The day had dawned gray and heavy, the sky a thick blanket of cloud that promised no relief from the suffocating heat. Leon stood among the other slaves, the muscles in his back aching from days of labor as they toiled under the watchful eyes of the guards. The wall they were building was meant to fortify the outskirts of the camp—another pointless task to keep them broken, tired, and compliant.
But today wasn't like the others.
Leon kept his head down, his face a mask of blank exhaustion as he hauled stones and rubble from one side of the construction site to the other. His eyes, however, never stopped moving. He watched the guards, their patterns, their rotations. He'd been observing for days now, memorizing the shift changes, the ones who paid attention and the ones who didn't. He knew exactly when to strike.
And now, everything was in place.
The boulder sat at the top of a narrow wooden scaffold, a massive thing too large for any slave to move on their own. It had been raised earlier in the morning, precariously balanced on a series of ropes and wooden beams, waiting to be lowered into position for the foundation. Several slaves worked near it, none of them aware of what Leon had planned.
He glanced toward the overseers, who stood off to the side, barking orders, their eyes flicking lazily over the workers. There were five of them today, but only two paid any real attention. The rest stood clustered around one of the newer guards—a smug, arrogant bastard named Niko, who seemed to take a special pleasure in beating down the slaves.
Niko was Leon's target.
Leon waited, counting the seconds in his head, biding his time. He had no tools, no weapons. Only his body and his mind, honed by years of military service. That was all he needed. He kept his breathing steady, his muscles relaxed, giving no sign of what was about to happen.
Then, with a sudden jolt, one of the slaves working near the boulder tripped, their grip on a rope slipping for just a moment. It was enough. The rope snapped out of their hands, the boulder shifting slightly on its precarious perch.
Leon was already moving.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the nearest plank and slammed it hard against the wooden support beam holding the boulder in place. There was a crack, the sound of splintering wood, and then everything happened at once.
The boulder tilted, teetering for a split second before it came crashing down.
It hit the ground with a sickening crunch, right on top of Niko.
The guards froze, their shouts cutting off in their throats as they stared in horror at the sight before them. Niko's body lay beneath the massive stone, his head crushed beyond recognition, a thick pool of blood spreading rapidly across the dirt. The impact had been instantaneous, merciless. There was no chance for him to scream, no time to beg for mercy.
Just silence.
A ripple of shock passed through the slaves, but none of them moved. None of them dared. They knew the consequences of causing trouble, and this was no ordinary accident. It had been too perfect, too precise. But none of them would say a word.
Leon straightened slowly, his face as blank as ever, his hands covered in dust and grime. He hadn't been near the boulder when it fell, nowhere close enough to be implicated. The other slaves had been too focused on their own work, too tired, too beaten down to pay attention to what he had done.
He glanced at the overseers, who were already scrambling to contain the chaos. Two of them rushed forward, shouting for help, trying to assess the damage. The others stood frozen, their faces pale with shock.
Leon allowed himself the faintest smile, hidden beneath his mask of indifference. It had been easy. Too easy.
The guards would never trace this back to him. It had all the makings of an unfortunate accident—careless slaves, faulty equipment. But the message was clear: no one was safe, not even the guards.
As the overseers dragged what remained of Niko's body away, the camp slowly returned to its grim routine. The slaves went back to their labor, the sound of stone and wood filling the air once more. But something had changed. Leon could feel it.
The power dynamics had shifted, even if the overseers didn't realize it yet.
He glanced at Grig, who stood a few yards away, his face pale and sweat-soaked. The man hadn't even noticed Leon's subtle movements. He'd been too busy trembling in fear, his eyes darting nervously between the guards and the slaves, as if he expected to be implicated.
Leon gave him a look that said everything without words. Grig swallowed hard and quickly looked away, his hands trembling as he returned to his task.
Good. Fear was a powerful tool, and Leon wielded it well.
By the time the day ended, the accident had been written off as just that—an accident. No one questioned the slaves, no one looked deeper into the circumstances. The overseers didn't care enough to investigate further. Another guard dead, another casualty in a place where life was cheap.
But Leon knew better.
As he made his way back to the barracks that evening, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the day's victory settling on his shoulders. It was a small step, a crack in the foundation. But cracks could grow. And eventually, this entire camp would crumble.
One way or another, Leon would see to it.