The March Through Elderwyn
The morning air was thick with dust and dread as the final preparations for the march began.
Sam, Teron, and a group of other slaves worked side by side, dismantling the soldiers' tents. Their hands moved with dull efficiency—untying knots, folding canvas, stacking wooden frames. Nearby, more captives did the same, their faces drawn, their eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights.
Soldiers moved among them, keeping careful watch. Some barked orders, while others tallied provisions—checking off food, medical supplies, and, most carefully of all, weapons. Each blade, each spear was counted twice over. No slave was permitted to touch them. The soldiers cleaned and packed their own weapons, paranoid that even one tool might be stolen, used for self-harm—or worse.
An hour passed like this. The air grew hotter. The last of the tents fell. The final crates were sealed.
Then came the chains.
