The days blurred together in a haze of hunger, pain, and exhaustion. Leon lost track of time in the oppressive darkness of the cell, where the only measure of the passing hours was the sporadic arrival of the guards—men with dead eyes and brutal hands. They would come to drag the slaves into the open, where they were made to haul stones or build structures, their bodies breaking down under the weight of a life they had no control over.
There was no light here. Not the kind that mattered.
Leon's muscles ached with a dull, ceaseless throb. The chains around his wrists and ankles never loosened, never offered reprieve. The iron collar around his neck bit into his skin, a constant reminder of his status—an animal, to be worked until he broke. His once-strong hands, the hands that had stitched soldiers back together, had become raw and bloodied from the endless labor. The skin split, the flesh bruised.
The stench was unbearable. Sweat mixed with filth, with the rot of open wounds that festered in the humid air. Leon had seen infection take root in too many already. He knew the signs—the fevered eyes, the yellowing skin, the stench of decay that lingered even after the infected were dragged out of the cell and never returned. They didn't die quickly. No, the sickness here claimed them slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to fight with.
Leon sat against the wall, his back pressed to the cold, damp stone, and listened to the shallow breaths of those around him. Each one was a struggle, a reminder of their shared misery. His own breath was ragged, but he forced it to slow, to steady, as his mind wandered through a fog of pain and hunger.
The work outside the cell was killing them all, bit by bit. They were brought out in the early hours, when the sun was barely a sliver on the horizon, and forced to dig trenches, carry stone, and build walls. The overseers barked orders, but more often than not, it was the crack of a whip that made them move faster. The weakest fell first, collapsing under the strain of it all. They were left where they fell, beaten or dragged away like discarded refuse.
But Leon wasn't like the others. Not yet.
He learned quickly. Not just how to endure the beatings or how to push his body past the breaking point, but how to observe. Every guard, every overseer, every moment of cruelty—he memorized it. His mind had become a weapon in the dark, sharp and calculating. He had to know the patterns, the rotations of the guards, the layout of the compound. His survival depended on it.
The door to the cell screeched open again, and Leon's gaze flicked toward the entrance. Another guard. His face was hard, emotionless, the torchlight flickering across his scarred features as he stomped into the room.
"Water," he grunted, his voice carrying the same indifferent cruelty as always. A second guard followed, carrying a bucket—more slop than liquid, something that vaguely resembled nourishment.
The prisoners surged forward, desperate, animalistic. They fought for it, clawing over one another for just a taste of the filthy water, splashing it across the ground as they struggled. Leon stayed back, watching. His stomach turned at the sight of it—grown men reduced to wild animals, willing to tear each other apart for something so pitiful.
*But what choice do they have?* Leon thought bitterly. He could feel the thirst in his own throat, a burning, insistent need. His lips were cracked, his tongue dry, but he didn't move. Not yet.
The guards laughed. They always did, taking sick pleasure in watching the prisoners degrade themselves, knowing that they had full control over every moment of their suffering. They would watch them fight, then leave, slamming the door behind them as they retreated into their world of freedom and light.
Leon waited, his eyes narrowed as the guards turned to leave. The stronger prisoners had already claimed the water, leaving the weaker ones to scramble for the dregs. He had seen this play out too many times. He wasn't interested in joining the fray—not when there was no point. Instead, his focus shifted to the second guard, the one with the bucket. He was slower than the others, clumsy even. A brief misstep as he turned to follow his partner. The keyring at his belt jangled with a heavy, unmistakable sound.
*Keys.*
Leon's mind sharpened at the sound. He had memorized every small detail of the guards—their routines, their weapons, and now, the keys. He tracked the guard's movements, noted the way the keyring swung loose, barely secured at the waist.
For the first time in days, hope flickered, a tiny, dangerous thing.
The door slammed shut, leaving the cell in silence once again. Leon let out a slow breath, his eyes adjusting to the familiar darkness. Around him, the other slaves fell back into their stupor, licking the grime from their hands, sucking on filthy scraps of cloth in a desperate attempt to draw some moisture. The strong ones grunted, a few clutching at the scraps of bread they had managed to tear from the others.
Leon closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall as a plan began to form in the back of his mind. The keyring was loose. The guard was careless. These weren't things that could be overlooked. Not when they were his only way out.
But it wasn't enough. He needed more. The guards patrolled in pairs, always armed, always watching. Even if he managed to get the keys, it would mean nothing without a way to take them down—quickly, silently.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, wet cough from the corner of the cell. Leon turned his head slightly, spotting the frail figure of a man slumped against the far wall. His skin was pale, almost translucent, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. The cough came again, wetter this time, and Leon could hear the rattle in the man's chest—a sign of fluid, of something far worse.
Infection.
The man wouldn't last long. No one here did.
Leon's jaw clenched as he studied the man's shivering form. He had nothing left to give. No tools, no medicine. His hands were empty, bound, and useless in this world. But the memories, the knowledge—they still burned inside him. He could still save people. He could still survive.
But first, he needed to escape.
His eyes moved back to the door, back to the world beyond the stone walls and chains.
He was not born to be a slave.
And he would not die as one.