The barracks are still half-asleep when the morning begins to stir. The air is heavy with the stale scent of sweat, smoke, and iron—familiar to every soldier who wakes under discipline and exhaustion. The first rays of dawn creep reluctantly through the gaps in the wooden shutters, thin lines of gold cutting across the cold stone floor. Somewhere beyond the walls, a rooster cries, its sound faint, drowned beneath the deep breathing of men still clinging to the last fragments of dreamless sleep.
Aldo doesn't dream anymore. His body sleeps, but his mind remains half awake—listening to boots shuffling, armor clinking, the distant hum of the teleportation gate as it powers down for the day. He stirs slightly, pulling the coarse blanket higher, when a sharp impact crashes into his side. A boot. The officer's boot.
The world jerks back into motion. Aldo blinks hard, gasping quietly as his hand instinctively reaches for the knife beneath his pillow—but before he can move further, a bag lands on his chest with a dull metallic clink.
The officer stands over him, eyes half-lidded, holding a small stack of papers. His face looks as though he hasn't slept in three days; unshaven, irritated, the kind of fatigue that replaces humanity with routine. "Up, Sergeant," he says flatly. "No—Master Sergeant now. Congratulations."
Aldo sits up slowly, brushing sleep and dust from his tunic. The officer tosses another object onto the bed—a medal glinting faintly in the dim light. Pure silver, shaped like a hexagonal star, its surface engraved with the emblem of the Heilop Palantine Army. Then comes a folded piece of paper and a small leather pouch that jingles when it lands.
"That's your pay, your commendation, and your leave certificate. Three days off." The officer scratches at his chin, already glancing toward the other bunks. "Do what you want with it—show off to the ladies, sell it to the pawn shops, melt it for whatever. Mikhland doesn't care anyway."
His tone is neither kind nor cruel. Just empty. Functional. Like a man speaking to a cog in a machine that has to keep turning.
Aldo looks down at the medal. His face doesn't change, but his fingers linger on the edge of the silver as if weighing it against something invisible. He pockets it quietly, glances at the certificate, and folds it once, twice, until it fits neatly into his shirt.
The officer moves down the line, repeating the same brutal ritual with each of Aldo's team. He kicks them awake, tosses them their rewards like tossing bread to beggars. The men stir with groans and confused murmurs—one curses, another laughs bitterly, a few just blink in silence as the reality of "honor" sinks in. Their medals aren't as polished as Aldo's—bronze instead of silver—but they still gleam faintly under the flickering torchlight.
Before leaving, the officer turns back to Aldo, his expression unreadable. "The Lieutenant Colonel wanted me to tell you—your abilities are… fine. Leadership's not bad. But you lack management and logistics sense." He smirks faintly, perhaps amused, perhaps mocking, and slams the door behind him with a bang that rattles the wooden beams.
For a few seconds, there's silence: thick, groggy silence. Then, barely a minute later, there's the sound of boots again. The door creaks open, and a folded notice slips through the slot, sliding across the floor like a whisper of bad news. Aldo picks it up, unfolds it, scans it quickly. The print is dense, formal, bureaucratic—the kind of writing that hides real meaning under a mountain of words. His brows knit slightly.
Bojing, lying on his bunk and rubbing his eyes, notices. "What's that?" he mumbles. "A promotion letter or something?"
Aldo tosses the paper onto the table. "A notice," he replies, voice low. "The Earthling Slave Army's being restructured. Regular forces too. We're to rest until the Federal Parliament sends new orders. Coordination, retraining, restoration. The usual nonsense."
Bojing drags himself upright, yawning. "Let me see." He snatches the paper, squints at it for a few seconds, his expression crumpling in confusion as the paragraphs stretch endlessly before his eyes. "Too long," he mutters, handing it back. "Not reading that."
Aldo's eyes drift further down the text, his gaze tightening as the words shift from formality to restriction. ['Movement regulation: Slave-soldiers are prohibited from traveling outside Polih City and its surrounding towns. Unauthorized entry into forests, countrysides, or beyond the Heilop Palantine's border is forbidden unless sanctioned by the Federal Parliament or granted by Palanton Heilop himself.']
He exhales through his nose, quietly, the sigh barely audible.
Bojing notices and leans over. "What's it say now, chumb ?"
Aldo's tone is dry, mechanical, as though his mouth simply relays the text. "Slave-soldiers are confined to the city and surrounding towns. No countryside, no forests, no leaving without permission from the Palanton or the Federal Congress."
Bojing's grin fades into a grimace. "So… we're free to rest, but not free to move."
"Yes."
He looks at Aldo, eyes half amused, half defeated. "And what's a Palanton anyway? Is it Palestine ? Paladin ?"
Aldo's voice turns hollow, monotone, like a machine reading a history book. "Mikhland is a federation of forty states. Each one ruled by a Palantine—effectively a kingdom, except the nobles don't call themselves kings or queens. They call themselves Palanton, to show humility toward the Tri-Monarch. Symbolic power, ceremonial authority, practical control."
Bojing stares at him for a moment, expression flat, then forces a crooked smile. "Thanks, robot chumb." He flops back onto his cot and pulls the blanket over his head. "Wake me when freedom's real again."
Aldo doesn't answer. The silence stretches again, filled only by the faint creak of beds and distant birds outside. The air smells faintly of oil and burnt tobacco.
He rises quietly, slides the door open, and steps outside. The chill of dawn wraps around him like a second skin. The air is sharp, fresh, the kind that fills the lungs with ache and clarity at the same time. He closes the door softly behind him and walks down the gravel path between barracks.
The horizon is still dim, a pale silver-blue just beginning to melt into gold. Fog drifts low over the fields beyond the barracks fence, veiling the rice stalks in a soft haze. The smell of wet earth clings to everything: the scent of survival. Somewhere, a bell tolls faintly from the city, its sound carried thinly by the morning wind.
Aldo stops near a fence post, rests one hand on the cold wood. His breath fogs in front of him. [Three days off, but no place to go. Three days to think, but about what ? The Swede's words echo again. "May you always be healthy and happy because you deserve to be." What did he see in me to say that? Or was it pity like blessing a dying dog?]
He lifts the silver medal from his pocket, turns it in his palm. The engraved sigil of the slave-farmer girl sleeping on the field catches the first light of sunrise, and for a brief moment it glows like fire. His reflection warps in the curved metal: a boy's face, not a hero's. His eyes are still the same, sharp but weary, too old for fourteen.
Aldo slips the medal back into his pocket.
The barracks behind him begin to stir. Doors open. Voices rise, boys laughing, cursing, arguing about how to spend their leave. Someone starts humming a song from Earth, the words broken by accent and fatigue. The sound feels both close and impossibly far. Aldo keeps walking until the gravel turns to dirt, until he reaches the edge of the field where the grass is wet with dew. The sky is clearer now, streaks of orange slicing through the fading mist. He breathes deeply. The world feels still. Yet under that calm, something trembles…a quiet restlessness that no medal, no leave, no rank can quiet. He stares out toward the distant forest, its dark outline against the dawn like the edge of a secret he's not yet ready to touch.
[Three days...] He thinks, hands in pockets, the faint weight of the medal pressing against his palm. [Three days to be something more than a slave pretending to be a soldier.]
And as the sun rises higher, the first true warmth of morning touches his face—but his eyes remain cold, watching the horizon like a man searching for a path that doesn't yet exist.
The first rays of daylight slip over the rooftops of Polih City like a slow, deliberate unveiling, washing the stone streets and wooden beams in a pale gold that softens nothing yet reveals everything. Aldo stands just outside the barracks, breathing in the crisp morning air. The light catches on the edges of his hair, outlining him in a faint halo that contrasts with the dull fatigue still lingering under his eyes. He lowers his gaze to the ten silver coins in his palm. Cold, smooth and identical, small pieces of metal that somehow represent three days of freedom, three days of uncertainty, three days to be something other than a cog in someone else's war.
He turns one coin between his fingers, then holds it up. Sunlight filters cleanly through the thin edges, creating a sharp gleam that flashes back into his eyes. [Ten coins. If I were anyone else, that might be enough to wander, enough to indulge, enough to forget. But for a slave-soldier… food, clothes, shelter, ammunition: it's all provided, but barely. This money can't buy a decent weapon. Can't buy security. Can't buy escape.] His grip tightens slightly. The coin presses against his skin, leaving a faint imprint.
For a moment, he toys with the ridiculous thought of buying candy. Snacks. Childhood things. Something sweet enough to distract the mind for a few seconds. But he stops himself with a hollow, almost amused breath. [I don't even know what "snacks" look like here. I don't know what children eat in Heilop. I don't even know what children do in a place where summoning circles scrape their names from their birth certificates.] His lips twist into a faint, self-deprecating smile, the kind that vanishes as soon as it forms.
He pockets the coins and begins walking toward Polihland—the capital city of the Palantine Heilop—its towers visible beyond the early fog. The road from the barracks winds gently downhill, bordered by stone walls covered in moss and morning dew. Workers move quietly along the streets, sweeping away dust, lighting lamps, opening shop shutters. There's a kind of rhythm to the city's awakening, a steady, methodical pulse that feels both safe and suffocating.
Polihland is clean. Too clean. Sanitation crews scrub the roads; the drains run clear; the buildings stand tall with sharp lines and early medieval Anglo-Saxon silhouettes with pointed gables, timber frames, ornate pillars carved with symbols of Unity, Dominion, and Faith. It is a city polished for visitors, for nobles, for appearances.
Aldo navigates through the bustling early market, stopping occasionally to ask for directions in his stiff but clear Mikhlish. He keeps his posture straight, voice neutral, gestures minimal. People answer more quickly when they sense a disciplined, obedient slave-soldier. Eventually, he reaches a bank with high arched windows and a heavy bronze door that swings open with a dull groan.
Inside, clerks sit behind polished counters, their quills scratching neatly over parchment. A faint scent of ink and incense hangs in the air. Aldo approaches one of them and pulls out six silver coins. He places three pairs on the counter, each with a small nod. "I'd like to pay for three information adventures. Kraken hunting. Dragon hunting. Witch hunting."
The banker, a thin man with a pointed beard and gold-framed glasses, accepts the coins and writes the request with swift, precise strokes. He informs Aldo the results will arrive in "two weeks to one month, depending on risk-category and distance."
Aldo nods, turns, and begins to leave—but something catches his eye. The symbol above the bank's entrance. A six-pointed star inside a circle. A symbol he thought he'd never see again. He stops in place, breath catches, eyes widening.
He steps back outside and stares at the sign. A citizen passing by notices his expression.
"You're not from here, are you?"
Aldo shakes his head. "The sign…"
The citizen laughs softly. "That's a Jewish bank. It belongs to the folks from Chadash Jerusalem. It's part of a legal settlement for Freed Citizens, they moved here decades ago and have been running things ever since. Pretty tight-knit community, actually.", Aldo blinks. The memory of the officer's words flickers through his mind…Citizenship for Earthlings. Something that felt like a distant rumor suddenly gains weight, texture, proof.
The citizen continues casually, adjusting a basket on his hip. "Chadash Jerusalem's over in Palantine Savatier, right next to Heilop. It's a pretty big financial center, actually, those smart people, really organized, and they stick together. Every few days they gather money, mostly for these manumission funds that, well… kind of cleverly help free more of their own. Gotta admit, it's impressive how they manage it all."
Aldo stands still for a long moment, watching the morning crowd move past him. [Even after being summoned, stripped from their lives, their world… they stay united. They rebuild, and they thrive…]
A faint heat stirs in his chest—not anger, not envy, but something caught between admiration and bitterness. [If Earthlings can become citizens here… then maybe… there's a path. Not yet. Not for me. But someday. I will go for it.]
He walks on, letting the crowd swallow him.
As he moves further into the city, he begins noticing the soldiers. Not the polished ones guarding noble gates or patrolling the clean districts—but a different group entirely. A handful of native soldiers slumped against a stone wall, their armor dented, uniforms torn, faces drawn with fatigue. Dark circles bruise their eyes; their clothes are dirt-stained, frayed; some have makeshift bandages wrapped around their arms or foreheads.
They look like they've returned from hell.
Aldo slows his pace, observing them carefully. Their insignias—faded silver-thread crests—identify them as belonging to Palantine Heilop. The same insignia as his Lieutenant Colonel's regiment. The same insignia as the officers who ordered him, judged him, rewarded him.
He hesitates for a brief second, then steps toward them. The worn wood beneath their boots is damp, and one of them lifts his head slowly, eyes unfocused.
Aldo kneels slightly to match their height. "Excuse me… you're Heilop forces, right?"
One soldier, lean and unshaven, scratches his neck and nods. "We are." His voice is hoarse, tired, carrying the weight of a man who's seen too much.
Aldo studies their faces—exhaustion etched into every line, a heat of desperation flickering in their eyes, shoulders slumped with a heaviness that feels older than any battlefield. Something is wrong. Something more than fatigue. [These aren't soldiers returning from a normal patrol. These are men pulled apart and stitched back together by chaos.]
He glances at the ragged straps of their armor, the missing plates replaced by cloth or rope, the dirty bandages that should have been changed days ago. The city around them bustles with life, commerce, movement—but these soldiers sit in a pocket of silence, ignored by all.
Aldo clears his throat softly. "What happened?"
The soldier looks at him with a hollow stare—like he's surprised someone asked, surprised someone cares enough to ask. His jaw tightens, breath catching slightly as if choosing between silence and confession.
His eyes flicker once, faintly, like a dying ember struggling to glow.
The soldiers speak, their faces etched with exhaustion, eyes hollow from long campaigns and endless missions.
"Ten missions… we've been out there nonstop. All of us except you, Aldo. Don't worry, your turn's coming soon. It's getting ridiculous...", the old veteran sighs.
"Ten missions already—yeah, we've basically been deployed the whole time. And while we're breaking our backs, Sevan le Heilop's busy throwing parties, playing with his mistresses and acting like the world isn't on fire. My family's paying taxes like we owe them our liver, and I'm running on smokes after all these ops.", the sarcastic newbie groans.
"We've completed ten missions so far…. Almost the entire team has been deployed, with the exception of you, Aldo… Your Earthling-slave-soldier team rotation will come soon enough. Meanwhile, Sevan le Heilop continues focusing on entertainment and festivities, seemingly detached from the pressure the rest of us deal with…like that Evan told…I don't think I could bear more…", the one sitting on the right rolls his eyes.
"Parties, drinks, pretending there's no weight on their shoulders…", he taps his lap.
Their words hang in his mind, simple, almost dismissive, yet loaded with implication. These aren't idle threats; this is the machinery of the Palantine, grinding through the people and soldiers alike, indifferent to individuality, indifferent even to survival. Aldo feels a small pulse of unease, a chill that creeps into his spine despite the warmth of the morning sun. The morning sun climbs higher, scattering its pale gold across the cobblestones of Polih, but it brings no warmth to Aldo's thoughts. He sits on the edge of the low stone wall bordering the market street, the four remaining silver coins cold and heavy in his palm. His eyes follow the movements of the few residents who wander the streets, their heads bent under invisible weights, hands carrying baskets brimming with produce or tools, shoulders tense from labor. Each step seems measured, each breath economical. [They move like slaves in another way, though they are not slaves,] Aldo thinks, his jaw tightening. [No magic sigils, no chains, yet the taxes and the debts bind them just as surely.]
[So this is the system. Sevan le Heilop indulges, parties, ignores the burdens pressing down on everyone else, and yet it's the same Palantine that rewards me with coins and leave for obedience and cleverness. Cleverness—yes—but cleverness is survival, not power. Survival alone does not guarantee the future.] Aldo's fingers curl around the coins, pressing them into the palm of his hand as if he could weigh not just their material value, but the measure of his own agency. The city feels too quiet, too empty in comparison to the stories the soldiers shared. The shutters of the shops are only partially open; the markets have too few vendors; the bell of the central church tolls, but faintly, like a pulse echoing through empty streets. It is fertile land, Aldo knows; fertile minds and fertile soil, yet productivity is bent beneath the weight of incompetence and exploitation.
He thinks of the "gigs" the soldiers mentioned—the missions to pacify rebellions, to slay monsters in distant Palantines, to chase the remnants of uprisings through forests and mountains. Aldo doesn't flinch at the violence implied; he understands it. The gears of power in Mikhland are lubricated with lives like his own. But he feels a different unease now, a creeping awareness of systemic failure, of the rot beneath the gilded surfaces of palaces and courts.
[And I… what am I? what am I? what am I ? what am… I ?]
[A coin in that machinery, a lever for efficiency, nothing more? Or could I—could I carve something else from this world?]
The question trembles at the edge of his mind, urgent yet terrifying.
He studies the remaining coins again, flipping one between his fingers. They are small, insignificant in the grand scope of wealth, yet they represent agency in a world that offers so little choice. [Ten coins for a three-day leave. Two invested, two saved. The rest…spent. How strange it is, that a soldier, a slave-soldier, can feel the weight of choice in mere metal discs. And yet, what difference does it make if the Palantine system will swallow any initiative?] He can almost feel the shadow of the previous night's battle pressing against him, the ghosts of former slaves, the deafening roar of magic bullets, the heavy silence of comrades who survived while others fell. Memory and fear intermingle, and for a moment, the coins feel like a talisman against both.
He closes his eyes for some moments.
Aldo stands and walks, boots echoing softly against the stone street. He does not hurry, though each step is deliberate. His gaze drifts to the distant towers of the Palanton's mansion, faintly outlined against the morning haze. The architecture is imposing, its angles precise, the walls clean and unbroken. Inside, somewhere, decisions are made that ripple outward like shockwaves, and Aldo imagines the Palanton Sevan Heilop sitting idly with wine and courtiers, unaware of the grind he has set in motion. [Will there be a coup? Will the people rebel? Will the soldiers rise in chaos? Or will the Palantine bend them all beneath its inefficiency and indulgence?] The thought is almost comic if it were not so dangerous. He shakes his head, forcing the thought away. [No. A slave-soldier survives, adapts, obeys, and outlives. That is the plan. Complaining or plotting would be reckless.]
He reaches the bank, again, a small, imposing building of polished stone, its windows reflecting sunlight in blinding glints. Aldo enters, coins clinking softly in his hand, and approaches the counter. The banker looks up, recognition flickering, though quickly masked by professional detachment. Aldo sets two coins on the counter, the faint clatter echoing in the quiet hall. "Deposit. Two coins for investment ventures, two coins for personal saving," he says, voice low but firm, careful to respect the rituals of commerce that govern even the free citizens. The clerk nods, accepting the coins with mechanical efficiency, recording them with quill and ink.
Aldo watches the pen scratch across the parchment, imagining distant Palantines being pacified, monsters slain, guilds funded—all through the weight of his small silver. The sensation is almost surreal: he has contributed, however indirectly, to the machinery of this world while remaining a cog in it. And yet, it is action, a thread of control in a tapestry otherwise dictated by the whims of Tri-Monarch, Committee, Parliament, and Palanton alike.
He exits the bank and breathes in the morning air again, the sun higher now, illuminating the city in a crisp clarity that brings every shadow and imperfection into relief. The streets are quieter than expected. Children do not run and play; laborers do not linger. The city is alive, but the pulse is measured, weighed down by debts, taxes, obligations. He feels the weight of all those invisible burdens pressing on him as he walks back to the barracks.
The thought of taking action to change things, to intervene in the machinery of Mikhland or even in this Palantine, pulses alongside the desire to simply survive, to rest, to breathe without fear of summons, magic bullets, or orders.
His hands twitch at the edge of the path. One way feels solid beneath his feet—safe, predictable. The rhythm of it hums through me, steady, almost boring. [Routine, survival…] it whispers that nothing will change if he stays. But the other way… the shadows twist, uneven. It smells of rain on stone, of smoke, of things he can't name. A thrill sparks in his chest, prickling, and he can't tell if it's hope or fear. [Life? Death? Maybe both.] His pulse quickens. [Which way do I take? Which way is really mine?]
As he approaches the barracks, the low hum of activity reaches him: soldiers preparing for the day, earth slave soldiers moving quietly, some already awake, others still curled beneath blankets, eyes half-shut, shadows of yesterday etched into their features. Aldo hesitates at the door, hand on the latch. He can feel the pull of two paths, one leading to the comfort of inaction, the other toward the ambiguous pulse of possibility. He exhales slowly, the air filling his lungs, smelling faintly of dust, dew, and the hint of morning fires from the kitchens.
He steps inside, boots silent on the wooden floor, and places the coins on the small table by the doorway. [For now, this is my action. Small, controlled, insignificant to the world, yet a statement. A reminder that I exist, that I can influence, however slightly, the paths of things I touch.] His eyes linger on them for a moment, reflecting faint sunlight, before he turns toward the rest of the barracks. Comrades stir, faces pale and marked by fatigue, but there is a quiet reassurance in the presence of a leader who moves calmly through the chaos.
Aldo leans back, mind racing and resting simultaneously. The coins are gone from his control, invested and saved, but the thoughts they sparked remain, swirling: the city weighed down by mismanagement, the Palanton's indulgence, the soldiers pressed into service, the slaves seeking freedom, the possibility of intervention, the need to survive, the nagging spark of agency.
He sits in that delicate balance, neither fully part of the world around him nor entirely detached, feeling both the weight of Mikhland's machinery and the fragile pulse of his own emerging purpose. The barracks are quiet now, the morning light spilling across worn floorboards, the faint scent of dust and sweat lingering, and Aldo feels the sharp, uncomfortable thrill of the choices he can make—choices that may matter, choices that may end nothing, choices that mark him as alive in a world determined to render him disposable.
He retrieves a copper coin and resolves that if it falls heads, he will rebel; if tails, he will remain loyal. He flips the coin, but it lodges in a narrow crevice, refusing to land on heads. He exhales slowly and tells himself that only time can reveal the path ahead.