The stench of sweat, blood, and raw labor filled the air as Ashar lifted the heavy pickaxe once again. His muscles burned with the weight of each swing, but he could not afford to stop. Not now. Not when the Orcs' overseers were watching, ready to lash out at the slightest hint of defiance.
His hands, rough from years of grueling work, tightened around the handle as he dug deeper into the stone quarry. He could feel his bones protesting with each strike, but he pushed through the pain. It was the only way to survive. The only way to remain useful in their eyes.
The Orcs had enslaved his village nearly a decade ago. They came with their brutal might, tearing down homes, killing anyone who resisted, and leaving nothing but blood and ashes in their wake. Ashar's family had been among the first to fall. His father, a proud warrior, had tried to fight, but there was no match for the sheer size and strength of the Orcs. His mother had been forced into labor like the others, and he, barely a teenager at the time, was conscripted to work in the mines.
Now, years later, his body was marked with scars—each one a reminder of the cruelty he'd endured. But it was his mind that had grown sharp. He had spent every moment of his life in captivity not just surviving, but plotting.
Ashar paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. His eyes darted to the overseers, who stood at the edge of the pit, their leering eyes fixed on the laborers. They had learned long ago to use fear as a weapon. A single misstep, and they would lash out—punishing the weakest or the slowest. Ashar had seen it happen more times than he cared to count.
But today... today was different.
A soft, low whistle reached his ears—a signal. He knew the plan had begun.
In the distance, a few others in the quarry paused their work, exchanging brief, knowing glances. Ashar kept his head down, continuing his task as if nothing was amiss. His heart pounded in his chest, the anticipation making the world feel oddly distant, like a dream that could slip away if he dared to wake up.
A deep growl pierced the air. One of the Orc overseers, towering and thick with muscle, bellowed at the workers, his voice heavy with contempt. Ashar gritted his teeth but didn't flinch. The overseer approached, his heavy boots crushing the dirt beneath him with every step. Ashar's grip tightened on the pickaxe, but he did not move.
The Orc's rancid breath washed over him as he crouched beside Ashar, eyes narrowing.
"You're slowing down, slave. Don't think we haven't noticed," the Orc growled, his breath hot and foul. He gripped Ashar's shoulder, the massive fingers digging into his skin like iron clamps. "You'll work harder or I'll make you regret it."
Ashar's breath caught in his throat, but he kept his expression neutral. The Orc's grip tightened, but still, Ashar said nothing. He was biding his time.
A second later, the signal came—a sudden loud noise. A diversion. The chaos that ensued was brief but enough. The Orcs, momentarily distracted by the commotion, didn't see the three slaves, hidden behind the rocky outcroppings, making their way toward the weapons cache.
The moment Ashar had been waiting for had arrived.
The quarry erupted into a frenzy of movement. Screams and shouting filled the air as slaves fought back, their shackles broken and weapons drawn. The overseers bellowed in surprise and anger, charging into the melee, but they were too late. The humans were faster now—fueled by the years of suffering and rage.
Ashar moved with practiced precision, slipping past the Orcs and toward the small, hidden camp where the plan had been laid. His body moved on instinct, his every action calculated to avoid detection. He could hear the clash of metal on metal, the screams of Orcs as they fell beneath the hands of those they had once dominated. The human fighters were rising.
A figure emerged from the shadows as Ashar reached the camp. It was Rylah, his childhood friend, now a fierce woman leading the charge. Her eyes, filled with the same fire that burned inside him, met his.
"We're ready," she said breathlessly, handing him a sword—rusted, but still sharp. "It's now or never."
Ashar took the weapon, his fingers wrapping around the hilt. He nodded once. "Let's end this."
Together, they moved toward the heart of the village. The Orcs were beginning to organize their defense, rallying around their commanders. But the tide had turned. The shackles had been broken, and for the first time in years, Ashar felt a glimmer of hope—however faint it was.
The battle was brutal. Ashar fought with the ferocity of a man who had nothing left to lose. His sword cleaved through the air, cutting down Orc after Orc. Every swing was driven by a purpose—a promise to the people he'd left behind. Every death was a small vengeance for those who had fallen before him.
At last, the overseers were dead. The last of the Orcs who had held them captive lay in a heap of blood and bone.
As silence fell over the once-enslaved village, Ashar stood among the ruins, breathing heavily. His heart pounded, but the battle wasn't over. The Orcs would return, and this village—this place of pain and torment—was no longer a home. It was a symbol of something much bigger: a new beginning.
"Ashar," Rylah's voice broke through his thoughts. She stepped closer, her expression solemn but resolute. "What now?"
Ashar looked around at the faces of the survivors—men and women, young and old, all of them scarred by years of torment. Their eyes were filled with a mix of fear and determination. They had been freed, but they had nothing. No food, no shelter, no hope—except for him.
"We build," Ashar said quietly, his voice steady despite the weight of the task ahead. "We build a place strong enough to defend ourselves. And when the Orcs come for us, we'll be ready."
His people had elected him as their king. The mantle of leadership now rested upon his shoulders. But the road ahead would be harder than any battle he had fought before. It would take more than just brute strength to survive. It would take strategy. It would take heart. And it would take unity.
But for the first time in his life, Ashar was not just fighting to survive. He was fighting for something far greater.
He was fighting for freedom.