Leon lay awake in the dark, his eyes half-closed but his mind sharper than it had been in days. The pain in his body was a constant hum, a dull ache that stretched from his wrists to his shoulders and down his spine. But he had grown used to it. Pain was the rhythm of life here, a constant companion he had learned to endure. What he hadn't grown used to—what he refused to accept—was the feeling of helplessness.
He was a prisoner. A slave. But he was still a soldier, a man who had fought for survival before. There was always a weakness. Every system, no matter how brutal or efficient, had its cracks.
And Leon had started to find them.
The routine of the camp was methodical, almost mechanical. Each day began with the same crack of the whip, the same guttural commands from the overseers as they dragged the slaves out of their cells and into the yard. The day was filled with backbreaking labor, stone and mud and sweat, all under the watchful eyes of the guards. And then, at night, the slaves were herded back into their cells, where they collapsed into exhaustion until the cycle began again.
But it was the guards—their movements, their habits—that Leon had begun to focus on.
He had started counting the seconds between the guards' rounds, tracking how often they made their circuits around the worksite, how long they lingered at each post. It had taken him days to piece together the pattern, but slowly, the rhythm of the overseers' shifts had revealed itself to him. It was subtle—almost imperceptible unless you were paying close attention—but it was there.
They always changed shifts at dusk.
Leon had noticed it first when one of the guards, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, had yawned at the same moment the sun had dipped below the horizon. It was a small thing, almost unnoticeable, but Leon had seen the tension leave the man's shoulders as he glanced toward the gate, waiting for his replacement.
Every night, the same thing happened. The guards would switch posts, a brief moment of transition as one group of overseers took over from the last. It was the only time of day when the watch was less strict, when the guards seemed distracted, tired from their long shifts.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
Leon had also begun watching their movements during the day, noting which areas of the worksite were the most heavily guarded and which were left more exposed. The center of the yard, where the largest stones were dragged and piled, was always swarming with overseers, their eyes constantly scanning for signs of rebellion or weakness. But the edges—the farthest corners of the site, where the rubble was piled high and the mud thickened—were less watched. The guards rarely ventured there, preferring to keep the bulk of the slaves in their line of sight.
It was risky. Dangerous. But the further Leon watched, the more he began to see the faintest glimmers of opportunity.
In the corner of the yard, there was a section of the wall that hadn't been fully built yet. The stones there were piled haphazardly, uneven and jagged. It was a weak point—a place where someone, if they were desperate or determined enough, might be able to squeeze through.
The overseers barely looked at it.
Leon knew he wasn't strong enough yet. His body was too weak, too broken from the days of endless labor. But he had time. He could feel the ember of defiance burning inside him, growing stronger with each passing day. The cracks in the system were there, waiting to be exploited. He just needed to be patient, to bide his time until the moment was right.
He lay there in the darkness, the faint sounds of the other slaves breathing shallowly around him, and counted the seconds in his head. He had memorized the timing of the guards' rounds now—how long it took them to make a full circuit of the yard, how many seconds passed between their shifts. It was a rhythm, like the pulse of a machine, and Leon was learning how to manipulate it.
The overseers weren't infallible. They were just men—brutal, cruel men, but still human. They grew tired. They grew complacent. And that was where Leon would find his advantage.
He knew that planning an escape was more than just finding a weak point in the wall or memorizing the guards' shifts. It would take more than that. He needed allies—others who were just as desperate, just as determined to break free. But for now, all he could do was wait. And watch.
The cell door creaked open, and the familiar sound of boots on stone echoed through the room. One of the guards stepped inside, his face twisted into its usual sneer as he glanced over the exhausted bodies strewn across the floor.
"On your feet, rats," he growled, his voice thick with contempt.
Leon pushed himself up, his body aching with every movement. The other slaves followed suit, their movements sluggish and mechanical, their eyes downcast. The guards didn't bother watching them too closely—they had broken enough men to know that most wouldn't dare cause trouble. Not after what they'd been through.
But Leon wasn't most men.
As they were herded out into the yard, Leon kept his head down, his eyes scanning the ground as if lost in thought. But in his mind, he was already marking the weak points again. The shadows that stretched across the yard at dusk, the way the overseers' attention wavered in those crucial moments between shifts.
He could feel it now, the faintest stirrings of hope. It wasn't much—just a flicker of defiance against the crushing weight of the chains—but it was enough.
He wasn't broken yet.
And neither were the chains that bound him.
They just needed a crack.