Eric woke with a jolt, dirt clinging to his face, the air heavy and damp with the smell of moss and decay. Sunlight lanced through the forest canopy, piercing his skull like a blade. For a moment, he thought it was some cruel joke—because by all accounts, he should be dead.
The memory struck like a hammer: flames roaring, heat searing his skin, the screams of his friends he couldn’t save drowning in the crackle of the inferno. His own flesh melting, blistering, peeling away in the suffocating smoke. And yet, here he was.
He groaned, rolling onto his stomach, forehead pressed into the dirt. Maybe if he stayed still long enough, death would correct its oversight and come back for him. But no, the ground was cold, his muscles ached, and his lungs pulled air—not smoke, not ash, but air.
With a grunt, he flipped onto his back and ran his hands over his arms, his chest. Smooth. No burns, no raw patches, just… skin. He let out a shaky breath. Not dead. Or maybe dead, but not the kind he expected.
The forest loomed around him, oppressive and too alive. Others were scattered across the ground, groaning, stirring. A woman nearby cursed under her breath as she sat up, clutching her head. There were no trumpets or pearly gates here, no fire and brimstone either. Just trees, damp earth, and the collective bewilderment of strangers.
Eric forced himself upright, his legs trembling. He scanned the crowd: maybe fifty people, some dressed in business casual, others in uniforms. His breath caught. These weren’t random faces—they were familiar. The suit guy fumbling with his tie had tripped on the airport escalator. The security officer rubbing her temples had waved him through the metal detector. The airport—the one that had exploded.
“Jason? Victor?” Eric’s voice cracked as he staggered through the throng, shoving past people too dazed to resist. “Jason! Victor!” The names echoed in the trees, unanswered.
His chest tightened. Not here. They’re not here. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, teeth gritted against the rising panic. He hadn’t been close enough to protect them. Maybe they were still in the fire. Maybe they weren’t lucky. Maybe—
“Oi!” A voice boomed, sharp and guttural. “Shut the fuck up, all of you!”
The world snapped into focus. Eric turned, along with everyone else, to the man who had spoken. No, not a man—a monster. He towered over them, a hulking slab of muscle and menace. His face was a map of scars, lips twisted into a sneer beneath dead, gray eyes. A rusted battle axe rested on one broad shoulder, its edge dark with stains that weren’t rust.
Behind him, more figures emerged from the shadows. Ragged, snarling men armed with crude weapons—clubs, spears, knives forged from scrap metal. Their clothes were filthy rags, and their laughter was the kind that didn’t end well for anyone on the receiving end.
The leader grinned, showing yellowed teeth that had seen more meals than hygiene. “You lot’re gonna make us rich. Behave, and you might even live long enough to see it.”
“Rich?” Eric whispered, his mouth dry. We’re being sold. His stomach churned. Before he could think of a plan—or even breathe properly—a young man bolted from the crowd.
“Don’t!” Eric shouted, but it was too late.
The man didn’t make it far. A blade flashed, and his head hit the ground with a wet thud. The rest of him crumpled a second later, blood pooling beneath the body.
The screams started. Some cried; others turned pale and silent. Eric stared, horrified, as the leader nudged the severed head with his boot, chuckling. “Shame. Thought he might fetch a decent price.”
A spear jabbed Eric’s back, forcing him into motion. The captors herded them toward crude wagons fitted with cages. Eric’s legs felt like jelly, but fear kept him upright. The young man’s body lay sprawled on the forest floor, lifeless and leaking, as they marched past. He couldn’t look away. Should’ve run farther. Should’ve fought harder. Should’ve… something.
The cages were worse than he expected. Thick iron bars reeked of rust and old blood. Eric squeezed into one with a dozen others, the door slamming shut behind him. The air inside was suffocating—a mix of sweat, urine, and hopelessness. Around him, people huddled together, some sobbing, others staring blankly into space.
For hours, the wagons creaked and groaned, their wheels carving deep ruts into the forest floor. No one spoke. No one dared. The guards were everywhere, grinning like jackals waiting for a feast.
But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Eric felt something… strange. The air around him buzzed, faint at first, like static building before a storm. He rubbed his arms, but the sensation didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger.
“Hey,” someone whispered. Eric turned to see the suit guy, his face pale but his eyes wide with something between fear and awe. “You feel that? Like… electricity?”
Before Eric could answer, sparks danced across the man’s fingertips. Actual sparks, crackling in the dim light. The man yelped, shaking his hands as if to extinguish them.
“What the fuck?” Eric hissed, his heart racing.
“I don’t know!” the man whispered back, staring at his hands like they’d betrayed him.
All around, the buzz intensified. A woman gasped as frost formed on the bars she clutched. Another screamed as flames flickered to life in her palms. Panic spread like wildfire, but so did something else—a glimmer of hope, fragile but undeniable.
Eric clenched his fists, willing something—anything—to happen. Nothing did. Just ordinary Eric.
“Quiet!” barked a guard, slamming his club against the cage. The abilities fizzled out, but the fear didn’t. Nor did the sparks of defiance flickering in desperate eyes.
Eric sat back, trembling, as the wagon rolled onward. He didn’t know how, but this wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. Not yet. Not like this.
The leader’s voice lashed out like the crack of a whip, sharp and merciless. "Oi! Quiet down in there!" His boots thudded against the packed earth as he strode toward the cages, an imposing wall of flesh and iron. The axe slung over his shoulder caught the dull glow of the firelight, glinting like a predator’s eye. "I don’t care what tricks you lot think you’ve got. One spark—one—and you’ll be wishing I’d just starve you."
The chatter died instantly, leaving only the creak of the wagons and the groan of prisoners shifting uneasily in their cramped confines. Eric glanced around, catching flickers of unease in the hollow-eyed faces around him. Some were realizing it too—their powers, raw and uncontrollable, simmering just beneath the surface. Dangerous, like sparks in a field of dry grass.
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The wagons jolted forward again, the emaciated horses straining against their burdens. Eric leaned back against the bars, the chill of the metal biting through his torn shirt. Powers. The word rattled in his skull. He didn’t have one. Not yet. But others did, and if they could figure out how to use them... maybe they could do something. Maybe escape wasn’t a madman’s dream.
Or maybe they’d all end up dead. Fried, frozen, gutted—take your pick. The thought settled heavy in his gut, just another weight added to the gnawing hunger and bone-deep exhaustion.
Days bled together in a haze of creaking wheels and endless sky. The forest faded, replaced by the jagged expanse of rocky plains. No food came—just brackish water dumped into the cages like slop for animals. The strong stole it; the weak withered. Eric learned to grab what he could, fast and quiet. Hesitation meant thirst. Thirst meant death.
One by one, prisoners slumped and didn’t get up. The guards didn’t blink. They opened the cages, hauled the bodies out like sacks of rotting grain, and dumped them by the roadside. The first time, someone cried. After that, silence.
Eric hunched in the corner of the cage, knees to his chest, watching the horizon blur past. Around him, faint glimmers of power sparked and died, too faint to matter, too dangerous to try. The guards’ threats lingered, their weight as oppressive as the iron bars.
When the caravan finally rolled into the encampment, it was like falling into another world. Smoke hung thick in the air, laced with the stink of sweat, blood, and unwashed bodies. Tents sprawled across the plain, a chaotic sea of canvas and filth, surrounding a ramshackle fortress of wood and stone. Soldiers prowled the grounds, their mismatched armor clanking as they moved, their faces hard and hollow.
Eric barely registered the guards shoving them into a makeshift pen. Transactions happened—coin changing hands, muttered words exchanged. A slaver sneered, spitting into the dirt. "Welcome to your new home," he said, his grin more like a snarl.
The hours dragged on. Night came, cold and heavy. Eric dozed fitfully, the hard ground grinding against his bones. And then, a voice—low, gruff, and impossible to ignore—cut through his restless dreams.
"Oi. Wake the fuck up."
Eric jerked upright, heart pounding. His eyes darted around, but the pen was still: bodies huddled in misery, guards pacing like wolves. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Up, boy," the voice growled again. "Don’t make me repeat myself."
This time, Eric’s eyes landed on the figure squatting just outside the pen. A hulking brute, wrapped in pelts and scars, with a wild mane of gray-streaked hair and a face carved from granite. His axe hung across his back, crude and massive, and his eyes gleamed with something sharp and knowing.
Eric blinked. "Who the hell are you?"
The man snorted, his breath misting in the chill air. "Dead. That’s who. Name’s Bjorn. Used to drink, fight, and piss off the gods in equal measure. Now I’m stuck with the likes of you."
A ghost. Eric stared, the world tilting sideways. "Why me?"
Bjorn shrugged, the motion as rough as his voice. "Damned if I know. But if the gods saw fit to shackle me to a half-starved whelp, there’s a reason. Figure it out, or don’t. I’m not here to coddle you."
Before Eric could respond, the ghost leaned closer, his presence as solid as any living man’s. "Here’s the truth, boy. You’ve got something. Don’t ask me what. But if you don’t learn to use it, this lot will chew you up and spit you out before the next moonrise."
Bjorn stood, towering like a stormcloud. "Rest while you can. Tomorrow, it gets worse."
And then he was gone, leaving Eric to stare at the empty air, his mind racing. A ghost. Powers. Gods. The pieces didn’t fit, but one thing was clear: whatever Bjorn was, he wasn’t here by accident. Eric layed down, eventually succumbing to fitful sleep, his mind racked with thoughts of slavers and ghosts.
The wagons rolled to a stop on the outskirts of the camp, a grim sprawl of tents, wooden shacks, and makeshift palisades. Smoke hung thick in the air, carrying the mingled scents of charred meat, damp earth, and unwashed bodies. Soldiers milled about, their armor mismatched and battered, their expressions as hard as the cold steel they carried.
Eric and the others were dragged from the cages and shoved into a tight cluster. His legs buckled as his feet hit the ground, and he stumbled, catching himself against another prisoner. Around him, the group swayed like reeds in the wind, too weak to stand properly, too scared to resist.
“Move it!” barked a guard, slamming the butt of his spear into the dirt. They were herded forward, stumbling toward the center of the camp where a figure waited.
He stood in the middle of a wide dirt clearing, arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly as he watched them approach. He wasn’t physically imposing—average height, lean build—but there was something in the sharpness of his gaze that demanded attention. His face was angular, his jaw marked by a long scar that curved down to his neck. When the last prisoner was shoved into line, he spoke.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice low and deliberate, “look at this sorry lot.” He stepped forward, pacing along the line, his boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Pathetic. Weak. Barely worth the effort it took to bring you here, and the coin we spent to buy you.”
“You’re not here because you’re soldiers,” Drenholm continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “You’re here because you’re freaks. Otherworlders with powers you didn’t earn and barely know how to use, and who ended up in this sorry world for no reason at all.” His lip curled in distaste. “And because this world sees you as a threat, you get the privilege of fighting for it.”
A boy, thin and pale but with fire in his eyes, glared up at Drenholm. “We’re not your slaves,” he spat, his voice trembling but loud.
The air grew still. Even the guards tensed, their eyes darting between the boy and the Colonel.
Drenholm stopped pacing, turning to face the boy. His expression didn’t change; his gaze was calm, almost curious. Slowly, he walked up to the boy until they were mere inches apart.
“What was that?” he asked softly, his tone more dangerous than any shout.
The boy swallowed but didn’t look away. “I said, we’re not your—”
Drenholm cut him off with a small nod. “Aye,” he said, almost casually. “Someone beat the shit out of that brat.”
The command was met with instant action. Two guards stepped forward, grabbing the boy and dragging him to the ground. The first punch snapped the air like a whip, followed by another and another. The boy grunted in pain, his bravado crumbling as the blows rained down.
Drenholm didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as glance at the scuffle. Instead, he continued his slow pacing, addressing the rest of the group. “Let that be your first lesson. You don’t talk back. You don’t question. You follow orders, or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
The boy was left in the dirt, clutching his ribs and wheezing. No one moved to help him.
Drenholm stopped in front of the group, his eyes cold as winter steel. “You lot are worthless as you are. Weak. Useless. But I might be able to scrape some value out of you yet. That is, if you don’t drop dead first.”
He turned, gesturing to the guards. “Get them moving.”
“What?” one of the older prisoners blurted, her voice edged with panic. “We’ve been locked up for days—we can’t—”
“You can,” Drenholm interrupted, his tone like the crack of a whip. “And you will. Stamina. Strength. If you can’t run, you can’t fight. If you can’t fight, you’re nothing. So start running.”
The guards prodded them forward with spears, forcing them into a stumbling jog. Eric’s legs screamed in protest, but he had no choice. He moved, barely keeping his balance as the group started their grueling run across the uneven ground.
Drenholm and his men followed on horseback, watching from a distance. The prisoners struggled, some collapsing only to be dragged back to their feet or kicked forward by the guards.
The camp stretched endlessly around them, the sky growing darker with smoke and the onset of dusk. Eric’s chest burned, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Beside him, a girl with a dirty braid muttered under her breath, urging herself forward.
“Don’t stop,” she hissed, her voice tight with effort.
Eric wanted to reply, but the only sound that escaped him was a desperate wheeze. He forced himself to keep moving, even as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.
Drenholm’s voice echoed behind them, cold and unrelenting. “You’ll run until I say stop. And if you fall, you’d better pray you can get back up faster than my patience runs out.”
Eric didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The weight of the Colonel’s gaze was enough to keep him moving.