The night after the fall of Eryndor was colder than any Althaea had known. She sat in the back of a caged wagon, her wrists and ankles chafed raw by iron shackles. Around her, her people huddled in silence, their breath rising in ghostly wisps against the frigid air. The acrid smell of smoke from Eryndor's ruins clung to her skin, a haunting reminder of what had been lost.
The boy from before sat close to her, his thin frame shivering despite the ragged cloak he wore. She didn't know his name yet, but his wide, frightened eyes told her enough. He had lost everything too. Just like her.
"You should rest," the boy whispered, his voice trembling as much as his body.
Althaea shook her head. "There will be no rest until we are free," she said firmly, though her body ached for sleep. She scanned their captors soldiers who lounged by the fire, laughing and drinking as though they hadn't just destroyed an entire kingdom. The sight of them ignited a spark of rage in her chest.
"Your Highness," an older woman beside her murmured, her voice low and reverent. "What do we do now?"
Althaea's gaze shifted to the woman, whose hands clutched the hem of her torn dress as though it were the only thing anchoring her to this world. The question hung heavy in the air, a plea for hope in a sea of despair.
"We endure," Althaea said, her voice steady, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. "We survive. And when the time is right, we fight."
The caravan moved at dawn, the prisoners forced to march behind the wagons like cattle. Althaea's legs burned with every step, but she refused to falter. She kept her head high, her gaze unyielding. The soldiers jeered and sneered, but none dared meet her eyes for long.
As the days turned into weeks, the caravan passed through villages and towns, where curious onlookers gathered to gawk at the procession of defeated Eryndorians. Children pointed and whispered, and merchants paused their bartering to watch with expressions that ranged from pity to disdain.
"Look at them," one villager muttered to another. "Once proud warriors, now nothing more than slaves."
Althaea clenched her fists, the chains rattling with the motion. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but she forced herself to stay silent. Every insult, every sneer, every stone thrown by a child was fuel for the fire building inside her.
The turning point came on a night when the caravan stopped in a clearing surrounded by dense woods. The soldiers had grown complacent, their guard lax after weeks of uneventful travel. Althaea watched them from her place by the dying fire, her sharp mind piecing together every weakness in their routine.
"They don't count us," she whispered to the boy, who now sat beside her like a shadow. "They assume we're too broken to fight back."
The boy frowned. "But we are outnumbered, and we have no weapons."
Althaea's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Weapons can be made, and numbers mean nothing if they underestimate us."
She rose quietly, the chains around her ankles muffling her steps. Moving between the sleeping prisoners, she whispered words of encouragement and instruction. Her voice was soft but carried the weight of authority, igniting a flicker of hope in those who had thought themselves beyond salvation.
"We'll start small," she said to the group huddled around her. "Sabotage their supplies, disrupt their rest. Make them fear us, even in chains."
One of the older men, a blacksmith by trade, nodded. "I can fashion tools from the scraps they leave behind."
"And I can scout," a wiry young woman added, her eyes alight with determination. "I've been watching their patrols."
Althaea looked at each of them, her heart swelling with pride despite their dire circumstances. These were her people resilient, resourceful, and unbroken.
Over the next few days, the prisoners began their quiet rebellion. Nails went missing from the soldiers' wagons, causing wheels to splinter and delay their progress. Food stores were tainted with bitter herbs that caused stomachaches and forced the soldiers to double over in pain. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.
Althaea became a symbol of resistance, her defiance spreading like wildfire through the ranks of the enslaved. She taught them how to stand tall even in chains, how to wield their anger as a weapon against despair.
One night, as the prisoners sat in their cramped quarters, she stood and addressed them. "They think they've won," she said, her voice ringing with conviction. "They think they've broken us. But they don't understand that the crescent moon always rises again. And so will we."
The crowd murmured in agreement, their spirits lifted by her words. Even the boy, who had been so fearful at the start, now looked at her with something akin to awe.
The flashback shifts briefly to the present, showing Althaea in her chambers in Luthadel. She sits by the fire, turning a small crescent-shaped pendant over in her hands. Her expression is distant, her mind replaying the events of those harrowing days.
A knock at the door pulls her from her thoughts. She hides the pendant beneath her tunic and stands, her face once again a mask of calm determination. "Enter," she says, her voice steady.
The scene transitions back to the past, seamlessly linking her memories to her current role as a key figure in Luthadel's unfolding drama.