"I swear, we'll turn as black as coal if this heat keeps up!"
Under the blistering sun, two soldiers lounged at a small wooden table, their skin slick with sweat as they nursed cups of wine. Strands of damp hair clung to their foreheads, glistening in the harsh light.
The one who spoke had a mane of wild, bushy hair that framed his face like an untamed beast's, yet his grin never seemed to fade, especially in the company of friends.
"Well, we'll certainly look like them," his companion replied dryly. "Perhaps that's the secret to the savages' skin, endless roasting under this damned sun."
The two broke into a deep laugh, their minds briefly entertained by the image of themselves as sun-baked natives of this foreign land.
"I just hope we can score at least six silverii this time," the younger one said, wiping sweat from his brow. "That might make this heat worth it."
"Six silverii?" The older soldier snorted, glancing at the wine. "Knowing you, they'll be gone in less than a week."
An officer passed by, casting a brief glance in their direction before hurrying on. Normally such lax behavior would draw sharp reprimands, but these men weren't ordinary foot soldiers. They were clibanarii—the empire's elite, thunderous heavy cavalry whose charges could shatter entire infantry lines.
That rank afforded them a certain immunity. Many were second or third sons of low-born nobles, seeking glory to raise their families' standing. Officers, mindful of the trouble such men could cause, preferred to look the other way. Not all, however, carried noble blood.
The younger soldier leaned closer, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Oh? And why's that? Six silverii is no small sum."
"We both know why," the older one said with a teasing smirk. "Walk into any brothel in Romelia and you'd find a portrait of you hanging on the wall. You're practically their patron saint. If you ever took a wife, I swear the whores would march from Romelia to Salikka in protest."
"Good thing I'm not, then!" the younger man laughed, draining his cup. "But what about you? Never seen you swinging your cock around."
"I'd rather bring back one of the local girls," the older man replied with a wolfish grin. "Far better than throwing a sack of coins at a whore. Don't you think?" He gave his comrade a playful nudge.
"Ha! Maybe you'd rather bed a lump of coal. I'd sooner spill my seed on the ground than waste it on those... things. Can they even be called people?"
"That's the point," the older soldier said, still grinning. "The men have their brute strength, the women their beds. What else are they good for?"
Such talks, while unthinkable to voice so openly back on Earth, were here spoken without restraint. They were exchanged in public as casually as one might speak about the weather, so ingrained in their worldview that a foreigner would struggle to grasp what the problem even was.
Among these men, the belief in their own civilization's superiority over every other race and culture was not an opinion but a fact. The people of Arlania, who shared the same deep hue as those of the Sultanate of Azania, the empire's old and bitter rival, suffered all the more for it.
In their eyes, such people were savages, useful only when dead or enslaved.
The soldier drained the last swallow of wine from his cup, smacked his lips, and reached for the clay vessel sitting on the table. When he found it empty, his brow furrowed with annoyance. Without hesitation, he turned toward a nearby slave and barked for him to come closer.
Alpheo obeyed immediately, keeping his gaze low as he approached, getting ready for the stunt he was soon to pull and the punches it would earn him.
The soldier extended his hand expectantly, ready to take the vessel. Alpheo moved to place it in his palm, but his fingers faltered for just a fraction of a second. The pottery slipped, tumbled, and shattered upon the packed earth in a sharp, dry crack.
The man rose from his seat with the ease of someone who knew violence well and delivered a backhand that sent Alpheo sprawling to the ground. His cheek burned, and his vision swam for a moment.
Seems like that pottery was worth more than me, he thought bitterly.
He scrambled to his knees, gathering the broken shards with hurried, clumsy motions. Another kick caught him in the side, knocking the breath from his lungs.
"I apologize, sir. I will clean it up immediately," Alpheo said, forcing a tremor into his voice and trying to make himself small, insignificant, forgettable. The rage deep in his chest was buried so far beneath his expression that it might as well have been ashes under a frozen lake.
"Get it cleaned up quickly and bring another one. We are thirsty," the older soldier barked, already motioning for his comrade to sit back down. The younger man obeyed without so much as a glance at Alpheo, his laughter resuming as though the interruption had been nothing more than a gnat in his ear.
In their eyes, he was not a man. He was a tool, and no tool deserved more attention than what was required to use it.
Alpheo kept his head bowed, moving with the meek precision of someone who knew that hesitation would only bring further punishment. As he gathered the last shards, he slipped one small, sharp piece into his mouth, pressing it against the inside of his cheek. Neither man noticed; their wine-clouded eyes were too busy scanning the camp for the next amusement.
Drunk bastards, he thought as he rose.
With the ground cleared, Alpheo made for the supply carriage. It was his job to run goods from one corner of the camp to another, sacks of grain or potatoes slung over his shoulders. The work was degrading, but it was still better than the alternative.
If he had been stronger, they would have chained him as a carrier, one of the beasts of burden forced to haul wagons, siege equipment, or stone until their bodies broke. He had seen the carriers often enough. They moved like shadows, their frames withered and gaunt, their eyes dull and glassy. Whatever spark of life they once possessed had long been crushed beneath the weight of endless labor and starvation.
Alpheo was not like them.
His eyes still burned. He had no intention of letting the yoke sink into his flesh. He would feign weakness, play the part of the beaten slave, but deep down, he clung to the same unyielding truth: he would rather shatter than bend.
The thought of dying as a slave was intolerable. He had known freedom, lived it, breathed it, and the memory of it kept his heart from rotting. Even in hunger, even in pain, he carried that dream with him.
And now, at last, the dream no longer seemed so far.
Fate, which had so often mocked him, appeared ready to extend its hand. That small shard of pottery pressed against his cheek was more than a piece of broken clay. It was a key. A key to something greater, to the life he had always believed he deserved.
The wine-soaked laughter of the soldiers faded behind him as he walked, and in his mind, he saw not the camp, not the dust under his feet, but the shape of a future he meant to seize.