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.