The cell was a graveyard of broken men.
Leon lay on his side, his body trembling from exhaustion. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as he stared at the ceiling, the jagged stones casting long, grotesque shadows in the dim torchlight that flickered through the barred window. His fingers twitched, curling weakly around the scraps of straw beneath him. His palms were torn, the flesh raw and bloodied from the day's labor, and the sharp sting of infection lingered in his wrists. His ribs ached, the dull throb of bruised bones a constant reminder of the weight he had been forced to bear.
It had been days since his first labor, and nothing had changed. Nothing except the growing weight of despair that clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Around him, the other slaves lay sprawled out on the ground, their breaths shallow, their bodies still. The cell stank of sweat and blood, the stench of unwashed bodies mingling with the sharp, metallic scent of old wounds. Every breath was a fight against the rot that filled the air.
The guards had already made their rounds, checking to make sure none of the slaves had died in their sleep. Not that they cared much—if someone died, they'd just drag the body out, toss it somewhere, and replace them with the next poor bastard. But for now, the cell was quiet. A rare moment of peace in a world that seemed to thrive on suffering.
Leon's mind drifted, torn between the throbbing pain in his body and the gnawing hunger that clawed at his insides. He hadn't spoken to anyone since his arrival. Words felt foreign in a place like this, where survival was measured by how long you could keep your mouth shut and your head down.
But tonight, something shifted. A low voice, hoarse and ragged, broke the silence.
"They say we'll be dead by winter."
The words came from a corner of the cell, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to catch Leon's attention. His eyes flickered in the direction of the voice, his body too weak to turn fully. It was one of the older slaves, a man whose skin hung loosely on his bones, his eyes hollow and dark. Leon had seen him before, but never heard him speak.
"They say a lot of shit," another voice replied from across the room, rougher, with a bite of bitterness. This one came from a younger man, his face hidden in the shadows. "You hear the same stories every year. If it's not the winter, it's the plague, or the work, or the damn guards. Doesn't matter. We're all fucked anyway."
The first man let out a low, humorless chuckle, a sound that barely resembled laughter. "Fucked by the lord, fucked by the king. Makes no difference."
Leon listened in silence, his mind piecing together the fragments of conversation. His muscles screamed at him to stay still, to conserve what little strength he had left, but he couldn't resist. His throat was dry, his voice hoarse from disuse, but he forced the words out.
"Who… who's the lord?"
The two men fell silent, their gazes shifting toward Leon. He could feel their eyes on him, heavy and suspicious. It was as if his voice had startled them—an outsider finally breaking his silence after days of laboring in hell alongside them.
The younger man was the first to speak. "You don't know?"
Leon shook his head slowly, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body.
"Fuck me," the younger man muttered, half to himself. "You must be new."
"Lord Ardvin," the older man said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "The bastard who owns us. Runs this hellhole like a butcher carving up pigs. We're just meat to him, meat for his fucking castle."
Leon's stomach twisted. He had seen the lord once from a distance, a figure on horseback watching over the worksite. Even from far away, there had been something unsettling about the man, the way he carried himself with an air of cruel indifference. But this wasn't just one man's cruelty—there was something deeper, something more rotten.
"He serves the king, doesn't he?" Leon rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Ardvin works for him?"
The younger man laughed, a short, bitter sound. "The king?" He spat on the ground, his saliva thick and dark with blood. "The king doesn't give a shit about us. All he cares about is his fucking wars. Ardvin's just his lapdog, building his walls, fortifying his kingdom so he can sit pretty on his throne while the rest of us rot in the dirt."
"The king's too busy conquering to notice we're all dying down here," the older man added, his voice low. "He's got half the kingdom starving while he lines his coffers with the spoils of war. Ardvin does his bidding—keeps the borders secure, builds these fucking fortresses. It's all about power, control."
Leon's chest tightened, his mind racing. The kingdom. The king. He had heard whispers, fragments of conversation from the guards, but never the full story. He didn't know how large the kingdom was, or how far its reach extended, but it didn't matter. The pieces were starting to fall into place. This wasn't just a lord's greed, wasn't just some petty tyrant's cruelty. This was part of something larger—something systemic.
And he was trapped in it, like a cog in a machine that ground people into dust.
"They use us," the younger man continued, his voice laced with venom. "We're nothing but tools. Tools to build their walls, tools to die in their wars. When we're too weak to work, they throw us away like fucking garbage."
Leon clenched his fists, his nails digging into the torn flesh of his palms. Every word felt like a weight pressing down on him, suffocating him under the realization of how far this rot extended. The king didn't care. The lord didn't care. No one cared. The slaves weren't even human in their eyes—just bodies to be used and discarded.
"How long…?" Leon asked, his voice barely a whisper. "How long have you been here?"
The older man looked at him, his eyes dark and empty. "Too long. Years. Some of us get out early—die of sickness or starvation, or the guards beat you to death. The lucky ones don't last long."
The younger man leaned forward, his face finally catching the dim light. He was gaunt, his eyes sunken, but there was still a fire in them, a spark of anger that hadn't yet been extinguished. "I've been here two years. And let me tell you, there's no fucking way out of this place. You think you can escape? Don't bother. They'll catch you, drag you back, and make sure you regret ever trying."
Leon's stomach churned as the weight of their words settled over him. Escape was a fantasy. Survival, a cruel joke. The system was designed to break them—to keep them shackled in a cycle of endless labor and suffering until they died.
But still… something inside him refused to give up. He had been through hell before. This might be a new kind of hell, but it wasn't the end. Not for him. He wouldn't let it be.
"They'll break us all eventually," the older man muttered, his voice soft and distant. "One way or another. The lord, the king—they always get what they want."
Leon lay back against the cold stone, his mind a whirl of pain, exhaustion, and hatred. The kingdom was rotten from the top down, and they were all trapped inside its walls. But he wouldn't stay trapped forever. He couldn't.
"Fuck them," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the ragged breaths of the dying slaves.
The younger man grinned, a flash of teeth in the dark. "Yeah. Fuck them."