In a dense forest, along a path of dirt and mud, wooden wheels left deep grooves in the ground as the sound of horse hooves echoed among the trees. Harsh conversations between mercenaries surrounded a large wagon. This wagon was reinforced with heavy iron bars that stretched up to its weathered wooden roof.
Inside the wagon, chained people sat huddled together. Most cried silently, their eyes consumed by fear and despair. Women, long broken, bore bruised bodies and hollow stares, drowning in hopelessness. Men, once strong, were now shadows of their former selves—emaciated and wasting away. And the children, who once laughed and played, now clung desperately to their parents' arms, seeking a comfort that never came.
Among them, one boy stood out. His lost gaze seemed to pierce through the surroundings, void of any trace of life. His long, disheveled hair partially covered his face, but his expression was unmistakable. He did not cry or scream like the others; it was as if he had already abandoned the world around him. Only the tears running down his pale face served as a reminder of his miserable existence.
The mercenaries around the wagon laughed and spoke loudly, utterly indifferent to the suffering of the slaves.
"We should get rid of the men. They won't sell well; they're weak and ugly," remarked the tallest of them, a rough-looking man, as he tossed a few loaves of bread into the wagon. The food, insufficient even for six people, was thrown in without any care. His eyes betrayed no compassion or empathy for the chained captives.
Like starving dogs, the slaves—nearly two dozen of them—lunged for the bread, fighting for a piece of sustenance. Even the boy, previously lost in a trance, stirred and reached out for a piece.
At just seven years old, he tried to move, but the chains binding his legs to the other slaves restricted his movements. Still, he pushed forward, only to be shoved back by the desperate men, slamming hard against the wagon's iron bars.
"Ughhh!" he cried out, pain shooting through his frail body. The food never reached his hands.
The old merchant, dressed in ornate clothing and seated at the front of the wagon, glanced briefly at the rough mercenary and remarked, "We'll try to sell a few in the next town. The rest, we dispose of."
The Boy's Point of View
My body aches. It aches from the violence of my capture and from the way the other slaves treat me. I have no one. I have no one left.
I sit back down, giving up on trying to grab a piece of bread. My chained legs stretch toward a nearby child. His mother shares a piece of the bread with him, feeding him as best she can.
I watch them, envy consuming me. I feel anger. Hatred. I quickly avert my gaze, resting my forehead on my knees. I try to ignore the hunger gnawing at my stomach. I try to ignore the emotions welling up inside me. But most of all, I try to ignore the hatred.
Hatred for my misery. Hatred for my helplessness. Hatred for everything I've endured.
Before I realize it, tears stream down my face. Sobs escape my mouth. I remember everything. The screams. The pain. My family. And their end.
I break down. My face twists in overwhelming anguish. My sobs sound like small cries of despair, while tears pour uncontrollably down my flushed face.
"Shut up, you brat!"
I feel a harsh yank on my hair, followed by my head slamming against the wagon's iron bars. A sharp pain shoots through the back of my head, and I feel a wound open. Blood begins to trickle.
I stop. My body trembles, but I stifle the sobs. My trance shatters, leaving only the pain.
I bring a hand to the back of my head, touching the warm liquid that flows down. I pull it back in front of my eyes.
"Blood…" I murmur, staring at the vivid crimson in my palm.
I feel weak. My body collapses, and I fall onto the filthy floor of the wagon. My vision begins to blur, darkness creeping in until it consumes me entirely.