Leon awoke to rough hands yanking him from his thin straw mattress. The cold bite of iron shackles clamped around his wrists before he could fully comprehend what was happening. Two burly guards dragged him out of the barracks, their grips unyielding. The sky was still dark, stars faintly glimmering above—a time when even the most vigilant were lost in slumber. No one stirred as they hauled him away; no one witnessed his silent departure.
For a fleeting moment, Leon wondered if this was the end. Perhaps his calculated moves had finally caught up to him, and now he would pay the ultimate price. But he dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. If they intended to kill him, they would have done it right there, left his body as a grim warning to the others. No, they wanted something else.
They dragged him to a dimly lit chamber built into the camp's perimeter—a place that reeked of mold and damp stone. The walls were lined with chains and crude instruments stained with rust and darker substances. A single torch flickered on the wall, casting long, ominous shadows.
The guards shoved him onto a rickety wooden chair bolted to the floor. Chains rattled as they secured his wrists and ankles. Leon took a deep breath, steadying himself. His mind raced, but his expression remained impassive.
A door creaked open, and a tall figure stepped inside. The lord's silhouette was unmistakable—draped in opulent fabrics that seemed out of place in this squalid environment. His eyes were cold, assessing, like a predator sizing up its prey.
Behind him followed two overseers, their faces twisted with contempt. One of them Leon recognized—a particularly cruel man named Havran, known for his heavy hand with the whip. The other was unfamiliar but wore the same sneer.
The lord stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor. "So," he began, his voice smooth but laced with venom, "you're the one causing all this trouble."
Leon met his gaze but said nothing.
Havran stepped forward, striking Leon across the face with the back of his hand. "When the lord speaks to you, you answer!"
Leon tasted blood but showed no reaction. He slowly turned his head back to face them, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I wasn't aware a question was asked."
The lord raised an eyebrow, amused. "Bold. For a slave."
"I've been called worse," Leon replied evenly.
The lord chuckled, a hollow sound. "I've heard about you. A healer, they say. One who can mend wounds that would fell other men. You've caught my attention."
"Glad to be of service," Leon said dryly.
Havran moved as if to strike him again, but the lord raised a hand to stop him. "Enough. I didn't bring him here for you to beat senseless."
The overseer scowled but stepped back.
"Tell me," the lord continued, circling the chair, "where did you acquire such skills? Certainly not in a place like this."
Leon considered his response. They were fishing for information, but how much did they already know? He had to tread carefully.
"I've had many roles before ending up here," Leon said. "I've picked up a few things along the way."
The lord nodded slowly. "Vague. I expected as much. No matter. What I want to know is how you've managed to undermine my camp. Accidents, injuries, fear spreading like a plague among my men. And all traces lead back to you."
"So you've already decided I'm responsible," Leon replied. "Why bother asking?"
"Because," the lord said, leaning in closer, his eyes piercing, "I see potential. You're clever, resourceful. Qualities that can be... useful to me."
Leon suppressed a smirk. "I'm listening."
"I can make your existence here considerably more comfortable," the lord offered. "Better rations, lighter workloads, perhaps even some privileges. All you need to do is share your knowledge. Help me maintain order."
Leon pretended to ponder the offer, though his mind was already dissecting the situation. Someone had betrayed him—that much was clear. It could have been Jerik, eager to elevate his status, or Grig, whose cowardice made him a likely suspect. Regardless, Leon knew he had to play this carefully.
"You want me to help you control the slaves," Leon said. "To use my skills for your benefit."
"Precisely," the lord confirmed. "In return, you'll avoid the fate that befalls those who defy me."
"Generous," Leon remarked sarcastically.
The lord's expression hardened. "Don't mistake this for leniency. Refuse, and I'll ensure you experience suffering beyond your darkest nightmares. Perhaps a stint in the tournament would loosen your tongue."
Havran grinned wickedly at the mention, his eyes glinting with sadistic anticipation.
Leon met the lord's gaze steadily. "And if I agree?"
"Then you'll find life here much more... accommodating," the lord assured. "I may even consider allowing you certain freedoms within the camp."
Leon leaned back as much as his restraints would allow. "I need assurances."
Havran barked a laugh. "You're in no position to demand anything!"
The lord held up a hand to silence him. "What do you propose?"
"First," Leon began, "I want access to proper medical supplies. Herbs, bandages, tools—not scraps scavenged from the refuse."
"Done," the lord agreed.
"Second, my living conditions improve. A space where I can work undisturbed."
"Acceptable."
"Third," Leon continued, his eyes narrowing, "protection from... overzealous overseers."
Havran scowled, but the lord nodded. "You will be under my direct orders. No one will harm you without facing consequences."
Leon feigned contemplation before nodding slowly. "Then we have an agreement."
"Excellent," the lord said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "Release him."
The guards moved to unchain Leon. As he rubbed his wrists, the lord stepped closer. "Remember, any sign of betrayal, and I won't hesitate to make an example of you."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Leon replied smoothly.
"Good. Havran will escort you to your new quarters," the lord instructed. "Get him what he needs."
Havran looked displeased but obeyed. "This way," he snarled.
As they left the chamber, Leon's mind raced. He was now in the lion's den but with greater access to resources and information. He needed to find out who had betrayed him—Jerik or Grig—and plan his next move accordingly.
They walked through the camp, the eyes of other slaves and guards following them with a mix of curiosity and fear. Havran led him to a small hut near the main encampment—a significant upgrade from the overcrowded barracks.
"Don't get comfortable," Havran spat. "You're still a slave."
Leon smiled faintly. "Of course."
Inside, the space was sparse but clean. A table, some shelves, and a cot—luxuries compared to what he'd grown accustomed to. More importantly, it offered a level of privacy he'd been lacking.
"Your supplies will arrive shortly," Havran said curtly. "Don't make me regret not cutting your tongue out."
"I'll be the model of cooperation," Leon assured him.
Havran sneered before exiting, slamming the door behind him.
Alone at last, Leon allowed his facade to slip. He took a deep breath, considering his precarious position. The lord thought he could control him, but Leon had no intention of becoming a pawn. This new arrangement offered him tools and opportunities he hadn't had before.
He sat at the table, drumming his fingers thoughtfully. First, he needed to identify the traitor. Jerik had ambition but lacked the cunning to outmaneuver Leon. Grig, on the other hand, was a weasel—easily frightened and easily bought.
Leon decided he'd start with Grig. Fear made people careless, and Grig was likely to slip up if pressed.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A young servant entered, carrying a box of supplies. "Your provisions, sir," he said timidly.
"Thank you," Leon replied, eyeing the contents. Bandages, basic herbs, even some rudimentary surgical tools—a treasure trove in this forsaken place.
As the servant left, Leon began organizing the items, his mind already formulating plans. He would play along with the lord's demands for now, all the while gathering intelligence, building trust among the slaves, and sowing seeds of discord where needed.
The game had entered a new phase, and Leon was prepared to play his part to perfection. He might be confined within these walls, but he was far from powerless.
Glancing out the small window, he could see the camp bustling with activity. The sun was rising higher, casting harsh light on the harsh realities below. Somewhere out there, Gorak and the others were undoubtedly worried, perhaps even planning rash actions in his absence.
He needed to find a way to communicate with them, to let them know he was still in control—even from within the enemy's grasp.
Leon allowed himself a rare moment of genuine emotion—a flicker of determination igniting within. If the lord believed he had tamed him, he was sorely mistaken.
"Let the games begin," Leon whispered to himself, a sly smile curving his lips.