Isaiah bore a wooden post across his back.
Rather, Eldracht did.
His feet mingled with a cushion of soft grass, skin fluttered against a subtle butterfly breeze. Stood on the edge of a tapering hill, Eldracht's eyes grazed over an orange countryside with sprouts of wildflowers and wind-eroded rocks.
From that panorama, he spotted a castle cast in sun rays split by jagged mountain crests. It was distinct from the rest of the land, constructed of nearly pure white stone and accented by a cathedral spire monumental and shaped like a snapped blade.
Eldracht wished he could brush the strands of fine, blonde hair out of his face. Further, he wished he could simply sit here for years.
But that was a pipe dream.
"Slave!" a gravelly voice roared, "Get your wretched ass back in line. The Baron don't take kindly to errant thralls."
No. Isaiah wasn't blessed in this reincarnation. He wasn't a hero granted unimaginable strength and wealth, nor an adventure carried on the whims of the wind.
Eldracht was a wretch.
Slowly, he spun around to face the caravan. They marched down a path squashed against dark woods, faces hung in despair and arm's strung outwards along wooden beams.
It was a wordless circumstance. The only noise derived from the crunch of gravel beneath their feet or pained groans. In Eldracht's stupor, he'd lost his place in the march, finding instead a scattered group of slaves haunting the tail end of the caravan.
Eldracht fell into the ritual. Heavy step with your left foot, heavy step with your right. Heavy inhale of humid air seeping from the heavy breaths of broken men. Hang your heavy head and readjust that beam, ever heavy across your back.
That was the ritual he'd learned, at least. Eldracht hadn't been in Adergost for longer than a few hours, though he wasn't counting.
'Prepare to suffer for your punishments against God.' Damn it. Damn it! Why did I have to lie to some stupid 'god'? What could this fucking Declan have done to deserve this?
Before he knew it, tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. He wasn't graced with a chance to come to terms with his death in that void, wasn't given a chance to truly think about what kind of burden reincarnation could come with.
What he'd wanted was a system. S-rank magic. An academy arc.
"Are you crying?" somebody said.
The words jolted Eldracht awake. He looked up, and to his side a man walked in stride. His hair was black as the void, too-well kept for a slave and with bangs that framed piercing eyes.
"Don't cry." the man introduced, words trickling off his tongue like river water.
For a second, Eldracht felt charmed.
"Oh. Thank—"
"For if you cry, the slavers will laugh. Get pegged as weak by a slaver? They will take joy in making you suffer."
Oh, fuck you.
He smiled. "My name is Etski. See that man up there?"
Eldracht instinctually looked ahead. Like a street dog, a man lumbered alone ahead. His body skinny enough to contour his bones and balder than a sphynx, but still, he had a worker's muscles. And unlike all the other slaves, that man carried two full hemp bags on either end of his beam.
"That's Skeiv. Did you know that he has been a slave for eight years?"
Eight... eight years. I don't want to be a slave for eight years.
Etski continued. "Indeed. And the only one of us still carrying their belongings. No one has ever found out what they are."
As much as Eldracht desperately wanted not to talk to the man—and instead, continue to march in silence to tackle all of his thoughts—Etski held a certain charm that Eldracht couldn't pin. Perhaps it was that smile that contradicted the expressions of every other slave.
"But what do I know?" Etski beamed, "I have only been a slave for a week!"
Eldracht held his tongue. He couldn't really think about a response. That was a weakness in his past life: he was too consumed by his own thoughts to hold a steady conversation.
"Hey. Do you know what a Vyeik is?"
Suddenly, Eldracht was interested. He didn't know why. But bubbling up in his chest was a desire to speak. And then, without thinking, he did.
"No, but I would love to."
What?
"I apologize Etski, I'm new to these lands. All the Tvechky terms are difficult for me to understand."
Tvechky? What is a Tvechky?
Now, Eldracht was saying things he wasn't thinking about saying, and words he didn't even know existed. Indeed, Etski held a charm—but it wasn't right. No, none of this was right.
"I'm sorry, I- I think I need a mome-"
"No worries at all, Eldracht. You see that keep?"
Without intending to, Eldracht's head turned and faced the castle he'd been eyeing earlier.
"I do."
"That is where we are headed. It is the keep of the Blood-drunk Baron. You see, most believe that Bar'owaer is a Vampyr who will harvest us for blood..."
Etski smiled.
"...but I know more than these fools. No, we are going to Bar'owaer's Keep as human shields. Fodder. Because, Eldracht, Bar'owaer is dealing with a Vyeik problem."
Again, Eldracht's head turned on its own. But this time, he looked into the woods.
"There could be a Vyeik in there right now. No—"
"—There is a Vyeik in there. And she is looking at you."