The clanking of iron echoed through the courtyard as Leon stumbled forward, his feet dragging through the dirt. The air outside the cell was suffocating, a heavy mix of dust, sweat, and rot that clung to the skin. The sun, though weak and veiled by clouds, still burned against his exposed back, making the wounds along his wrists and neck throb with fresh agony.
It was his first day out of the cell, but freedom was an illusion. The chains around his wrists clattered with every step, heavy and biting into his already raw flesh. Around him, other slaves shuffled forward in similar fashion, a procession of the damned. Their eyes were hollow, their bodies hunched beneath the weight of their burdens. Some were barely more than skin and bone, gaunt and skeletal, their skin stretched tight across sharp joints.
Leon's legs were weak beneath him, his body still protesting against the forced labor, but he pushed forward. He had no choice. The guards patrolled the edges of the worksite, their eyes cold and indifferent, whips and cudgels hanging at their sides, ready to strike at the first sign of hesitation. They were efficient in their cruelty—brutal when needed, but methodical in ensuring none of the slaves died too quickly. Dead bodies were useless. Broken bodies could still be made to work.
The worksite itself stretched before Leon like a battlefield. Massive stone blocks lay scattered across the ground, remnants of half-built walls and crumbling towers. It was a place where labor never ceased, where men toiled day after day in an endless cycle of construction and destruction. The goal didn't matter—whatever structure they were building wasn't for them. It was for the masters, for those who lived in comfort while the slaves broke their backs in the dirt.
A sharp shout rang out from one of the guards, and the slaves broke into smaller groups, each assigned to their task. Leon was herded into a group near the largest of the stone blocks, the ones meant for the foundation of some great wall. The stone loomed above them, jagged and unyielding, its weight pressing down on Leon even before he touched it.
"Move it," barked the guard, his voice harsh and grating, like gravel being ground underfoot. He cracked the whip in the air above their heads, the sharp crack ringing in Leon's ears. "You don't stop until I say."
Leon looked down at his hands—blistered, bloodied, and trembling. He clenched his fists, feeling the rough skin pull taut over the wounds. The stones wouldn't move themselves. And the guards wouldn't wait.
The other slaves in his group, a collection of broken men with hollow eyes, bent low to the stone, their bodies bracing against its rough surface. Leon followed suit, pressing his shoulder into the unforgiving mass of rock. His muscles screamed in protest, the weight of the stone pressing down on him like the weight of a world he didn't belong to. He felt his knees buckle beneath the strain, but he gritted his teeth and pushed.
The stone shifted slightly, groaning as it slid forward a few inches. The movement was slow, torturous, and every inch felt like it cost Leon a piece of his soul. The sun beat down on his back, the sweat dripping into the open wounds on his wrists and neck, stinging like fire. His vision blurred as the pain intensified, but he forced himself to focus on the stone, on the task. Nothing else mattered in that moment. If he faltered, if he slowed down, the whip would follow.
Time lost its meaning. The hours stretched endlessly as Leon and the other slaves labored under the watchful eyes of the guards. They moved stone after stone, each one heavier than the last, their bodies slowly breaking down with every movement. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, and the only sounds were the grunts of labor and the occasional snap of the whip as a slave faltered under the strain.
Leon's mind drifted in and out of focus. He had known pain before, in his past life. He had seen men suffer in war, had felt the weight of death pressing down on him as he worked to save lives in the field. But this—this was something different. This wasn't the heat of battle, the adrenaline of saving someone just before they slipped away. This was slow, methodical degradation. A life reduced to its most basic form—work, pain, and survival.
By midday, Leon's body was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. His muscles screamed with every movement, and the iron collar around his neck felt as though it was tightening with each passing moment, cutting off the flow of air. He could feel the sharp edges of the stones tearing into his palms, the skin already worn thin from the strain.
But there was no stopping.
One of the slaves next to him—a man older than Leon, his face lined with the deep grooves of years spent in this hell—let out a ragged gasp and crumpled to the ground. His hands clawed at the dirt, his body convulsing as he struggled to breathe. The guards didn't hesitate. One stepped forward, his cudgel raised, and brought it down with a sickening thud on the back of the man's head. The convulsions stopped immediately.
Leon's stomach twisted as he watched the guard kick the body aside, like trash being swept from the street. There was no ceremony to death here, no mourning. A life snuffed out in an instant, and the world kept moving. Another slave would take the man's place, the work would continue, and nothing would change.
"Keep moving!" the guard shouted, his voice booming across the courtyard.
Leon bent low, his arms trembling as he gripped the stone once more. He could feel the blood pooling in his palms, slick and hot, but he ignored it. The weight of the stone pressed down on his shoulders, and he felt something crack in his chest as he pushed forward. A sharp, stabbing pain flared through his ribs, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
The world narrowed to the stone in front of him, to the feel of the rough surface against his skin, to the weight of the chains dragging him down. His vision tunneled, the sounds of the courtyard fading into a dull roar in the back of his mind. All that existed was the stone and the pain. Nothing else mattered.
Leon didn't know how long he worked, how many hours passed before the sun began to dip below the horizon. Time was meaningless here. There was only the endless, grinding labor, the weight of chains, and the promise of pain if he faltered. His muscles were beyond fatigue, his mind slipping into a haze of exhaustion. Every breath was a battle, every step a fight.
When the guards finally called for them to stop, Leon collapsed to his knees, his body shaking with the effort of simply staying upright. His hands were slick with blood, his fingers numb from the constant strain. He looked around, his eyes dull and glazed, and saw the other slaves in similar states—bent, broken, beaten.
The guards didn't speak as they herded the slaves back into the cell. There was no satisfaction in their eyes, no pleasure in the suffering they had caused. It was just routine for them, just another day of breaking men.
Leon's legs buckled as he crossed the threshold of the cell, his body giving out beneath him. The cold stone floor was a small relief from the burning pain that consumed him, but it was fleeting. His mind raced, though his body had long since given up. This wasn't sustainable. He couldn't keep this up. None of them could.
But as he lay there, his breath coming in ragged gasps, one thought clung to the edges of his consciousness, a stubborn flicker of defiance in the dark.
He would survive.
No matter how broken, no matter how beaten, he would survive.
Because that was all there was left to do.