"The slaves are revolting!"
"Soldiers! Where are the soldiers?"
"They will kill us all! Gods have mercy!"
The panicked cries rang through the camp, tangled with the desperate shouts of soldiers scrambling to respond to the unexpected uprising. Chaos reigned—women fled in terror, their shrill voices pleading for salvation.
Alpheo stood unmoved amidst the chaos. His sharp gaze swept the battlefield, assessing the situation with cold precision. The women, wailing and scurrying for cover, were of no consequence. They were not the true obstacle. The real threat came from the soldiers left to guard the camp—scattered, outnumbered, but still armed.
Yet, their scattered positions played to his advantage.
They could be overwhelmed before they had a chance to regroup.
He had feared, at first, that his fellow slaves—freed from their chains and driven by years of torment—might descend into mindless bloodlust, raping and looting in a blind frenzy of vengeance. But they had not. They understood. The true enemy still stood before them.
"With me, men!"
His voice boomed across the camp like a war horn. Hundreds of freed slaves surged forward, their bare feet thundering against the dirt, their stolen weapons glinting under the moonlight.
Along the way, they encountered soldiers—some alone, others in pairs or small groups of three.
They were easy prey.
Panic seized these guards at the sight of the frenzied horde. Some dropped their weapons without a fight. Others turned and ran.
Yet not fast enough.
The mob descended upon them. A soldier barely had time to raise his sword before a slave tackled him to the ground, pinning him in the dirt. His scream was lost amidst the chaos as knives plunged into his exposed flesh, over and over again.
Twelve fell. Their deaths were swift, brutal—blades, rocks, bare hands ripping through armor, finding throats, silencing their cries.
Their swords, lances, and daggers were snatched up by their killers. Bloodied hands ripped chainmail from cooling corpses, helmets torn free to crown new warriors.
Alpheo led them forward.
The day was far from over.
"Half of you, to the eastern wall!" Alpheo's voice rang over the chaos. "The rest, to the western wall! We take both sides—now!"
A chorus of nods answered him, determination burning in the eyes of his fellow rebels. They had come too far to fail now.
He took the lead toward the eastern watchtower, his steps swift and sure. They needed to seize the high ground before the camp's defenders could rally.
The watchtower loomed ahead. Alpheo took the steps two at a time, his breath steady despite the pounding in his chest.
Victory was within reach, and it was exhilarating.
But as he stepped inside, movement flickered at the edge of his vision.
Too late.
A soldier lunged from the shadows, a dagger flashing .
Alpheo barely had time to react. Instinct took over—he caught the soldier's wrist mid-strike, their bodies slamming onto the wooden floor in a brutal tangle. His own weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly against the planks.
The soldier snarled, his grip like iron, his dagger inching closer to Alpheo's throat. Blow after blow rained down, fists slamming into his ribs, his jaw, but he was far too weak. Hold on. Hold on. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Alpheo tightened his grip on the man's wrist, forcing the blade away.
Then—a sudden thud.
The soldier jerked as a boot crashed into his ribs, knocking him off balance. A second later, a dagger plunged into his chest. His eyes went wide in shock before the life drained out of them.
Alpheo gasped for air, rolling to his feet, muscles still tense from the struggle.
His rescuer stood before him, a young rebel marked by an ugly burn twisting the skin along the side of his face. Despite the scar, his eyes burned with an unshakable fury—one Alpheo knew well.
"Thank you," Alpheo said, sincerity thick in his voice.
The young man shook his head. "No need," he replied, bitterness lacing his words. "You freed me. Now I return the favor."
Alpheo recognized him—one of the slaves from his cell. He made a mental note of the man's face.
Debts must be repaid.
Soon more rebels poured into the tower, their skin slick with sweat, their weapons gripped tight. There was no time for rest.
A war cry erupted as they surged toward the walls, crashing into the soldiers making their last stand.
The battle atop the wooden barricades was brutal—a storm of flashing steel, gritted teeth, and desperate struggle. There was no retreat, no mercy. In the confined space of the watchtower, men fought like animals, clawing for survival.
For freedom and ambition.
With each passing minute, the onslaught of the slaves claimed more soldiers. Their bodies lay broken and lifeless, staining the sandy ground below. Each death was marked by a spray of crimson, splattering the walls, the earth—painting the battlefield red.
One by one, the defenders fell. Some had their chests pierced through with jagged blades, their eyes wide in frozen horror. Others were cut open at the throat, their final breaths gurgling as blood spilled from their mouths.
Some were bludgeoned with whatever the rebels could wield—heavy urns, wooden clubs, discarded helmets—shattering skulls and crushing ribs before the bodies were shoved aside. Those unlucky enough to be hurled from the walls screamed as they hit the ground below, bones snapping on impact. They did not die instantly. Their broken legs left them writhing, helpless, as the chaos swallowed them whole.
The watchtower became a slaughterhouse.
But finally—after what felt like an eternity—the last soldier fell. His body slumped against the wooden wall, a dagger buried in his throat. Silence followed, stretching out in disbelief. The rebels stood amidst the wreckage, their chests heaving, their hands slick with blood.
Then—a single cheer.
Another followed. Then another.
And suddenly, the tower erupted with triumphant cries. Shouts of victory echoed through the camp, voices raw with exhaustion and elation. They had won. They were alive.
The hard part was over.
Now came the spoils—and their escape.