The air was filled with the stench of sweat, mud, and blood as the heavy wagon rolled into the war camp. The once-distant glow of campfires now flickered all around them, casting long, shifting shadows over rows of tattered tents and crude wooden structures. Armed soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their cold eyes sweeping over the new arrivals with indifference.
As the wagon came to a halt, Orlin flung himself off his seat, landing with a grunt. He smoothed down his damp robes, then turned to the nearest officer, a man clad in a stained gray uniform with a leather breastplate.
"Another batch for the grinder," Orlin said, patting the rusted cage. "20 silver for the lot. They're fresh, still got their limbs."
The officer barely spared him a glance before nodding to his subordinates. "Get them marked"
The doors of the cage creaked open, and the slaves were dragged out one by one. Asher was among the first. His legs felt stiff from the days of travel, but he forced himself to stay steady as a soldier grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. The others followed some shuffling like ghosts, others hesitating before being shoved into line. Rin with this bright red hair stumbled but caught himself before a guard could strike him.
They were marched to a small clearing, where a wide wooden table stood under a canopy. An iron rod with runic markings all over its handle, and tip glowing a menacing red, rested upon it. An old man in priestly robes, more ragged than holy, stood beside it, his hands trembling as he reached for the rod. His faded eyes darted over the slaves, lips moving in an inaudible prayer.
One by one, they were branded with the
Asher gritted his teeth as the iron pressed into the back of his left hand. A searing pain shot through his nerves, burning deep into his skin. The sickening scent of scorched flesh filled his nose, but he refused to scream. Rin, standing beside him, sucked in a sharp breath but made no sound either. The priest murmured something, a hollow blessing or a curse, before moving to the next slave.
The pain didn't fade, it pulsed, raw and unforgiving. But it wasn't just a mark of ownership. Asher could feel it burrowing deeper, an unnatural sensation twisting inside him. This wasn't just a burn it was a
With the branding complete, they were herded toward a large open yard surrounded by rows of barracks. A group of soldiers waited, their armor dented and worn from years of battle. But the man standing before them was no soldier, he was a beast of a man, standing nearly a head taller than the rest. His arms were thick as tree trunks, his chest was like a boulder, and his face was covered in a patchy beard. A long scar ran from his brow down to his cheek, giving him a permanent scowl.
He looked them over with a sneer, then crossed his arms. "Listen up, you filth. I'm Commander Garrik, and I own your miserable hides now."
His voice was deep, like distant thunder. He paced in front of them, the ground trembling beneath his heavy boots.
"You lot are now part of the 26th Battalion, a unit of meat shields. That's your only purpose. You will take these," he gestured to a stack of massive wooden shields, "and you will charge in front of the main army. You will block gunfire with your bodies so that real soldiers can advance. That is all you are worth."
A few slaves tensed. Some exchanged fearful glances, Garrik noticed and smirked.
"Scared?" he taunted. "Good. You should be. The Republic's guns are longer-range and more powerful than crossbow. But they can only fire one bullet and it takes a long time to reload. Your job is to block the oncoming bullets and buy time for the soldiers"
He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing.
"Each day, two battalions will run the shield charge. If you survive, you get three days of rest before your next run." He grinned cruelly.
Silence hung over them. Asher kept his expression blank, but his mind raced. This was just a death sentence.
Garrik finally stopped pacing and turned back to them. "Training starts tomorrow. You will learn how to hold those shields properly. If you fall, you die. If you drop your shield, you die. If you hesitate—" his grin widened, "you get to see what getting shot feels like before you die."
He motioned to the soldiers, who began dividing the slaves into their respective barracks. Asher and Rin were shoved toward a tent reeking of sweat and damp straw. The inside was cramped, filled with bunk beds barely held together by nails and rope.
Asher sat on the lowest bunk, exhaling slowly. Rin sat above him, rubbing his burned hand. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Rin broke the silence. "...We're going to die here, aren't we?"
Asher didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The truth was already written in the air, heavy and inescapable.
Asher ignored Rin's words and lay down, exhaustion weighing on his body. His thoughts drifted, but sleep came quickly, his body too drained to fight it.
***
The next morning, a deafening bang jolted the barracks awake.
"Get up! Get your food and line up at the training grounds!"
A gruff voice barked the order as a soldier stormed in, kicking over wooden stools and rattling bunks to make sure no one stayed behind. The slaves scrambled to their feet, groggy and sluggish, but fear kept them moving. Asher followed the others to the mess hall, where they were handed bowls of thin porridge. It was barely more than flavored water, but no one complained, they couldn't afford to.
After choking down the meager meal, they were herded outside to a large, barren dirt field. A group of slaves stood in stiff formation, awaiting orders. The sun had barely risen, but the humidity made the air thick and suffocating.
A soldier stood before them, different from the commander who addressed them last night. His armor was battered, his face lined with exhaustion. Most notably, his right arm was missing, the sleeve of his uniform pinned up at the shoulder.
'An old war dog,' Asher thought. 'Too broken to fight but still useful enough to handle slaves.'
The soldier eyed them with clear disdain before speaking.
"Listen up, filth," he snarled. "On your off days, you're expected to train for at least six hours. But don't get any ideas—you're not training to be warriors. The only thing you need to learn is how to hold a shield and run in formation without tripping over your own damn feet. You lot are nothing but fodder, and if you slow down the real soldiers behind you, you'll be cut down before the enemy bullets even touch you."
A heavy silence followed. Some of the weaker slaves swallowed nervously, their hands trembling at their sides.
The one-armed trainer continued, his tone laced with mockery.
"Oh, and since our dear commander believes in 'incentives,' I've been ordered to tell you this. If any of you somehow survive a full month of battle, you'll be freed from slavery and officially enlisted as soldiers of the Great Thornhart Army."
For the first time since arriving, a flicker of hope sparked in the eyes of the gathered slaves. They exchanged glances, murmuring in hushed voices.
'A month'
If they could just endure for a month, they wouldn't have to die as nameless tools. But before that hope could take root, the trainer let out a cold, bitter chuckle.
"Not a single one of you will last that long."
The murmurs died instantly.
"I've been stationed on this battlefield ever since this damned war began—five long years. I've seen hundreds of slaves pass through this camp. Men, women, even children. And not one—not a single one—has survived beyond two weeks." He smirked, watching the light fade from their expressions. "You're all already dead. You just don't know it yet."
The weight of his words settled over them like a suffocating fog. Whatever fragile optimism they had was crushed in an instant.
Most of the slaves fell silent, their shoulders slumping, their eyes turning hollow once more. Some looked down at the dirt beneath their feet, unwilling to face the grim reality.
But not Asher.
For the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. It wasn't fear.
It wasn't resignation.
It was hope.
'Just one month.' He thought
He had spent most of his life as a slave. He had long accepted that he was nothing more than property, tossed between masters like a piece of cheap furniture.
But now… there was an out. A way to claw himself free from the pit he had been thrown into.
It didn't matter how impossible it seemed.
'One month. If there's even a sliver of a chance, I'll take it.'
On the far end of the line, another pair of eyes glimmered with quiet resolve.
Rin.
The frail boy clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white. He had heard the same words and felt the same despair. But just like Asher, he saw the opportunity hidden within the hopelessness.
For the first time since their arrival, Asher and Rin weren't just waiting for death.