The camp settled into its nocturnal rhythm, but it was a rhythm Ares quickly understood was a lie. Shadows stretched unnaturally in the firelight, swallowing men and slaves alike. Chains clinked with tiny echoes, whispers floated between tents, and every movement carried an unspoken warning.
Eliza remained beside him, silent for long stretches, her hand gripping his as if her strength alone could hold the world together. The knife she had pressed into his palm that night felt heavier than ever. Not because of its metal, but because of what it promised: the power to act when the world forced cruelty upon them.
Ares watched the hierarchy emerge. The captain moved with the precision of someone who understood terror as a tool. The vice-captain followed closely, a shadow, confirming orders, delivering punishment. The other men, followers and executioners alike, hovered between compliance and malice. Every glance, every motion, was a lesson: authority in this place came from dominance, cruelty, and the willingness to exploit weakness.
The slaves, however, were the ones who unnerved him more. They carried themselves like broken clocks, their obedience mechanical. And yet Ares could see the silent acknowledgment in their eyes: they saw what was being done, they understood it, and they did nothing. Some of them moved too eagerly to please, like Edmund, a boy older than Ares, whose eagerness was coated in something slippery and dangerous.
Ares noted everything: the position of guards, the patrols' timing, the hierarchy, the small signals that revealed weakness. Knowledge, he realized, was more valuable than strength. Survival would demand calculation, patience, and ruthlessness—a lesson he would never forget.
Night was when the camp revealed its true nature. Men who spent daylight hours in authority or obedience became something else under the stars: cruel, petty, and bold. Laughter cut sharply through the silence. Commands barked in low voices carried the weight of punishment. And in the background, chains rattled softly as slaves moved without eye contact.
Ares felt the first flicker of understanding: the wolves outside had been honest. They had no pretense. Men, in contrast, used pretense as a weapon. They tortured with words and withheld with cruelty. They punished with precision. And the ones who did not act, who only watched, made themselves complicit.
Eliza whispered, "You see, don't you? The world does not wait for kindness. It takes what it wants. And those who do nothing only delay the inevitable." Her gaze hardened. "You will remember this, Ares. You will never be helpless again."
Ares pressed the knife's hilt to his palm. It was small, but it was enough. If one day he needed to act, he would. He did not yet know how, but he understood that patience was as important as courage.
Then came the first direct confrontation. Edmund, the eager boy, lingered near Eliza while she moved to collect water. His presence was calculated, his intent clear to anyone paying attention. Ares noticed the subtle way he leaned too close, the way he attempted to manipulate authority to his own ends. The older boy's predatory energy sent a chill down Ares' spine.
Eliza's hand brushed against the hidden knife, a reminder that she had prepared for moments like this. Ares's small body tensed. This was the world laid bare: cruelty was unchecked, evil walked freely, and silence from others was complicity.
For hours, the night stretched, testing patience and observation. Ares memorized every pattern, every weakness, every opportunity. The guards, the captain, the vice-captain—they all had blind spots. So did the slaves.
And then the howl came. Not far off, this time, close enough to make hearts race. The sound cut through the camp like a reminder that nature, like humans, had teeth. The wolves had returned, moving closer. They were not allies, but the timing forced attention, a distraction for the unwary.
Ares pressed himself against his mother, heart pounding. The knife's weight was real now, not a promise but a tangible option. He understood that the night was not for sleep, not for rest. It belonged to the camp's cruelty, and to anyone who could take advantage of it.
The shadows shifted, revealing movement at the edge of firelight. A figure approached, deliberate, careful, but dangerous. Ares froze. His mother whispered, steady and controlled: "Patience. Wait. Watch. Learn."
The first lesson of survival was now concrete: cruelty flourished where silence reigned, and even the smallest weapon could decide fate.
Ares's gaze sharpened. He would not be powerless. He would not forget. And when the moment came, he would act.
The shadow drew closer, a reminder that danger was patient. The night seemed to lean in, heavy with expectation. And Ares understood with cold clarity that he had entered a world that would teach him its lessons in blood, pain, and observation.
The howl rose again, nearer, and the shadow stopped just at the firelight's edge. The air seemed to thicken. Ares's small hand closed around the knife.
The night waited.
And the first choice was about to present itself.