Five days of riding, as if hell itself were snapping at our heels, and my body feels like it's been dragged through a thorn bush, set on fire, and then doused in salt. Every muscle screams, every joint aches, and the wagon seat might as well be a bed of nails. Funny how you always imagine torture as some grand affair: red-hot irons, breaking wheels, elaborate contraptions. No, the real art of suffering lies in monotony. An endless jostling, the creak of wood, the smell of old sweat. No screams, just the low groan of discomfort, always there, gnawing away at what's left of your spirit.
And that's just the physical part.
My last meal was... what, four days ago? Two slices of stale bread and some honey water. If I'd known what was coming, I'd have savored every bite. Maybe even thanked the gods for the luxury of mold-free bread. But here we are, bellies grumbling like angry dogs, and not a scrap in sight. Makes you wonder what exactly we're worth to them. More than the horses? Less? Judging by the state of us, I'd bet on the latter. The empire's prized livestock at least get fed regularly. We? Well, we're cargo, barely more than dead weight. In their eyes, we haven't earned the right to be anything more.
I glance at the others. Eight of us packed in this wooden coffin, faces as blank as mine must be. It's a lovely little group, really. A collection of the Empire's finest scraps. Thalen, the youngest, clutches his blanket like it's the last thing keeping him tethered to reality. He hasn't stopped whimpering since we were thrown in here, though it's not his fault. He's a reminder of what we all are—powerless. Each whimper cuts through the silence, like nails on a chalkboard, but I can't even bring myself to hate him for it. Not when it's the only honest sound in this wagon.
Then there's Meris, who sits like a statue with eyes that have seen too much, staring at something beyond the wooden slats. I'd ask her what it is, but what would be the point? She hasn't spoken a word since the start, probably realized words are just another form of currency here—worthless. Silence is smarter. Silence means survival.
And Kel. Poor, twitchy Kel. Thought he could reason with the driver, as if begging for mercy ever worked. The welt on his face is a testament to his optimism. If you could call it that. I admire his spirit, though. To still have some fight left after all of this. Stupid, of course, but admirable. Maybe he'll learn eventually. Or maybe not.
The twins, Rylin and Sael, huddle together, whispering God-knows-what. They've got their brotherly bond, something to hold onto, something to pretend matters in the grand scheme of things. It's sweet, in a pathetic sort of way. But bonds, hope, all that... it'll break. Eventually, it all breaks.
And Daris. The oldest, broad-shouldered, all former farmhand muscle. He looks like he should be leading us, barking orders, giving hope. He tried, at first. But that got beaten out of him fast enough. Now, he just glowers at the horizon, fists clenched like he's holding onto the last scrap of his dignity. Poor bastard doesn't realize there's nothing left to hold onto.
Then there's me. Trying to pretend I don't care. That I'm not just as terrified as the rest of them. That the anger and bitterness swirling inside me like a storm aren't there, eating away at whatever hope I have left. But who am I kidding? Hope. That's a joke, isn't it? Like a rusty blade you thought would protect you, only to find out it's been dull all along. The Empire taught me that lesson well enough.
We're on our way to the Accord, the place where boys and girls like us are either turned into weapons or discarded like broken toys. Maybe they'll shape us into something useful. More likely, they'll toss us aside. But that's just the way of things. Survival isn't about hope or strength. It's about being useful. And if you're not? Well, we all know how that story ends.
The wagon rattles on, another jolt sends a fresh wave of pain up my spine. And still, I can't help but laugh—a quiet, bitter laugh that's swallowed by the noise. I always thought awakening would be this grand moment. Some spark that would light a fire inside me, a key to unlock a door into a new world. Turns out, it's not that simple. Turns out, I'm just sitting here, aching and hungry, with the most anti-social group of people ever.
Twenty days. That's how long it'll take us to reach the Zahlani capital. Twenty days of this hellish journey. The worst part? It's not the hunger, or the pain, or even the fear. It's the knowing. Knowing that whatever awaits us at the end of this road will be worse than the journey itself. That when we finally get there, we'll be something else. Broken, maybe. Or worse—compliant. And I'm not sure which is more terrifying.
The driver cracks his whip, and the horses snort as they pull us closer to our fate. He doesn't even bother looking at us. We're not worth it. I wonder what he thinks, if he thinks at all. Probably not. Men like him don't need to think. They just follow orders. The Empire doesn't want thinkers. It wants tools. And that's what we'll be soon enough.
The others sit in silence, lost in their own thoughts,their faces as blank and hollow as mine must've been. What were they thinking? Were they praying to whatever gods they still believed in, begging for a miracle that would never come? Or had they already accepted the inevitable, the way I had?
On the sixth day, the horses finally required rest. Powerful creatures, those—able to run at a moderate speed for days on end. When they stopped, it wasn't out of kindness, but necessity. And that's when the driver, bless his shriveled black heart, allowed us to relieve ourselves somewhere other than a filthy bucket.
Ah, the simple joys of not pissing where you sleep. Civilization at its finest.
It was also when the driver remembered to feed us. Two slices of bread and honey water—just like my last meal. Not that I was in any position to complain. It tasted like a gourmet feast after the days of gnawing on hunger and swallowing the sour bile of despair. I could've wept with gratitude, but I didn't. Weeping wastes water, and we didn't have much to spare.
We ate in silence at the back of the wagon, the air thick with the kind of tension that only comes when the body has stopped screaming long enough for the mind to start whispering. The horses, gods-blessed beasts, drank deeply from the lake, their thirst unquenchable, as if they could sense how much further they'd have to carry our sorry hides. Their muscles rippled with every movement, and I found myself envying them. Strong, well-fed, cared for even. The Empire knew how to treat its assets. As for us? We were the dregs at the bottom of the barrel, prisoners of war.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional grunt of discomfort or the creak of the wagon as someone shifted their weight. No one dared speak; words seemed an extravagance, a waste of breath we could barely afford. In that silence, you could almost hear the thoughts turning in each head, the quiet desperation of souls clinging to the faintest hope. If any of us had the energy left to pray, I doubt the gods would have listened.
The driver, a squat man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, gave us no more than a passing glance before tending to the horses. Priorities, after all. The Empire might need us alive, but that didn't mean we had to be comfortable. Or even content. Just alive enough to serve whatever purpose awaited us.
I gnawed on my bread, forcing myself to eat slowly, to savor what little we had. Across from me, Meris hadn't touched hers, her fingers trembling around the edges of the dry slices. She stared at the bread like it was poison, her lips moving silently, whispering words only she could hear. Kel watched her for a moment before turning his gaze back to his own meal, too beaten down to care anymore. The twins, Rylin and Sael, were the only ones who ate with any sense of urgency, their pale faces gaunt, eyes sunken from hunger. Daris took slow, measured bites, his eyes locked on the horizon, as if he could see beyond the trees, beyond the Empire's reach.
None of us spoke. It wasn't just the exhaustion. Speaking would mean acknowledging the truth of our situation, and none of us wanted to do that. Not yet. If we could just keep our heads down, keep moving, then maybe—just maybe—we could pretend that this wasn't the end of everything. That we still had some sliver of control.
But the truth was, we didn't.
I wiped the crumbs from my lips and leaned back against the wagon, the hard wood digging into my shoulders. The bread sat heavy in my stomach, but at least it was something. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the world for a few moments, to let my mind drift somewhere far away, somewhere where the Empire couldn't touch me. But even in the darkness behind my eyelids, I couldn't escape it.
When I opened my eyes again, the wagon creaked and groaned forward, I found myself staring at the sky, the thin sliver of amber visible through the cracks in the wooden slats. A reminder of the world outside this prison on wheels. It felt distant. Unreal. One of mothers many teaching came to mind
"Always look up, child," she used to say, her voice a mixture of warmth and hard-earned wisdom as she recounted her own harrowing adventures. "In the depths, when the shadows close in and the darkness feels like it will swallow you whole, always look up. The light might be faint, but it's there, waiting for you to find it."
I remembered how she would describe the labyrinthine tunnels, filled with all manner of horrors, and how she'd learned to keep her eyes fixed on the ceiling, where the light occasionally pierced through cracks and gaps in the stone. That flicker of brightness was her beacon, guiding her through the despair and the fear. She'd escaped more than one death by simply refusing to be consumed by the darkness surrounding her.
Lying there in the wagon, I finally understood.
Maybe that was what hope really was—not the naive belief that everything would be fine, but the act of searching for the light, even in the most suffocating of places. A reminder that no matter how small we felt, no matter how trapped we became, there was still something out there, beyond the reach of the Empire's grasp. Something greater, a glimmer of freedom that couldn't be snuffed out.
The light is always there.
I took a deep breath, my chest tight with emotion I hadn't allowed myself to feel in days. I hadn't thought of her in so long—hadn't let myself. The memories hurt too much, the thought of home too painful when it felt like I'd never see it again.
But that sky, that sliver of amber in the distance—it was the same sky she was most likely looking up at right now. And maybe that was enough. Enough to keep going, for now. I held on to that sliver of sky, let it settle in the back of my mind like a promise. I would look up, just like she taught me. I would search for the light, no matter how faint it seemed. And maybe, just maybe, one day I'd see more than a thin line of amber through the cracks.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness settled over the landscape, I let my gaze drift to the driver again. He was nothing more than a shadow now, hunched over the reins, guiding us deeper into the heart of the Empire. He didn't know it yet, but one day, he'd pay for all of this. They all would.
You may think I'm a vindictive person, but that's only because you haven't been in my position. Let's see how magnanimous you'd feel after being dragged from your home, beaten, starved, and tossed into a wagon like a sack of rotten vegetables. After watching your mother dragged to some unknown corner of the Empire and knowing that may never see her again. No, vindictive isn't quite the right word. I'm practical. An eye for an eye, that's the way the world works. You take something from me, I'll take something from you—just to keep things fair. It's balance, really, a sort of moral accounting ledger, and right now, the Empire's running up one hell of a debt. The driver? He's just another name on the list. One day, I'll settle up. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. I've got time. They'll bleed, just like I've bled. And I'll make sure they feel every second of it.
See, I don't need to waste time on some grand idea of justice. Justice is for idealists. Idealists die early, usually with their throats cut by people like me. No, I'm after something more tangible—retribution. Cold, clean, and personal. You kill my family, burn my home, and steal my life, and you better believe there'll be a reckoning. Practical. Direct. A simple exchange.
It's like my mother always said: "If you let people take from you without consequence, you're not just weak—you're inviting them to do it again." And she was right. The only way to make sure it stops is to make an example of the first thief. Hang them high so the next bastard knows exactly what's coming.