A stinging pain shot through Klaus's bleeding feet as he shivered from the cold. His clothes were nearly useless against the chilling wind.
But the real agony came from his wrists. The iron shackles -meant to restrain his abilities- dug deep into his flesh, fresh wound scraping against the freezing metal.
It had been days since their march to the Napoleon Empire began. And as if the torment of his wounds weren't enough, the sight ahead was just as bleak.
A long chain stretched down the frozen road, each link connecting hollow-eyed prisoners- slaves, just like him. They trudged forward in silence, their sorirtd worn thin by the suffering.
Far ahead, Napoleon and his most trusted men treaded down the cold, frosty road on horses while the rest of them shivered and bled.
Well in all honesty, he had his fair share of great times. Like, cursing under his breath or-
Klaus clenched his jaw, shifting his gaze toward Anarzel.
Thinking of how to get his revenge on the traitor.
His fingers curled into fists, but there was nothing he could do.
...At least not in his current situation.
Ahead, a broad-shouldered man with a bloodied back moved with deliberate caution, each step measured and calculated. And to be honest-
"Hah..."
A wry chuckle escaped Klaus's lips. He couldn't blame the man.
Behind him, a scholar with peculiar eyes was cursing under his breath in a strange, yet... eeriely familiar language.
Klaus almost laughed. Isn't he afraid of being struck down by the Arcane God?
But no laughter came.
Shaking his head.
Step. Step.
He kept walking.
From time to time, soldiers of the Napoleon Army -the imperials- ride past, throwing them the usual menacing glare.
It didn't take a genius to see that things were looking grim.
"Hah..." He exhaled sharply, mist curling in the frigid air.
Well, on the bright side, things probably can't get any worse... Right?
Somehow, he had a feeling that he would soon be proven wrong.
And that feeling,
Ba- thump. Ba- thump.
That feeling sent cold chills slithering down his spine.
He had to tightly clench his hands in order to stop the sonorous tremors running through him.
And even it it wasn't doing so well as to work out for him.
Clench!
He still continued for reasons unknown to him. Reasons that eluded the grasp of his understanding.
But,
"Huff... Huff..."
Breathing in the cold chilling wind, he felt a sharp surge of pain tear through him.
And he had to bite on his lower lips to stop himself from shivering… or to be more precise- stop himself from affecting the long-winding chain.
He was still bewildered about certain things, though.
He frowned.
The circumstances he had found himself in were nothing like what one should… would expect from a first Arcane Trial.
Usually, freshly chosen aspirants would find themselves becoming chosen sons of heaven in their respective trials or become members of a warrior troupe with plenty of access to necessary weapons to at least try to tackle any conflict in which they were thrusted into.
But starting out as an Emperor of a falling empire from the mysticism era. To being a powerless slave, shackled and on the brink of death.
That was as far from being ideal or... "fair" as one would imagine of the spell.
After all, the Arcane Spell was as much about challenge as it's about balance.
As the old men back at the family do say: It created trials, not executions.
But t-his-
This abnormal trial of his.
He had to stop himself from screaming his lungs out. At this point, he could even care less about "acting."
If this wasn't a straight-out death mission.
Then what the hell is it supposed to be?
He wanted to scream, to curse the spell that had thrown him into this hell. But no words escaped his lips.
Various thoughts crept into his mind, each one more overwhelming than the last.
And to make matters worse, he couldn't even find an iota of clue.
Something. Anything to which he could use as a balm to cling onto.
Something that could save him from this precarious situation.
'Aaaargh!'
Frustration.
It clawed at his mind, gnawing and coiling around his chest like an iron vice.
Step.
Step.
Missing a footing, he lost the rhythm of his steps and stumbled, pulling the chain down with his weight.
Almost immediately, a stout, short guy from somewhere behind him, screamed.
"Gremlin! Watch where you're going!"
Almost as though he'd been waiting for such a moment.
"...."
Klaus- or rather, Roselle- bit on his lower lips, suppressing his pent-up frustration- if only a little.
"Hah..."
He exhaled sharply.
A moment later, he was once again walking steadily, however, not before pulling onto the chain once again.
'Bastard! Let's see what you can do about it!' Klaus grinned.
"You little shit! I'm going to kill you!"
Klaus chuckled inwardly.
'Yeah sure. Superhuman out of the runic binding chains.'
The broad-shouldered man in front of Klaus chuckled. "Why bother? He would be dead by sunrise anyway."
He threw Klaus a quick glance.
"He can barely survive two more days in the Frozen Heart Mountain Range."
"...."
Klaus didn't argue.
He was in bad shape. Not only were his abilities sealed, his body battered, but the cold was also gnawing at him like a starving beast.
Thinking of the pain.
He was once again reminded of Anarzel and he had to tightly clench his teeth together in order to suppress that anger burning through his veins.
Especially when considering the fact that there was nothing he could do about it.
For now, anyway.
A cold glint flickered in his eyes before he exhaled sharply, forcing his usual hollow expression back into place.
Step. Step.
A few seconds later, the broad shouldered guy sighed. "This place will kill us, too. Just a matter of when."
The short slave barked out, his pent up emotions exploding in a single outburst.
"Speak for yourself, fool! I plan to survive."
"As a slave." Klaus added dryly.
The broad shouldered slave threw him a look.
Then-
"Hahaha!" He laughed.
"You bastard!" The short slave's face twisted with fury.
Before things could escalate further, another voice joined in the conversation from somewhere behind him.
This one sounded gentle and intelligent and he didn't need to look to know it was the scholar.
"The frozen heart mountain is usually warmer this time of the year. We just had very bad luck," he murmured. "And I'd advise against harming the young man."
"Why?"
Klaus turned slightly, curiosity sparkling in his cold eyes.
"Haven't you seen the light insignia on his forehead?" the scholar continued. "He's not like us- he wasn't enslaved due to debt, misfortune or crime. He was born a royal."
He paused.
"Not long ago, the imperials destroyed the last empire of the God of Light. I suspect that's how he ended up here."
The broad-shouldered man grunted.
"So what? Why should I care about a half-forgotten God who couldn't even save his own people?"
The scholar's gaze darkened. "The Empire is protected by the Dark Souls Tree. Of course, they are not afraid to destroy a few Empires. But need I remind you that we here are not protected by anything or anyone. Don't tell me you really want to risk angering a god over over childish spite."
Silence followed.
Then-
Step. Step.
A young soldier approached, riding a pristine white horse. Clad in crimson armor, armed with a spear and a longsword, he looked noble, dignified-
And irritatingly pretty.
Of course not as pretty as he was anyway.
And in all sense of honesty, that was the truth.
He stopped before them, scanning the group.
"What's going on here?"
There was no particular menace in his voice. If anything, it carried a hint of concern.
The slaves hesitated.
The scholar answered a few seconds later.
"It's nothing, sir. We're all just tired and cold. Especially our young friend over here."
The soldier's gaze landed on Klaus and he could see something within those eyes.
Something he despised.
Pity.
Mercy.
Compassion.
Call it whatever you want.
...He hated them all! Every single one of them!
He needed no one's pity.
Especially not from his slavers.
The soldier sighed, unhooking a dark, crimson flask from his belt. He extended it toward Klaus.
"Bear with it a little longer. We'll soon stop for the night. For now, here, have it."
Klaus hesitated.
Indeed, he needed no one's help. But the truth couldn't be denied and that was the fact that:
He was thirsty as fuck.
He was just about to take the flask when-
Crack!
A whip cracked in the air, and suddenly, Klaus felt a mind-blowing pain slam onto him -all at once- with such powerful force that he was sent tumbling once again, inadvertently pulling onto the chain and causing the short guy far behind him to curse once again.
From behind, hooves approached.
Step. Step.
Anarzel.
Klaus gritted his teeth, eyes burning with hatred.
Anarzel didn't even spare him a glance. Instead, he turned to the soldier, voice ice-cold.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The young soldier's face darkened. "I was just giving him some water."
"He will receive water with the rest of them once we camp!"
"But-"
"Shut your mouth! Do you even know who he's!"
"No."
"Better. Let's keep it that way. And you lot will do yourself good to stay away from him!"
Anarzel snapped, his voice directed at the slaves below.
The young soldier looked at Klaus and then with a light sigh, he reattached the flask to his belt.
"Don't let me catch you making friends with slaves again. Or next time, it will be your back tasting my whip!"
As if to illustrate his "grand" intentions, Anarzel cracked his whip in the air and rode past them. But not without throwing Roselle one last warning glare.
You won't have any chance of escaping Roselle. You won't… That, I'll and have to make sure of.
Klaus watched him go, his gaze dark with un-hidden malice.
"Anarzel..."
The name left his lips in a whisper- yet it carried the chilling weight of death itself.
The traitor would regret everything.
His fists tightened until his nails bit into flesh, warm blood seeping between his fingers.
"Even if it's the last thing I do," he vowed, his grip on the shackles tightening, until-
Drip...!
Drip...!
Blood trickled down his palm, staining the frozen chains a bright red.