The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the barren camp. As the slaves returned from their day's labor, sweat-soaked and bone-weary, whispers spread through the barracks. Some slaves exchanged quiet nods, their eyes flickering toward the figure in the corner—Leon, the ghost healer.
He had gained their trust, even if they didn't know him. They only knew the results: wounds were healing faster, pain was dulled, and whispers of a strange power followed him like a cloak of mystery.
Today, however, something unusual was brewing. Grig was unusually smug as he approached Leon during the brief pause between the day's work and the night's oppressive quiet.
Grig's beady eyes gleamed as he slid toward Leon, clutching a sack. His lips curled into a toothy grin, the faint smell of alcohol wafting from his breath. "Business is good, Leon. Real good."
Leon raised an eyebrow, uninterested in Grig's jovial mood. He knew Grig had been anxious lately, constantly on edge about the shifting balance of power in the camp. But now, there was something more—something Leon couldn't quite place.
Grig plopped down beside Leon and opened the sack. Inside was the unmistakable sight of a few bottles of medicine and several flasks of clean water, an unheard-of luxury in the barracks. Grig smiled wider, reaching in and pulling out a small loaf of bread. It wasn't fresh by any means, but it was far from the stale, rock-hard rations they were usually given.
"Look at this!" Grig said with a wheezy laugh. "Fresh enough to chew without breakin' your teeth." He held the bread aloft like it was some sacred artifact. "The overseers are so rattled, they're sendin' more food, more supplies. Jerik's got 'em running scared. It's been real good for business."
Leon's eyes flickered with disinterest as he reached for the bottle of medicine. Grig slapped his hand away with a chuckle. "Not so fast. You're not the only one with demands anymore. These slaves... they're desperate. They want food, water, something decent for once. I'm trading like never before—scraps, little trinkets. Hell, one of 'em gave me an old coin he'd been hiding for years."
Grig's voice lowered as he leaned closer, his eyes darting around, making sure no one else was listening. "But you... You've got the real power now. You're the ghost healer. They think Vek's hauntin' the guards because of you. You've got them all shitting themselves."
Leon didn't respond. He wasn't interested in hearing Grig's twisted view of the situation. His eyes were locked on the medicine. That was all that mattered. Supplies were coming in, just as he had hoped. The overseers were panicking, and Jerik was finally delivering on his part of the deal.
Grig grinned wider, sensing Leon's focus. "Don't worry, there's more where that came from. As long as the overseers stay jumpy, we'll keep getting these little gifts from Jerik. But you'll need to keep up your end of the bargain, eh? Keep scaring 'em. Keep the ghost alive."
Leon finally spoke, his voice low and sharp. "Just give me what I need."
Grig hesitated for a moment, his smile faltering as he caught the icy edge in Leon's tone. There was something about Leon's gaze, something unsettling. Grig didn't push further. With a nervous laugh, he handed over the bottle and flasks of water.
"Of course, of course. Here, take it. There's plenty more comin'. Just keep doin' what you're doin'."
Leon took the supplies without another word, stuffing them into his ragged cloak. As he stood to leave, Grig called after him, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.
"Leon... they're sayin' you're the one who'll lead us out of this hellhole. Some of 'em are even prayin' to Vek in your name. It's gettin' strange."
Leon turned slightly, just enough to glance back at Grig. "Let them think what they want. It keeps them in line."
Grig blinked, his usual cockiness slipping. There was something in Leon's words that unnerved him, something that made him realize just how little control he actually had over the situation. "Right... right. Just don't get too carried away, eh?"
Without another word, Leon walked away, disappearing into the dark maze of the barracks.
As he moved through the shadowy paths, his mind was already racing ahead. The plan was unfolding perfectly, but there were still obstacles. Jerik was useful for now, but Grig was getting greedy. Leon could see the signs—the overconfidence, the hunger for more control. Grig was a liability, and Leon knew he couldn't rely on him for long.
The slaves were whispering his name, coming to him for help, for healing. They were giving him food, water, and scraps in exchange for his care. The word had spread—Leon, the healer ghost. It was ironic, really. They had no idea who he truly was, no idea what kind of man he had been in the life before this one.
As Leon reached the corner of the barracks where he had set up his makeshift medical space, he began to organize the herbs and medicines. His hands moved with practiced precision, the muscle memory of years spent tending to wounded soldiers and civilians. The slaves shuffled in slowly, each of them carrying a scrap of food, a sliver of cloth, or a trinket they had scavenged.
They didn't ask for much—just enough to keep the pain at bay, to dull the wounds inflicted by their daily labor. Leon worked quietly, methodically, his mind always moving, always planning.
As he patched up another torn arm and handed back a flask of boiled water, one of the younger slaves whispered in awe, "You're our only hope... You're gonna get us out, aren't you?"
Leon didn't answer. He simply wrapped the bandage and moved on to the next patient.
He didn't need to speak. The slaves already believed in him.
And soon, even the overseers would.