Slavery

Three months had passed since the day of the betrayal of those wretches and since I was taken by Oliver to a slave lodging. Three months since my life stopped being mine.

The slave lodging was located on the outskirts of Argarill, next to a small farm where we were forced to work every day. The place was surrounded by tall wooden fences, armed guards watched the entrance, and any attempt to escape was punished severely.

I woke up before sunrise. After the first sound of the horn, all the slaves were gathered in the courtyard.

It was during this time that I discovered that other races lived in this world. There were demi-humans with long ears like elves, men with furry tails, women with feline eyes, and even some with horns or scales scattered across their bodies. All of them, like me, bore marks on their foreheads that were the symbols of slavery.

At first, I observed them in silence, with the arrogance of someone who had once been called a “hero.” But soon I understood that we were all in the same condition. I saw a demi-human boy whipped until he collapsed unconscious just because he took too long to lift a sack of wheat. I saw a woman with fox ears forced to serve wine to the guards while swallowing her tears of humiliation. I saw an old man with ashen skin dragged by the neck into the stable, just because he coughed during inspection. And I saw Oliver smile in all those situations.

He appeared in the lodging almost every day, not only as master but also as executioner. He liked to test his slaves, invent punishments, measure our endurance. The whip was his tongue, and the silence he imposed was his law. Yet there were moments when he treated us as valuable merchandise, because that was what we were to him.

— If you die, I lose money. — Oliver would say coldly.

Then eat, so you can keep working. — he would add, while distributing pieces of hard bread and shallow bowls of watery soup.

Daily life was a repetitive cycle. Morning was for working on the plantation, plowing the land, harvesting wheat, and taking care of the animals. Afternoon was for repairs in the lodging or transporting goods for the guards. Night was returning to the collective cell, sharing dirty straw with other slaves, and waiting for the next day. I, who once wielded swords against boars and dreamed of saving the world, now carried feed sacks and pulled plows like an animal.

But it wasn’t just the body that suffered. The worst was the weight on the mind. The blue mark pulsed whenever I considered raising my hand against Oliver. It was like an invisible chain tightening around my heart, reminding me that I could not attack him directly. He knew this. That’s why he liked to approach, press the tip of the whip against my chin, and smile with that look of disdain.

— You once had the eyes of a warrior. Now you have the eyes of a dog. Good sign. Dogs obey. — Oliver mocked.

Every word was a blow to my dignity. But I did not react. I pretended to obey, pretended to stay silent, pretended to accept. And inside me, a hatred stronger than any pain kept feeding itself.

The nights were the worst. Lying on the straw, listening to the sobs of other slaves, I stared at the dark ceiling and repeated to myself the names of Yukiko, Ayano, Masahiko, Margarida, Oliver. The names were carved into the fire of my mind. They all humiliated me and they would all pay.

Over time, some of the other slaves began to approach me. An old elf named Ryn told me he had been captured decades ago, sold countless times, and that he no longer believed in freedom. A feline girl named Kaela, who is fifteen, shared pieces of bread with me whenever she thought I was about to faint.

They didn’t know who I really was. To them, I was just another human broken by the slavery system. And maybe it was better that way.

But deep down, I knew: I was not broken. I was only waiting.

Three months of pain, humiliation, and forced labor had not erased my desire. On the contrary: they tempered it, made it sharper.

I was no longer just Araya, the forgotten hero.

I was Araya, the slave who planned revenge.

And the first on my list was Oliver.

For weeks I observed Oliver’s patterns, his schedules, the men he chose, how he liked them to serve wine or remain silent while he drank in the back room. There was humiliation in the ritual, but there was also routine, and routine also meant opportunity.

Oliver liked control. He liked to come close under the excuse of “comfort” and to have someone to talk to until late at night. He liked to call men from the cell and bring them to his room. I always refused. Each refusal brought lashes. Each lash taught me to look at pain as fuel. Now I would turn that rule against the man who created it.

On the morning I decided to act, the sun had not yet touched the plain. I worked slowly, as always, carrying sacks, fixing fences, speaking little. In the back of my mind the plan was looping: be chosen; get close enough to touch, copy the ability, use the ability against him.

When the horn announced the end of the day, the slaves were pushed into the cells. The doors closed with creaks. There was a smell of smoke and damp hay in the air. I was one of the last to lie down, pretending to sleep, listening to every step in the corridor. I heard Oliver’s boots long before I saw him, he always came accompanied by the sound of leather and metal.

A few hours later, I heard the call. Oliver’s voice was as sarcastic as ever:

— Tonight I want someone new. Who suits my taste? — he provoked, already laughing before even looking at us.

The others stepped back, glancing at each other. Some trembled. Then I stood up.

The silence that fell over the cell when I volunteered was so dense that I felt the air grow heavy. Ryn muttered something like “don’t go,” Kaela held onto my sleeve as if she could stop me with her touch. I only gave the slightest nod. Nothing that seemed definitive. I had to do it in a way that he would think I was finally being submissive to him.

Oliver came with his long smile, those arched eyebrows that meant he was amused. He mocked me quietly as he pulled me by the chain into the corridor, his guards making way.

Walking through the corridor was like crossing the chest of a sleeping lion, every step echoed, every inch brought me closer to the point of no return. I passed doors with small windows, torches crackling. I pretended with my gaze, but inside me I was full of hatred, and tonight my revenge against Oliver would begin.