Pain was the first thing he felt. A dull, throbbing pressure pulsed at the back of his skull—heavy, invasive—like something had been driven deep into his head and left there to fester. He groaned and tried to move, instinct urging him upright—
Cold metal bit into his wrists.
The sharp clink of chains cut through the darkness, loud and absolute. His breath caught. He froze as awareness crept in, piece by piece, unwelcome and slow.
Carefully, he opened his eyes.
Dim light seeped through a narrow slit ahead, barely enough to outline his surroundings. Canvas sagged overhead, uneven and low. A tent. The air inside was thick and stale, clogged with sweat, dirt, and a sour rot that clung to the back of his throat.
He tried to sit up again.
The chains snapped taut.
Metal screamed against metal as he was yanked back down, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Pain flared through his arms and legs as iron cuffs dug into his wrists and ankles. He twisted on instinct—only to feel the weight anchoring him to the earth. Thick chains. Fixed. Unyielding.
Panic surged, sharp and sudden.
He forced himself to stop moving. His chest heaved, breath coming too fast. The ache in his head worsened, blooming behind his eyes.
Where am I?
The thought came clearly—and then nothing followed.
He tried to remember. Anything. A name. A face. A place. His thoughts slipped uselessly through his grasp, like fingers closing on smoke. There was no past. No familiar image. Just a hollow absence where memory should have been.
He didn't know who he was.
Didn't know how he had come here.
Didn't even know how long he had been chained to the cold ground.
A chill crept up his spine as the realization settled in. He turned his head slightly, eyes straining through the gloom—and caught movement.
Shadows. Shapes.
Figures lay scattered across the tent floor. Some sat upright, others slumped or sprawled, all bound in chains like him. Men and women. Young and old. Faces hollowed by hunger and fear. Some stared blankly at nothing. Others watched him in silence, their expressions worn thin—exhaustion, dread, and something dangerously close to surrender.
No one spoke.
Then, quietly, a voice came from beside him.
"At last you've noticed us, kid."
He turned toward the sound. An old man lay chained beside him, thin as a dried branch, his beard white and tangled. One eye was swollen shut, the skin around it bruised purple and yellow. The other eye, sharp despite everything, studied him closely.
The young man swallowed. His throat felt raw. "Where… where am I?" His voice came out hoarse, barely louder than a breath.
The old man leaned closer, the chains between them clinking softly. He lowered his voice until it was almost lost in the canvas rustle above them. "Keeper's camp," he whispered. "And if the rumors are true, we're about to go to war."
The words hit him like another blow.
"A war?" The word tore out of him, louder than he meant it to.
Instantly, the old man's hand clamped over his mouth—bony fingers, surprisingly strong. Several heads nearby twitched in their direction. Someone whimpered softly.
"Keep it down," the old man hissed, eyes darting toward the tent entrance. "You want the guards to hear you?"
He nodded quickly, heart racing, and the hand withdrew.
"From what I overheard," the old man continued, voice barely a murmur, "Keepers are organizing an attack on a goblin fortress."
The young man's mind struggled to keep up. "Keepers? Then… are we going to fight?" he asked.
The old man let out a humorless breath. "Keepers, the protectors of the realm, or what they are supposed to be. And no. They are going to fight, not us."
A cold weight settled in the young man's chest. "What about us?"
The old man didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted over the chained figures, their hollow faces, and the trembling hands gripping the iron. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.
"Bait. Meat shields. Call it what you want." He met the young man's eyes again. "Either way, we'll be at the front."
"That doesn't make sense," the young man said, panic seeping into his tone. "We're not soldiers. Why would they—why would we go?"
The old man's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Because we have no choice," he said quietly. "This is the slave's fate."
"Slave?" The word tasted strange in the young man's mouth, as if he were testing a foreign language. He turned his head slightly toward the old man, careful not to rattle the chains too much. "So… I am a slave."
The old man snorted softly. Even that small sound carried a bite of scorn. "Of course you're a slave. Look at you." His single good eye swept over the young man's sunken cheeks, messy red hair, the torn clothes, the iron biting into his wrists. "Do you truly think you're some lost prince or wandering noble? Dream on, kid."
The young man shook his head. The motion sent a dull throb through his skull, but he didn't flinch. "No. That's not what I meant." He hesitated, then said it plainly, without drama. "I lost my memory. I don't know who I am. I don't know my name. I don't know where I came from."
For a moment, the old man didn't reply. The camp noises filtered faintly through the tent—boots crunching gravel, distant shouts, the clank of armor. Finally, the old man spoke, his voice lower, almost thoughtful.
"That's fine," he said. "For a slave, remembering nothing is better." He tilted his head back against the ground. "No hatred to burn you awake at night. No love to rot inside your chest. No heartbreaks." A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips. "And slaves, commonly don't have names."
The young man studied him. "So you don't have a name either."
The old man chuckled—a dry, humorless sound. "I do have a name."
"But you're a slave," the young man said, not accusing, just stating what he saw.