The Slavers Arrive
As night approached, the camp was cloaked in an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt of labor or the clink of shackles. Sam, as always, worked beside Teron, digging shallow trenches as ordered by the officers. The air was thick with dust and the scent of sweat, misery hanging like a curtain over every soul trapped within the forest camp.
Then, from the distance, a deep, resonant horn echoed through the trees. It rolled like thunder, hollow and chilling.
Every slave paused. Heads turned subtly, eyes flicking toward the source of the sound. But no one moved. Those who had looked up quickly resumed their tasks, some moving even faster than before. Others didn't bother reacting at all. The message was clear: ignore the sound, or pay the price.
Sam's brows furrowed as he looked around. "What was that? Aren't we going to get food? It must be food, right? Why is no one moving?"
Teron didn't stop digging. His hands, though gnarled by age, moved with practiced rhythm. "We only get food in the morning, young man. That sound isn't for us."
Sam couldn't contain his curiosity. "But why? What's happening?"
"I said don't look." Teron's voice was sharp now, his expression grim. "For your own good."
"I... I just wanted to know what's happening," Sam murmured, glancing toward the forest's edge.
"You want to know? Fine. But know this — if they see you staring, you won't be punished. You'll be *eliminated*. Quickly. Publicly. That horn doesn't bring comfort. It brings pain. For someone."
Sam fell silent, his heart pounding harder. He turned back to his work, shovel hitting earth.
A few minutes later, the sound of galloping hooves grew louder. Horses — many of them.
The once-idle guards snapped to attention. Laughter and casual chatter ceased instantly. Everyone braced.
Out of the darkness emerged ten mounted soldiers, their silhouettes large and intimidating under the moonlight. They rode with discipline, led by a man whose very presence sent a ripple of tension through the entire camp.
He was clad in black armor trimmed in red, with a curved sword sheathed at his waist. His eyes were sharp, cold, and merciless.
"That's him," Teron whispered. "Lieutenant Kadran."
Behind the mounted men followed a grim procession: fifty new captives, bound and shackled, stumbling forward in silence. Some limped, others had fresh welts on their backs. Sam's stomach twisted.
As they entered the main grounds, Sergeant Garrik rushed forward to meet his superior.
"Welcome back, sir!" Garrik said, his voice filled with false cheer.
Kadran didn't smile. "How's the preparation, Garrik?"
"All smooth, sir. Everything in order. We're ready when you are."
"Good," Kadran said. "Take care of the new ones. If all goes well, we'll fetch a high price. We leave at dawn. I'll confirm the route tomorrow."
"You always bring fortune with you, sir. Truly a masterstroke this time." Garrik bowed low.
"You must be tired after a long journey, sir," Garrik added. "We've arranged the best luxuries—rare monster meat for your meal."
Kadran dismounted and adjusted his gloves. "Where is she?"
"Sir?"
"The girl. Bring her to my tent."
Garrik hesitated. "Sir... she hasn't eaten. We tried to feed her, even used force, but—"
Kadran's eyes turned to ice. Without warning, he struck Garrik across the face with the back of his gauntlet. The sergeant collapsed, face smashing into the dirt. Blood trickled from his mouth.
"You *dared* force her?" Kadran roared. "She is mine. My toy. You will *not* treat her like the others."
"I-I apologize, sir," Garrik stammered, eyes wide with fear. "I'll bring her immediately. No one else will approach your tent."
Kadran spat beside him. "See that you don't fail again."
He turned and walked away, his cloak flowing behind him. Soldiers and slaves alike stepped aside, bowing their heads.
Garrik slowly rose, his face burning with humiliation. He turned to the other guards, rage boiling beneath his skin.
"What are you looking at?!" he screamed. "Back to work!"
He pointed at the nine mounted men. "Get those fifty scum tied near the trench. Double the shackles. I don't want a single one escaping."
The soldiers moved quickly, dragging the new slaves to the far edge of the camp.
Sam stared at them as they passed. Twenty men, thirty women. Eyes empty. Clothes torn. Bodies trembling.
"Don't stare," Teron muttered. "You'll draw attention."
Sam turned his head, heart sinking. "They're going to be sold?"
"Some at the markets. Others..." Teron didn't finish. "If you're lucky, you're bought by someone who just wants labor. If not... well, you've seen the lieutenant."
Sam returned to digging, his hands blistered, arms aching. He felt small, powerless. But inside him, something churned — a resistance. A refusal to surrender.
"This place..." Sam whispered. "This place is savage."
Teron glanced at him. "You think this is bad? You haven't seen the cities. Here, at least, we die slowly."
Sam clenched his jaw. He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not without a fight.
Garrik's voice rang out again. "Anyone caught slacking dies where they stand! We've got buyers coming soon, and they want strong stock!"
Sam tightened his grip on the shovel.
"I won't be prey," he whispered to himself. "I'll get stronger. I'll survive. Somehow."
📢 Author's Note 📢
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