I had once been a king—strong, respected, and feared—but now, I found myself far removed from that position, forced to endure the basest indignities.
I was, by all accounts, a fallen monarch—a prince, a ruler, a sovereign—now reduced to this.
This unholy stench of horse dung, piled high in front of me, felt like a personal affront, a cruel joke played by fate. As I stared at the mound, my heart twisted with frustration. There was a time when I commanded armies, when the fate of kingdoms rested in my hands. Now, I wrestled with this vile refuse as if it were my rightful duty.
"Move it along, filth!" barked an overseer, his whip cracking in the air. I flinched, my mind snapping back to the present moment, as I stepped away from the stinking heap. The line of slaves shuffled forward, moving like zombies bound to an unbreakable routine. But my eyes, my mind, were elsewhere. I watched them, the others—these broken souls who had long since given up hope.
Their eyes were empty. Lifeless. Lost. And yet, in my own chest, my heart still beat. I was still alive, and that made me dangerous.
For three days now, I had been subjected to the dehumanizing rituals of this hellish existence. The mornings began with the overseers parading us in front of them, inspecting us with a critical eye. They would prod at us, as if we were cattle, looking for any sign of weakness, any sign that one of us might not be fit to work. And woe to the unlucky soul who displayed such weakness.
I'd witnessed it myself—the first day. An elderly man, too frail to lift a pickaxe, had been dragged from the line. His protests had been weak and panicked, and the overseer had responded with a vicious kick, sending him to the ground. Without a second thought, the overseer had ordered a couple of guards to drag him away. I never saw the man again. It was a grim lesson—weakness meant death, and death meant you were gone from this place without ceremony.
Once the inspections were over, we were marched to the mines. The entrance loomed ahead, a yawning cavern that seemed to swallow all light and sound. The air inside was thick, hot, and stifling. We worked in silence, the rhythmic sound of pickaxes against stone the only noise that filled the air. The mine was vast—endless, even—and its walls were adorned with strange, glowing runes that pulsed with an eerie light. They weren't like anything I had ever seen before. In my past life, I had been well-versed in the arcane, surrounded by scholars and mages, but these runes were foreign to me. They whispered power—ancient, untapped power—and yet, I couldn't make sense of them.
What was the source of this power? Who had placed these runes here, and why?
I didn't have answers, but I knew one thing: these mines weren't just ordinary places of labor. There was something hidden beneath the surface. Something ancient.
But none of that mattered to the overseers. They didn't care for magic or knowledge. They cared for one thing—production. As long as we mined enough to satisfy the noble who owned this land, we were allowed to live another day.
The work was grueling, and by the time we emerged from the mines, our bodies were wrecked. Every muscle screamed in protest, every breath was labored. We were barely human anymore—just machines in the shape of men, reduced to carrying out tasks with no purpose beyond satisfying the whims of those in power.
Nightfall brought no reprieve. Instead of rest, we were assigned to night shifts. We shuffled back into the mines with broken torches, our bodies too tired to fight, but our minds still alert, still searching for something.
Something that would give us hope.
When the sun rose again the next day, the routine would repeat. Roll call. Inspection. Work in the mines. And then, we'd collapse into the pit once more, too exhausted to think, too beaten to care. The overseers would feast on the scraps they provided us, mocking us with their abundance. But we had nothing—no food, no dignity, no hope.
Except for one thing.
I wasn't like them. I wasn't like the others. I wasn't a nameless, faceless slave. I wasn't someone who could be forgotten, tossed aside, and replaced without a second thought.
I had been a king, once. I had known the power of a throne and the weight of leadership. And that power—that knowledge—was still inside me. The fire had not yet died.
My name was no longer the one I had once borne, though. It carried too much baggage, too many memories. The name I had once ruled under was no longer mine. But I needed a name—a new identity, a new beginning. And so, I had chosen one. Kendrin.
Kendrin meant rebirth in the old tongues. It was simple, strong, and unburdened by the past. It was the name that would define me in this new life.
And so, I had begun to speak it. Quietly, softly at first, but with enough conviction that it became a whisper, a murmur, a secret passed between us.
The others didn't quite understand. They were still too broken, too afraid to hope. But I could see it in their eyes—a flicker of interest, of curiosity. A spark. And that spark was all I needed.
By the third day, I had earned their trust—enough trust that I could start asking questions. About the overseers. About the layout of the mines. About the noble who owned this wretched place.
I learned much. The noble was a distant figure. None of the slaves had ever seen him. He was a specter, a shadow who never revealed himself in person. But his influence was undeniable. The overseers worked tirelessly to satisfy his demands, and we—his property—were expendable.
The estate that lay beyond the cliffs was his domain—a sprawling mansion that was more fortress than home. The overseers, too, lived there, separate from us. The slaves were kept in the pit, bound to the labor of the mines. And there were no options for escape. The cliffs that surrounded the pit made it nearly impossible to flee, and even if we somehow managed to get past them, we would have no place to go. The world outside was foreign, dangerous, and unknown.
Yet, I had learned of one thing that could change everything.
The noble was scheduled to visit the mines tomorrow.
The news had spread quickly among the slaves, whispered from one to another like wildfire. The overseers were more restless than usual, preparing for the visit with an almost feverish energy. They wanted to make sure everything was perfect for their master. They wanted to prove their worth.
To me, this was an opportunity. A chance.
A chance to escape, to learn, to see what lay beyond the walls of this pit.
The arrival of the noble meant distractions. The overseers would be preoccupied, too busy fawning over their master to notice one missing slave. I would use this opportunity to explore. To see what lay beyond the mines, beyond the estate.
And so, as the last embers of the fire flickered out, I sat alone, staring into the darkness. I could feel the tension in the air—thick, oppressive—and I knew this was it. Tomorrow, everything would change.
The question was: would I be ready? Would I seize the moment?
I would have to.
I had no choice.
Tomorrow, I would take the first step toward reclaiming my power.