Agan’s muscles burned as he dug his hands into the hard earth, each swing of the shovel sending a fresh wave of pain up his arms. Around him, the other conscripts worked in grim silence, bent under the weight of exhaustion and the watchful eyes of the guards. The midday sun beat down, making the stench of sweat and mud thick and cloying.

He stole a glance at Garik, who worked beside him, his face a mask of dirt and fatigue. Garik’s hands were blistered, cracked from hours of handling rough tools, yet his grip remained steady, his gaze focused. They had learned quickly that faltering—even for a second—invited swift punishment.

“Keep moving, swamp rats!” a guard barked, his voice laced with disdain. He paced along the line of conscripts, the crack of his whip slicing the air as a constant reminder of the cost of slowing down.

Agan’s hands shook, his fingers numb as he gripped the shovel tighter. Every swing felt heavier, like his bones were ready to snap under the strain. He fought back the anger bubbling within him, reminding himself that survival meant patience, endurance.

“Not slowing down, are you, blue-skin?” A guard sneered, stopping just behind Agan. “Thought your kind were made for this filth.”

Agan didn’t respond, focusing on the rhythm of his movements, each thrust of the shovel into the ground an act of defiance. He had learned not to rise to their taunts, not to give them the satisfaction.

The guard leaned closer, his voice a mocking whisper. “Keep digging. It’s the only thing you’re good for. But maybe we’ll see if you can dig your own grave next time.”

Agan gritted his teeth, his jaw aching as he forced himself to keep moving, refusing to give the guard a reaction. Beside him, Garik cast him a sidelong glance, a flicker of concern in his eyes, but he remained silent.

Hours dragged on, each one stretching longer than the last. By the time the guards finally called a break, Agan’s body felt like it was made of lead. He dropped to the ground, his chest heaving, every muscle screaming in protest.

Garik slumped beside him, his head lowered, his breathing labored. “How long do you think they’ll keep this up?” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Agan wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow, his gaze fixed on the rough ground beneath him. “As long as they want. They’ll work us to the bone if they can.”

Garik nodded, his eyes dull, a flicker of hopelessness in his gaze. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

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“You have to,” Agan replied, his voice harsh. “We have to, or they’ll make sure we don’t leave here alive.”

The words hung heavy between them, a stark reminder of their reality. They couldn’t afford to break—not yet.

Around them, other conscripts huddled in small groups, their faces pale and drawn, each one bearing the marks of the day’s labor. Many were young, like Agan and Garik, but their eyes were hollow, their bodies worn from days, maybe even weeks, of grueling work.

One of the conscripts—a boy barely older than Agan, with a bruised face and a swollen lip—slumped beside them, his gaze distant. “They say they’re building something. A fort or a watchtower to secure this swamp.”

Garik glanced at him, his expression dark. “And we’re the tools to do it.”

The boy nodded, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “And when we’re done, we’ll be as useless as broken hammers.”

Agan’s stomach churned at the boy’s words, the truth of them hitting him harder than any blow. They were expendable, disposable. The empire didn’t care who they were, only what they could endure.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he looked up to see a tall, lean figure approaching—a mage, his robes dark and flowing, his face shadowed by a hood. The other conscripts fell silent, their gazes dropping as he passed. The mage stopped in front of them, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed them with a cold, calculating gaze.

“You,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with an edge. His gaze settled on Agan, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “You’ve held up better than most. I expected your kind to falter by now.”

Agan clenched his fists, feeling the anger flare within him. He met the mage’s gaze, his own steady, defiant. “Guess you don’t know as much about my kind as you think.”

The mage’s lips twisted into a slight smirk, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been amusement—or malice. “Perhaps. But defiance only gets you so far here, swamp-dweller. Remember that.”

He turned, his robes sweeping the ground as he moved away, his presence a chilling reminder of the empire’s power. Agan exhaled, his fists unclenching as he forced himself to calm down. They couldn’t afford to attract too much attention—not yet.

But the mage’s interest lingered in his mind, a constant reminder that even in a sea of faceless conscripts, he and Garik were different. They didn’t belong here, didn’t fit into the empire’s mold. And that made them dangerous—or vulnerable.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of exhaustion and pain, each hour blending into the next as they toiled under the watchful eyes of the guards. By the time night fell, Agan could barely stand, his body aching, his vision blurred with fatigue.

They were herded back to their tent, where they collapsed onto the hard ground, too tired to speak. The other conscripts filed in around them, settling into uneasy silence as the guards secured the tent’s entrance, sealing them in for the night.

Agan lay there, his mind a haze of exhaustion and anger, his thoughts drifting back to Murkrest, to the faces he’d left behind, to the promise he’d made to himself. He wouldn’t let the empire break him. He couldn’t.

Garik shifted beside him, his voice a whisper in the darkness. “We’ll get through this, Agan. We have to.”

Agan nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Garik could see it. “One day at a time,” he replied, his voice low but steady.

In the silence, they lay side by side, two boys from a village that no longer existed, fighting to hold onto the pieces of themselves that remained.