Date: September 30, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
October brought to the north not just cold, but a piercing, raw dankness that seeped into the very bones. For Kaedan, these weeks merged into a uniform, gray nightmare, measured not in days, but by the creak of the wagon wheels, the clank of his chains, and the endless, weary road leading further and further from home.
His initial rage, the fire that had made him stare boldly into the guards' eyes and test the strength of his bracers on the cage's locks, had long since died out. He was exhausted, confronted by the cold, calculating pragmatism of the slavers. After his first attempt at resistance, they didn't beat him—they simply deprived him of water and food for a day, putting the cage on public display. The humiliation of thirst and the whining of a hungry belly proved far more effective than any beating. The pride, the very same that had made him consider himself a protector and leader, shattered against simple physiology.
Now he was just merchandise. "The Sturdy One with a Surprise," as the chief trader, fat and sweaty Barik, contemptuously called him when showing him off to potential buyers at rare village markets. Kaedan would be led from the cage, made to flex his muscles, while Barik spun tales of a "rare gift," pointing at the stone bracers. "An ideal slave for dangerous work or for the gladiator pits! Unbreakable as a rock!" he'd shout.
But the buyers, northerners with hard, impenetrable faces, looked at Kaedan with suspicion. Spirits, even primitive ones, were unpredictable. They preferred slaves simpler, more obedient. And so the caravan moved on, deeper into the northern lands, where, according to Barik, "they value strong hands and don't ask unnecessary questions."
Life in the caravan was a meticulously detailed hell. The morning began with a cup of murky gruel and a piece of stale bread. Then came the exhausting march along rain-softened roads. Kaedan, like the other slaves, was chained to a long rope strung along the entire wagon. The chains were short, not allowing a full step, forcing them to move in a pathetic, shuffling gait. Mounted guards followed alongside, their whips quick and merciless towards anyone who lagged.
The first weeks, Kaedan was silent, wallowing in his grief and anger. He hated the guards, their stupid, cruel faces. Hated Barik with his greasy smirk. But most of all, he began to hate himself—for his naivety, for his foolish belief that a few stone bracers made him strong. Here, in this caravan, his strength meant nothing. It only made him a target.
The surrounding landscape slowly changed, mirroring his inner state. The familiar forests disappeared, replaced by joyless, hilly steppes overgrown with brown, withered grass. The sky was almost always overcast with leaden clouds, from which either cold rain or prickly snow fell. The wind, constant and relentless, howled day and night, creeping under his thin garment and making his teeth chatter in unison with the clanking of chains.
Gradually, Kaedan began to notice others. Not as a backdrop, but as people. An old man with graying hair and empty eyes, who coughed as if his lungs would burst at any moment. A young woman trying to surreptitiously wipe away tears when she thought no one was looking. A girl of about ten who seemed to have already forgotten how to smile. They were all broken, but in different ways. Some—silently, retreating into themselves, others—quietly crying at night.
One night, when the icy wind was particularly violently rocking their cage, the old man sitting next to Kaedan whispered to him, without looking:
"Hang on, boy. Anger burns from within. And we still have a long way to go."
"Where?" Kaedan asked hoarsely, for the first time in a long while addressing someone.
"To where work awaits us. To the mines. Or the quarries." The old man coughed. "Where strength is needed, whether it's yours or from some spirit, it doesn't matter. There, all are equal. Before death."
These words were no comfort. They were a sentence. But in them was a strange truth that made Kaedan look at his fellow sufferers in a new light. He wasn't special here. He was the same as everyone. Alone, frightened, and doomed.
His bracers no longer appeared. Not because he couldn't summon them, but because he saw no point. What would he do? Kill one or two guards? And then? He'd be shot with crossbows, or simply left to die in the steppe. His power, which he considered his main asset, had proven useless in a world ruled by cruelty, greed, and indifference.
He learned to conserve his movements. He learned to curl up so the wind wouldn't chill him to the bone so much. He learned to secretly pick up crumbs fallen from the wagon, risking a lash from a whip. He was learning to survive. Not as a hero, not as a warrior, but as a slave. This was the bitterest lesson of his life.
By mid-December, when the first real snow covered the land in a white, lifeless shroud, Kaedan was almost indistinguishable from the others. His gaze, once direct and resolute, was now dull and fixed on the ground. He mechanically moved his legs, obeying shoves and shouts. He had almost stopped thinking about the orphanage, about his friends. Those memories were too painful, they reminded him of who he was and who he had become. Only the gray, wearying reality remained: the creak of wheels, the clank of chains, and the endless road leading nowhere, heading North.