The flames crackled fiercely in the distance, black smoke rising in thick, suffocating plumes above Navaha. The village, once vibrant with life, now lay in ruins, a smoldering testament to the horror that had befallen it. Houses had been set ablaze, and the streets were stained with blood—blood that seeped into the earth like a dark reminder of the slaughter. Men, women, children—some had fought, some had fled, but none had escaped the wrath of the slavers. Their attack had been swift, merciless, and devastating.
The slavers had set fire to homes, their cruel hands ensuring that nothing was left untouched. As the flames roared higher, so too did the cries of the dying. The village, once a place of peace, had become a graveyard. The floors of Navaha, now soaked with blood and the smell of death, told a story of violence and loss.
But not everyone had perished in the flames. Some had been captured. Some were dragged, bound in chains, into the hands of their tormentors. Among the captives was Boyd, his vision blurry and his body wracked with pain from the brutal attacks. His head spun with dizziness as the soldier who had caught him in hiding, dragged him toward a horse-drawn carriage. He was thrown roughly inside, landing among a group of other prisoners, all shackled and bruised, their faces hollow with fear and despair.
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang, and the boy, still reeling from the trauma, collapsed on the cold floor of the carriage. The others groaned in pain, their bodies trembling with exhaustion and fear. But Boyd could do nothing. He had no strength left to fight back, and with a soft groan, he passed out.
The world around him faded as he lost consciousness.
It wasn't until the door swung open again that he stirred. The slavers had returned, their heavy boots echoing as they stomped into the carriage. The prisoners were dragged out, their chains rattling as they were thrown onto the hard ground. The boy was hauled to his feet, his head still spinning, and pulled toward the waiting soldiers—knights of Ignahan, their faces cold and emotionless, their armor gleaming under the sun. These were the same knights who were supposed to protect them, and yet here they were, the very ones responsible for their misery.
The boy's heart sank as he realized that everything he had believed in had crumbled. These knights, sworn to protect the people, had turned against them. They were the ones leading the slavers, chaining them, whipping them, dragging them to their doom.
A prisoner, his voice filled with rage and disbelief, shouted, "You're supposed to protect us!"
The soldier sneered and snapped the whip across the man's face. "Shut up," he growled. "You're not in any position to speak."
But the prisoner didn't stop. He rose again, defiant, despite the pain. "You're supposed to protect us!" he yelled, his voice trembling with fury.
The soldier's response was brutal. The crack of the whip echoed as it lashed against the prisoner's body, forcing him to the ground. "Shut up!" the soldier barked, his voice filled with venom.
Boyd, too, was dragged forward, his feet stumbling on the rough ground. He tried to make sense of what was happening, but his mind was clouded with confusion and fear. The townspeople, the very people he had long hoped to live among, stood by and watched, their eyes filled with pity and indifference. Some spat on him, others threw rotten food, but none stepped forward to help. They had abandoned him, abandoned all of them.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they arrived at the square, just outside the grand castle. Boyd looked up, his eyes catching the sight of the towering walls of the castle, its beauty in stark contrast to the horror around him. It was as though the castle stood untouched by the suffering that surrounded it.
But then, a shift. The soldier who had been beating the prisoners, anger flashing in his eyes, turned his attention to one of his comrades—a fellow soldier.
"Take half of them." the soldier spat.
"The grown ones, the women, the beautiful ones. Take them to the king."
He turned his gaze toward the remaining prisoners. "The rest... they'll be for the king." he said, his voice dripping with malice.
Boyd's heart sank further. He had heard of the king's bloodlust, of how he reveled in the suffering of others, but to see it firsthand was a different matter entirely. His father, weak and barely able to stand, called out to him, but his voice was lost in the chaos. The soldiers dragged the prisoners away, the sounds of their struggles filling the air as they were pushed toward the town center.
Boyd was dragged in the opposite direction.
He stumbled along, the chains around his neck biting into his flesh as the soldier forced him forward. The eyes of the townspeople followed him, some filled with sympathy, others with apathy. Boyd could not understand. He was a peasant, yes, but why? Why were they doing this to him and the others?
As he was dragged through the streets, the townspeople hurled insults, spitting on him, throwing tomatoes. The stench of decay and fear lingered in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of burning wood. Boyd's mind raced with questions, but there were no answers, only the relentless march toward his unknown fate.
Finally, they reached the Coliseum, a place that once hosted gladiators, now a place of suffering and death. The grand stone walls loomed before them, casting a long shadow over the prisoners as they were dragged inside.
The door to the gladiator's pit slammed shut behind them, and Boyd found himself thrown into the cage. The other prisoners, their faces twisted with fear and anger, were already there, shackled and broken. Boyd's heart pounded in his chest as he looked around. What had become of them? What had become of his life?
The prisoners, too, looked at him, their eyes hollow with despair. The weight of their chains seemed to hang heavily in the air. Boyd's mind swirled with confusion and fear, but before he could make sense of it, one of the older prisoners stood up, his face a mask of resignation.
He moved toward Boyd, his eyes locking onto the boy's with an understanding that sent a shiver down Boyd's spine. This man, this prisoner—he was the one who had found him under the covenant. He had been the one to lead him here.
The slaver smiled gently at Boyd, pulling a knife from his belt. He slowly traced the blade across Boyd's cheek, the slight sting bringing a strange sense of relief.
"Don't worry, boy," the prisoner said quietly, his voice tinged with sadness.
"You'll be put to good use here."
Boyd's eyes filled with confusion and fear. "Why? Why are you doing this? Why to me?"
The slaver gave a soft sigh, a trace of regret in his eyes.
"Because you are more than just a slave. You're going to fight for the king. If you want your freedom, you must win. You must fight, and if you survive... maybe you'll have your chance."
"Fight?" Boyd echoed, the word a hollow whisper. "What do you mean?"
The Slaver simply smiled grimly. "You'll find out soon enough. Tomorrow will be a big day." With that, he walked away, leaving Boyd to stand, lost and bewildered, in the center of the pit.
The door to the cage slammed shut once more, and Boyd was left with nothing but the sound of chains, the flickering shadows of the other prisoners, and the heavy weight of the uncertain future that awaited him.