The barracks were a pit of misery and stench. Bodies lay sprawled on the damp, filthy floor, groaning in pain, others too far gone to even make a sound. Leon moved like a shadow, his steps careful, his eyes sharp. The night was his only ally here. The overseers were usually too drunk or too careless to notice what went on inside the barracks after dark.
He crouched next to a young slave, no more than twenty, his arm swollen and infected from a gash earned in the quarry. The stench of rot was unbearable, but Leon had long since become desensitized to the smell. It was the smell of this life—the smell of death creeping closer with every passing hour.
"Stay still," Leon muttered under his breath, his fingers working quickly to bind the wound with whatever scraps he could find. "You let this fester any longer, and they'll be cutting your arm off. That's if you're lucky."
The boy groaned, biting down on a piece of wood Leon had shoved between his teeth. His body jerked as Leon pressed on the wound, squeezing out as much of the infection as he could.
"Fuck," the boy cursed through the wood, his eyes watering from the pain.
"Yeah, well, it's this or lose the arm," Leon said, not bothering to soften his tone. "And believe me, you don't want that. They'll toss you in the pit faster than you can blink if you're not useful."
The boy nodded, his face pale as he tried to control his breathing. Leon kept working, his mind only half-focused on the task. The other half was running through the last few nights, replaying his meeting with Jerik. Since that night, nothing had happened. No extra rations, no medicine. It was starting to feel like Jerik had either forgotten or decided the deal wasn't worth the risk.
Leon cursed silently. He didn't have time for this. He needed those supplies, needed Jerik to come through, but the bastard was probably sitting on his fat ass somewhere, laughing at the idea of striking a deal with a slave. Leon knew he'd have to make another move soon. Maybe another visit to remind Jerik of what was at stake. But first, he had more pressing matters.
He tied off the last of the boy's bandage and stood up, wiping his hands on his ragged clothes. "Keep it clean, or as clean as you can. I'll check it again in a couple of nights."
The boy nodded, his gratitude evident in his eyes, but Leon didn't linger. He had more wounds to tend, more bodies to patch up before the night was through. As he moved through the barracks, he could feel the whispers around him—slaves huddled in the corners, watching him, their eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear.
"The healer," they called him. Word had spread quickly, faster than he had anticipated. Every night, more came to him, asking for help, some too weak to speak, others begging for relief from their festering injuries. It was crude, makeshift medicine at best, but it was more than anyone else had done for them.
As he finished with the last of the night's patients, Leon made his way to the back of the barracks, where Gorak sat alone, sharpening a jagged piece of metal he had somehow hidden away. Gorak glanced up as Leon approached, his face unreadable in the dim light.
"Vek's dead, isn't he?" Gorak asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Leon nodded. "Yeah. He didn't stand a chance."
Gorak let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Figured as much. They don't let you live if you put up too good of a fight. Break their little game. Makes the crowd restless."
Leon sat down beside him, leaning against the cold stone wall. "You were a soldier, right?"
"Once," Gorak muttered, his eyes darkening. "Before I got caught. Served the northern army for years. Fought in more wars than I care to remember."
Leon looked at him, considering his next words. "Then you know what I'm talking about. You see it, don't you? The way they work, the way they move."
Gorak grunted. "Yeah. Same shit, different faces. The overseers are sloppy. They're strong, but they're not soldiers. Just thugs with whips."
Leon nodded. "They're beatable. If we had the right timing. The right numbers."
Gorak raised an eyebrow. "You thinkin' of trying something?"
Leon glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear. "Not yet. But when the time comes, we'll need men who can fight. Men who know how to take orders. We need to start thinking like soldiers again."
Gorak's eyes flickered with something—maybe hope, maybe disbelief. "And what? You think we're just gonna waltz out of here?"
Leon's lips curled into a dark smile. "Not waltz. But when the moment comes, I'm not going down like the rest of them. And neither should you."
Gorak snorted, but there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "You're fucking crazy, you know that?"
"Probably," Leon said, his tone dry. "But what's the alternative? Keep digging? Keep waiting for our names to get picked for the tournament?"
Gorak didn't respond immediately, his jaw clenched as he mulled over Leon's words. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head. "Fuck it. What's one more fight, right?"
Leon grinned, the dark humor hanging in the air between them. "Exactly."
As they sat in silence for a moment, Leon's mind drifted back to Jerik. He would need to make another move soon. If Jerik wasn't going to come through on his own, Leon would force his hand. But for now, he had to focus on what he could control. He had a plan, and it was slowly taking shape.
For the next hour, Leon moved from slave to slave, offering whatever small relief he could. The wounds were always the same—cuts, bruises, infections, the marks of cruelty and neglect. He had no real medicine, but his experience as a doctor on Earth allowed him to do more with less. He cleaned the wounds as best as he could, boiled water to disinfect, and used scraps of fabric for makeshift bandages.
As he worked, he felt the eyes of the other slaves on him. Word had spread quickly, and now they came to him, desperate for help. No one knew where he had come from, how he had learned these skills, and Leon preferred it that way. The less they knew about him, the better.
By the time the first light of dawn began to creep through the cracks in the barracks walls, Leon had finished his rounds. His hands were filthy, covered in blood and grime, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He was making a difference, even if it was small, even if it wouldn't last. For now, it was enough.
But as he lay down to rest, his mind raced. Jerik was still out there, still holding the key to the medicine Leon needed. And Leon was running out of patience. If the guard didn't come through soon, Leon would have to take matters into his own hands.
And when that time came, there would be no more deals.