaning, carrying supplies, and delivering messages between officers. But he observed everything with quiet intensity, learning the camp’s structure, its weaknesses, and the dynamics of those who ran it.
The separation from Mira and Daren didn’t bother him as it might have others. He saw no point in clinging to connections that could be severed at any moment. Survival, he realized, wasn’t about sentiment—it was about understanding, about knowing when to act and when to wait.
And Arlen was very good at waiting.