In a city border in the north of the kingdom of Vylsandra, the boy Koman is born. Since his birth he has known nothing other than serving others and being an object, but today the fearful child decides to escape.
It was noon, and Koman was working hard, like every other day. The hot, oppressive dust lay like a blanket over the construction site where he and his group of slaves toiled. Koman noticed that the oldest man in his group had injuries on his arms. Concerned, he approached him.
"Are you okay?" Koman asked quietly.
The old man glanced at him briefly and nodded before answering gruffly, "Yes, it's fine. Just keep working as long as they tell you to, kid."
Koman was silent for a moment, but his curiosity wouldn't let go. After a moment, he asked further, "Why are you never in the building where the other slave workers spend their time during breaks?"
The old man seemed annoyed. He quickly looked around, then leaned in slightly and whispered sharply, "Keep your voice down and work. I don't want to risk my life."
Koman nodded silently, but the silence didn't last long. The old man seemed to relent, as he eventually continued, his voice barely audible, "Because of my injuries, the guards have taken note of my name. I often have to go to the doctor on the other side of the city. My work changes depending on my physical condition."
These words immediately set themselves in Koman's mind. Without much thought, he came up with a desperate plan. Maybe he could get out of the city this way. He looked at the old man's injuries, then at his own hand. A sudden determination overcame him, and he knew there was no other choice.
Koman picked up a stone, closed his eyes, and struck. A sharp pain shot through him as the bone broke. He made it look like an accident, but the screams that escaped him were anything but acted. The world blurred around him, and tears filled his eyes. What if the old man had lied? Panic suddenly overcame him. What if all of this was for nothing?
His screams broke the silence, and the construction site went into turmoil. The other slaves stopped working and stared in his direction. Koman struggled with himself, feeling anger and hatred at his own stupidity. But the guards were just as panicked. An injured worker meant less labor force, and that could threaten their own well-being.
"Let me...!" Koman screamed, but his voice was cut off by a strong blow that knocked him unconscious.
When Koman came to, he was lying on a hard mattress in a sparsely furnished room. His broken hand was bandaged, the pain still throbbing but dulled. It was already sunset, and the dim light filtering through the window bathed the room in a soft orange glow. But something wasn't right—no doctor, no guards, just the silence of the room. Koman wondered why he had even been treated and felt a mixture of fear and relief.
Carefully, he stood up, ignoring the throbbing pain in his hand, and crept to the window. The air outside was cool, a welcome change from the stifling heat of the construction site. He opened the window slowly, the creak seeming louder than anything else in the silence. Koman climbed out, his injured arm painfully clumsy, but he knew he had no time to lose.
In the pale light of the setting sun, he saw a gate in the distance—the exit he had been seeking for so long. To distract the guards, Koman picked up a piece of broken glass. With a trembling hand, he threw it as far as he could, and each time it landed, a soft clink rang out, startling the guard. He repeated this over and over until the guard, suspicious, peered into the darkness and eventually went to check the source of the noise.
This was his chance. Koman crept forward, his heart pounding as the pain in his broken hand sent waves of weakness through his body. The streets were nearly empty because a festival was taking place—the festival of the slave traders. All the wealthy people of Tarban were there to purchase their new laborers. Koman didn't know that this festival was happening today; he only thought that the guards must have gone to the bathroom or something similar.
And finally, with one last, hurried sprint, Koman made it through the gate. He looked back at the city that had held him captive like a cage and, for the first time, felt something resembling a spark of hope. With a broken hand and a wounded spirit, he had finally left Tarban.