At this hour, Mother would have finished preparing dinner, and I would already be setting the table, Alpheo thought as he watched the sun sink slowly toward its resting place. The warm light stretched long shadows across the camp, painting the dust in hues of gold and blood-red.
Memories crept into his mind , each one a fragile shard from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. They came from another world entirely, a world he had left behind fifteen years ago. He had many memories from that place, but one rose above the rest, haunting him in quiet moments like this.
Strangely it was not a bad one...
He was seated at the family's dining table, flanked by his brothers. Across from him, his parents smiled the way they always did when the day's work was done. At the head of the table stood his grandfather, a gentle man whose kindness had been as steady as the coming of the seasons.
Yet now, when Alpheo tried to picture his face, it came to him blurred, as if hidden behind a veil of mist.
The table itself had been heavy, carved from dark wood and polished to a shine. That night it was covered with more food than any family could eat in one sitting. Platters of roasted meat glistened with their own juices, bread still steaming from the oven lay torn and ready to be buttered, pasta swam in rich sauces, and bowls of mashed potatoes shone with pools of golden, melted butter. It must have been a special occasion, though Alpheo could not recall which.
Perhaps Christmas. Perhaps a birthday.
The details slipped away whenever he tried to recall them. The faces were both familiar and strange, their voices muffled like sounds underwater. Yet the smell and taste of the food lingered with crystal clarity. He remembered the crunch of bread between his teeth, the warmth of the potatoes, the richness of the meat.
Did that make him a bad son? To remember the meal more vividly than the faces of those who had given him life? His first parents had bathed him in love. His second ones had drenched him in cruelty. What kind of parents, he wondered, could sell their own child into slavery and still sleep at night?
At night, after long days of labor under the merciless eye of his master, he would drift into restless sleep, his belly empty, his body aching. In his dreams, he was free again. He saw himself slipping away under the cover of darkness, running until the air burned in his lungs. He saw himself standing before his old village, a torch in hand, setting his childhood home ablaze.
He imagined the fire roaring high into the night sky, consuming every trace of the life that had betrayed him. But with each dawn, those dreams dissolved like smoke, replaced by the unchanging truth: vengeance was a luxury he could not afford.
This evening was no different. His thoughts scattered like frightened birds at the sound of the same barked order he heard every night.
"SPEED UP! EACH TO HIS CELL!"
It was always the same voice, coarse and sharp, belonging to Menicus, the overseer. A gaunt man with a cruel mouth and a stick never far from his hand, he seemed to find joy in the act of punishment. Alpheo often wondered if Menicus loved anything more than the sound of his stick striking flesh.
Alpheo would not give him the satisfaction tonight. Keeping his head bowed, he moved quickly toward his cell. His bare feet made no sound on the packed dirt, and his eyes stayed fixed on the ground. To meet Menicus's gaze was to invite trouble, and trouble was something Alpheo could not afford, not when he had plans of his own.
Soon he reached his "cell." Calling it that was generous though. It was little more than four sticks lashed together with rope, the kind of thing a child might fashion as a playpen.
A determined man with a blade could cut himself free in seconds. But who would be so foolish? Beyond the bars, the watchmen's eyes were always sharp, and anyone caught slipping out was granted a fate far worse than the one inside.
In his early years with the army, there had always been some desperate soul foolish enough to try. The first time Alpheo witnessed it had been enough to swear him off any reckless escape.
The man had been small, silent, and strange, he never spoke a word to anyone, not once, no matter the circumstances. Perhaps his tongue had been cut out. Perhaps he simply had nothing left to say. But Alpheo had heard him scream. That day, when they broke his knees and left him to rot on the ground, he screamed until his voice gave out.
The heavy thunk of wood against wood echoed behind Alpheo as the guard shut him in.
The space inside was cramped, barely enough for one man to stretch out, let alone four. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, grime, and damp earth. And yet, as much as he loathed the smell, this was the part of the day Alpheo almost looked forward to. It was here, at least, that they could talk without fear of a sudden blow.
Apparently nothing brings people closer than pain, he thought as he turned toward his three companions: Jarza, Clio, and Egil. There were others he had befriended over the years, but many were gone now, dead, sold, or locked away in other cells.
"Another day in this hellhole wasted," Alpheo muttered, leaning back against one of the rough wooden bars. Then he added with a faint smile, "Though the night is certainly improved with your company."
Of all of them, he was the youngest. He liked to think he was also the quickest and sharpest. While he lacked the brute strength of the others, he made up for it with agility and cunning, and in his mind, he was the brains of their little group.
"Was today a successful catch?" a deep, gravelly voice asked, cutting through the low hum of the room.
It belonged to Jarza, the oldest of them all. Lines creased his dark, weathered face, yet he carried himself with a certain proud defiance. Arlanians had a reputation for aging well, and Jarza was living proof, even in his current state.
Like most low-born Arlanians, his skin was a deep, rich brown that gleamed faintly in the dim lamplight. He was entirely bald, save for an uneven patch of stubble clinging stubbornly to one side of his jaw. The effect was… less than dignified. He looked, Alpheo thought, like a dirty egg or perhaps a melted chocolate truffle left too long in the sun.
Jarza claimed not to know his exact age, though Alpheo suspected he was well into his forties. Even now, beneath the layers of exhaustion and hunger, the traces of a once-formidable fighter were clear. In his youth, Jarza had been a mercenary of some renown, and Alpheo knew that if he ever had to face him in battle, he would sooner piss himself than draw his weapon.
Not out of cowardice, though he was no Theseus, but because Jarza radiated the kind of danger that only comes from a lifetime of surviving brutal fights.
Four years ago, that danger had not saved him from slavery.
Ironically, it wasn't a battlefield defeat that landed him here. It was debt. Crushing, relentless debt. He had tried to stay ahead of his creditors, vanishing into distant cities and hiring himself to new companies before they could catch him. But they always found him.
On the day his luck finally gave out, they took him in broad daylight. No fight, no escape—just a man with empty pockets and an emptier future. At the slave auction, his broad shoulders and hardened frame fetched twelve silverii, a fair sum for a man of his build. Even now, after years of toil, those remnants of strength were still there, a shadow of the warrior he had once been.