The fire crackled softly, casting long, flickering shadows across the dim barracks. It was late, and most of the slaves were lying down, some half-asleep, others too weary to do anything but listen. The air was thick with exhaustion, the weight of the day's labor pressing down on them like an iron hand. Yet, despite the fatigue, a strange energy lingered in the room—a mixture of fear and hope, uncertainty and anticipation.
Old Sargo sat near the fire, his gnarled hands resting on his knees, his face weathered and lined like the bark of a twisted tree. His eyes were distant, clouded with age, but sharp enough to pierce through the smoke and the shadows. He had seen more than most in his time, survived more than any slave had a right to, and now he was the closest thing they had to a storyteller.
A group of younger slaves sat around him, their eyes wide with curiosity and dread, waiting for him to speak. The older ones nearby listened in silence, while a few of the guards lingered by the door, pretending not to care, but their ears were just as open.
Sargo cleared his throat, the sound rough and dry, as if it took effort just to speak. His voice was like gravel, harsh and unyielding, but it carried a weight that demanded attention.
"You all know Vek," he began, his gaze sweeping over the younger slaves. "Some of you might've seen him, a big man, strong, with the spirit of a warrior. Others might've just heard the stories."
The young slaves nodded, their faces lit by the orange glow of the fire. They had all heard the name by now. Vek, the soldier who had been taken for the tournament and never returned. Some whispered that he'd been killed in the first round, others said he was still fighting. But tonight, they were about to hear a different story.
"They took him for the games," Sargo continued, his voice lowering to a hushed tone. "The games that no slave ever survives. The games where they make men tear each other apart for the amusement of kings and lords. But Vek... Vek wasn't like the others. No, he was too strong, too smart. He didn't just fight. He fought with a purpose."
The younger slaves leaned in closer, their eyes wide, hanging on every word.
"Now, they say that Vek died in those games," Sargo said, his voice growing quieter, more intense. "But the truth is... he never died. No, Vek is still here. Not in body, but in spirit. Since the day he left, things have been happening. Strange things."
One of the younger slaves, a boy barely into his teens, whispered, "What things?"
Sargo's eyes gleamed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Have you heard them? The screams in the night?"
The boy nodded, as did several others. The barracks had been filled with those eerie sounds lately—cries of pain that seemed to echo through the walls, yet no one could ever find the source.
"That's Vek," Sargo said, his voice barely more than a rasp now. "He's still fighting. But not in the arena. He's fighting for us. They tried to break him, but Vek... he broke them instead. He's out there, in the dark, striking at the overseers, at the guards. You've seen the accidents, haven't you? The boulder that crushed the guard's head... the food that got tampered with."
The younger slaves gasped, glancing around nervously. Even the guards by the door stiffened, though they tried to hide it.
Sargo chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "They think it's just accidents. But it's not. It's Vek. He's turned the gods against them, and now the gods are punishing those who hold us in chains. And he's helping us, too. You've seen it. The ones who cry out in pain during the night, they wake up better. Stronger. Like the gods are healing them."
The slaves exchanged uneasy glances. They had all heard the whispers, the rumors of a healer in the barracks, someone who moved like a ghost in the night. They called him the "Healer Ghost," but no one knew who he really was. And now, Sargo was tying Vek's spirit to the strange occurrences.
One of the older slaves, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, spoke up. "You're saying Vek's ghost is healing us?"
Sargo met his gaze, unflinching. "I'm saying Vek is watching over us. And the gods have taken his side. That's why the overseers are nervous. They know something's wrong, but they can't stop it. They can't stop him."
A murmur rippled through the barracks. The guards exchanged uneasy looks, shifting from foot to foot. Even the overseers, who usually turned a deaf ear to slave gossip, had started to act more cautious lately, like they were afraid something was lurking just beyond the edge of their vision.
Sargo leaned back, his tale finished, letting the tension settle over the room like a thick fog. The younger slaves looked at each other, their fear mingling with a flicker of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, the gods had finally decided to take their side.
But Leon, who had been sitting in the shadows, listening to the story with quiet intensity, knew better. He knew the truth behind the so-called accidents. He knew the real reason why the slaves were healing, why the guards were growing more paranoid by the day.
It wasn't Vek.
It was him.
And as the firelight danced over the faces of the slaves, Leon smiled to himself. If the old man's story gave them hope, then so be it. Hope was a weapon, just as sharp as any blade, and right now, Leon needed every weapon he could get.
He stood up silently, slipping away from the fire, leaving the others to their whispers and superstitions. As he stepped out into the cool night air, the wind carried with it the faint sound of distant screams, echoing through the camp like a haunting reminder of the life they all endured.
Maybe, just maybe, they were right about one thing.
The gods were watching.
But not for the reasons they thought.