Third POV
Morning in the slave camp began the same way it always did — with the bark of the guards and the sound of chains.
Slaves shuffled into the open yard, their eyes down, their shoulders bent under the invisible weight of years. Elias stood among them, hands bound in the same crude rope as everyone else, though the fibers barely bit into his wrists anymore.
But today… the air felt wrong.
The guards weren't herding them toward work. They were clearing the center of the yard.
A man — one of the older slaves, nameless to most — was dragged out by two disciples. His knees scraped along the dirt, leaving streaks of red in his wake. He wasn't resisting. He didn't even look confused. Just tired.
The lead disciple smirked, voice carrying over the yard.
"Some of you are getting too comfortable. Forgetting your place. Today, you remember."
First POV
I didn't know his name.
I'd seen him before — quiet, thin, with a limp in his left leg — but we'd never spoken.
And I knew he hadn't done anything.
He wasn't the type to talk back. Wasn't the type to steal food. Wasn't the type to even look at the guards wrong.
They didn't care.
The first strike landed with a wet crack.
He fell forward into the dirt. The second blow made him cough blood.
Third POV
The disciples used rods of polished iron — heavy, flexible enough to sting, but hard enough to break bone if swung right.
The man didn't cry out. Not at first. But by the third blow, the sound tore from him in a raw, ragged scream that silenced even the usual mutters among the slaves.
First POV
I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth.
They didn't care about discipline. This wasn't punishment. This was theatre. A message. We own you. Your lives are ours to break.
I took a step forward before I realized it. My nails dug into my palms. The iron rods flashed again, and the sound made my vision blur.
Third POV
A heavy hand caught his shoulder.
Garon.
The blacksmith's grip was unyielding, the same callused strength that had hammered steel for decades. His voice was low enough that only Elias could hear.
"Don't. Not for him. Not today."
First POV
I froze.
Not because I wanted to. Not because I agreed.
Because I knew he was right.
If I stepped in now, it wouldn't just be me they beat. It would be Sam. Lydia. Tarek. Everyone even near me.
But gods, it burned. Every strike was a coal pressed against my ribs.
Third POV
The punishment went on far longer than necessary. By the time the disciples dropped the rods, the man's breathing was shallow, his body limp. Blood soaked the dirt beneath him, the dark stain spreading slow.
The guards didn't even bother carrying him away. They left him there, a broken reminder.
First POV
I didn't look away.
If I couldn't stop it, I'd burn it into my memory. Every smirk. Every blow. Every drop of blood.
Because one day — maybe not soon, maybe not for years — they'd pay for it.
Third POV
That night, the man still breathed. Barely. His eyes fluttered open once, unfocused, before closing again. No one spoke. No one dared.
But in the silence, there was something new. Not defiance — not yet — but the faint, bitter spark of it.
First POV
I lay awake long after the camp had gone quiet.
The Iron Root Method pulsed faintly in my bones, a steady reminder of what I'd gained. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
Tonight had proven it — strength without freedom was just another chain.
And I was going to break mine.