The pale glow of moonlight crept through the cracks in their cell, further pointing out the awkward silence present in there.
"Hey, Jarza, has he finally lost it? I think he has." Clio muttered, leaning conspiratorially toward his companion, his voice just above a whisper.
Jarza didn't answer. He simply stared , long and hard, at Alpheo, his expression a mix of pity and disbelief, like he was gazing at a lunatic spinning out of control.
As for Alpheo? He didn't even blink. Those stares might as well have been gusts of wind against a stone.
"Take control of the camp? Are you serious? Out of your godsdamned mind, more like.Do you live in your own world?" Egil scoffed, his voice dripping with the sarcasm of a man who had seen and heard enough stupidity for one lifetime in one conversation.
"I've never been saner," Alpheo replied, popping another piece of the so-called "bread" into his mouth.
It felt like gravel and made him want to puke.
"Hunger's messed with your head, Alph," Egil said, shaking his own. "Here, take mine." He extended another piece of the dry rations with a look that was neither kind nor cruel.
When Alpheo didn't even glance at it, Egil threw his hands up and the piece in his mouth. "Fine. But listen , charging in headfirst? That's how you end up swinging from the gallows."
"That's for criminals," Clio cut in with a smirk. "Not slaves."
"Then we'll just get our heads lopped off instead," Egil shot back. "Better? No? Thought so."
Alpheo sighed, his patience thinning. "Do none of you see what I'm talking about?" His smile cracked, faltered. He looked from face to face, searching for something, hope, understanding, anything. All he found were blank stares.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath, straightening his back. "Let's do this."
He turned sharply to Jarza, his eyes locking on the older man with the intensity of a sword tip at his throat. "How long have you been a slave?"
Jarza's eyes narrowed. His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to cut. "Six years. Three of them right here in this hellhole."
Alpheo's gaze shifted to the others. "And you two?"
Clio and Egil exchanged an awkward look, suddenly very interested in the floor. Before they could answer, Alpheo waved them off, a sad, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"No need," he said quietly. "I already know."
"Alright, what is this?" Egil snapped, frustration boiling over. "Some kinda speech? You think you're gonna rally our hearts with talk of freedom and glory? I trust you, Alph, but I'm not throwing myself on a bonfire without a damn good reason. So give me one."
For a long moment, Alpheo said nothing. The cell was silent, save for the faint clink of chains and the distant howl of wind. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of ten years, he spoke.
"I've been a slave for ten years. Four of those, I spent marching with these bastards, side by side. And trust me, I'd give anything—anything—to slit their throats and shove their cocks where the sun doesn't shine while they sleep.
But you don't survive that long by being stupid." His voice darkened revealing the hate of a lifetime "You watch and learn their ways, their weaknesses, their patterns. And you bide your time."
As Alpheo spoke, his jaw tightened, barely containing his anger, though a sly smile danced on his lips. "I've watched them," he began, his voice low but sharp, "watched how they march, how they act during campaigns. And I've noticed something, a flaw. A glaring one. Something so stupid it's almost laughable." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the group like the calm before a storm.
When he saw that every pair of eyes was fixed on him, he raised a single finger and pointed to his bound hands.
"Before every battle, they do the same thing," he said, his voice rising with barely contained frustration. "They stuff us into cages. Bind our hands. They think we're nothing more than tools to pack away and retrieve later." His gaze swept across the group, daring them to deny it.
"And then," he continued, his voice darkening, "they leave barely a handful of men behind to guard the camp. It's routine, so routine it's predictable." His finger jabbed the air for emphasis. "That's the weak spot. We take them out first. Clean. Quiet.
If even one escapes and gets word to the emperor or one of those pompous lords, it's over. You hear me? Over."
He stepped forward, gesturing toward the dim surroundings of their cell. "This camp, this place, it holds everything they need. Food. Gold. Supplies.
We burn the food, and they starve. We cut off their access to the horses, and they're stranded." His words grew heavier, each syllable a blow to the chains weighing them down.
Alpheo stopped, letting the silence hang thick as his eyes bore into each of them. "We do this," he declared, his voice filled with an iron conviction, "and freedom is ours. Within our grasp.Do you realise the meaning of that?"
His gaze lingered on each of them, willing them to feel the fire in his words. One by one, the group swallowed nervously, their throats dry with fear and the faintest flicker of hope. What he was saying made a terrifying kind of sense. And if luck was on their side, just this once, maybe, just maybe, they could pull it off.
The mood shifted back to desperation, however, as their quiet man, who was also the one with the most experience in this land, finally spoke.
"There's a problem," he said, the words dark to what had been once light "We're on a campaign against Arlania, but our 'betters'..." He sneered the word, his lip curling in disdain. "...are as brave as rabbits and as honest as swindlers. If you're hoping for a battle, Alpheo, you'll be waiting for the sky to fall."
Alpheo's brow furrowed, but Jarza pressed on into the silence.
"Do you know how long it's been since anyone dared stand against Romelia? Or Azania? Decades. Entire generations have lived and died without seeing a real fight. If you're betting on battle to spark this rebellion, you'll be waiting another century."
He leaned forward searching the world to convey the thoughts of his people. "The throne of Arlania isn't a seat; it's a wheel. Every lord gets his turn on top, only to be crushed on the next rotation, backed by one empire or the other.
The average prince rules for three years, if he's lucky. You can't blame them. Our nobility would rather empty their coffers to bribe an invader than their armories to fight one. So your choice is simple: suck up to the empire of the hour, or pack your shit and flee. Don't count on a battle.You will remain disappointed"
Alpheo didn't reply at once. Instead, he stood still, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a knowing smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that hinted at secrets only he understood.
"Wrong," he said at last, his voice calm, almost amused. "There will be a battle. A big one , I can feel it . A bloody one.
And when it comes, we won't just watch from the sidelines like obedient slaves. We'll be ready." His smile sharpened into something dangerous. "We'll seize the moment. Jump on the ship before it sails, and when we will do?" He straightened, his voice rising to a fiery crescendo to hide the reality that he was speaking of was simply a hope and that really he had no idea if whatever he was talking about would really happen.
Still, hope was better than doom.
"We'll finally win our freedom."