The dawn came slow, shy as a child before the ruins of its own home. The air hung heavy with smoke, the kind that did not rise—it clung. It slithered through valleys, curled between the skeletons of trees, and coiled around the scorched husks of huts whose roofs had collapsed inward like burnt paper.
The land of the Alathar had always woken to song. The conch and drum, the chatter of markets, the laughter of children by the river's edge. Now, only crows called. The wind dragged their cries across the fields, over the blackened thatch and the shattered shrines, through air that smelled of ash and blood.
The Captain
Captain Rhevar Dorn rode at the head of the column, his leather armor creaking as his horse trudged through the mud. His armor bore the sigil of the Lion Throne—a golden lion rearing over a crown. The emblem had once gleamed brightly in sunlight, but today it was darkened by soot and the thin veil of morning mist.
He was a man carved in hard lines: broad jaw, a short graying beard, and eyes that missed nothing. His hair was cropped close to his skull, more from discipline than vanity. When he spoke, the prisoners jumped, not because of the words, but because his tone left no space for mercy.
He looked upon the chained line with a soldier's detachment. To him, the Alathar were not people but remnants—broken idols of a fallen tribe that refused to kneel fast enough. His gaze moved over them like a surveyor marking the land for conquest.
He barked orders in Veyari:
"Dora velin! Doro kai!"
Faster, swine! Do not stop!
The guards repeated his shout down the line, their whips cracking the air like lightning in a storm. Rhevar's lip curled faintly as one old woman stumbled and fell. The soldier nearest her struck her back without hesitation. He did not stop to watch if she rose again.
He told himself he served order, not cruelty. Yet he knew the line between the two was as thin as a blade's edge—and he had long since learned not to care which side he walked upon.
Arani
Far back in the line, Arani walked barefoot through the wet dust. His feet were raw, the skin split from stone and heat. The chain between his wrists clinked softly with every step, the sound measured, steady, deliberate—like a heartbeat he refused to surrender.
He was lean, built like the stalk of a spear, his skin bronze-dark and sun-burnished. His hair, black as volcanic glass, hung in uneven lengths that brushed the nape of his neck; it looked as though it had once been cut clean but had grown wild during his months of capture.
His face bore no softness. Sharp cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and eyes that seemed too old for twenty-three winters. They were dark, almost black, but alive with a dangerous light—like embers hidden under ash.
Around him, the others trudged with the weight of despair. They averted their gaze from his. Some whispered that his shadow was cursed, that no man who met his eyes slept without dreaming of fire.
But Arani did not hear them. His mind was a blade, honed to one rhythm: counting.
Seven steps between the captain's halts.
Eleven paces between guards.
Thirty heartbeats between lashes.
Every cruelty was a number. Every number, a weapon yet to be drawn.
He had once been a smith's apprentice, his hands trained to measure the balance of a blade by touch alone. Now, those same hands trembled slightly under iron shackles—but he was still forging something in his silence.
Ila
Somewhere to his left, a woman stumbled. The chain jerked, dragging her forward. Arani turned just in time to see her drop a small, dust-caked trunk.
She was not old—perhaps twenty, perhaps less—but illness had hollowed her cheeks. Her sari, once vibrant with red and gold thread, now hung in tatters. Beneath the grime, faint traces of a noble pattern lingered, glimmering in the morning light like forgotten wealth.
Her hair had once been thick, glossy black. Now it clung to her temples in tangled strands, matted with sweat. Still, there was something unyielding in her eyes—a dignity not yet crushed.
Arani caught the trunk before it fell completely into the mud. Their hands brushed—hers thin and trembling, his calloused and steady.
For the briefest breath, the road fell away.
She met his gaze. Her lips parted.
"Shukria…"
The word was soft, unfamiliar. A river tongue from the north, perhaps. He didn't know it, but he knew gratitude when he heard it.
He bowed his head slightly.
"Nandri."
She frowned at the strange word, then smiled faintly—a ghost of warmth flickering through the ash.
The captain's whip cracked through the silence. "Doro kai!" he shouted again. The line jerked forward. Arani steadied the woman by her elbow. She did not resist.
Later, he would learn her name: Ila, daughter of Rayan of the Hills, a scholar who had refused to kneel to the Lion Throne.
The Land
The road twisted through a valley hemmed by cliffs. To the right, a river crawled sluggishly beneath the mist, its once-blue waters now choked with ash and broken branches. Birds circled above the treeline, waiting for the weak to fall.
Ruins dotted the horizon—houses burned to black skeletons, temples with their idols defaced, the sacred stones of the Alathar carved over with the Lion sigil.
And everywhere, the same banners: the golden lion, roaring over a crimson field. To the Alathar, it was a symbol of death. To the Veyon, it was the promise of unity through domination.
Arani watched the banners sway. Every flutter a lash, he thought. Every thread a wound across the land.
The Captain's Eyes Again
From his horse, Rhevar Dorn scanned the march. He caught sight of Arani and frowned. Something in that man's bearing unsettled him. The prisoner did not shuffle or beg. He walked like one who measured distances.
Rhevar had seen that look before—once, long ago, on a battlefield where a rebel had smiled through his own blood, waiting for the perfect strike.
He turned to his lieutenant.
"That one. The thin one with the black hair."
"The quiet one?"
"Aye. Keep him watched. If he looks at you too long, break his nose."
The lieutenant smirked but nodded.
Rhevar said no more. He was not a man of superstition, yet something about the prisoner's eyes reminded him of old campfire tales—of the Pey vel, the ghost-spearmen who walked unseen. He spat into the dust, as if to rid himself of the thought.
Ila's Memory
As they neared the cliffs, Ila's breath grew shallow. The trunk grew heavier with each step. Inside it were not jewels or silks as some believed, but her father's manuscripts—writings in the forbidden Alathi script. Each page had been inked with his dreams, his defiance.
When the soldiers burned her village, she had run back into the flames to save it. The heat had seared her arms, but she had emerged clutching the chest like a relic. The guards had laughed, thinking it gold. When they found only parchment, they beat her.
She had never let it go since.
Now, each step tore at her chest. Fever licked her throat, and her vision wavered. Still, she clutched the trunk as though it were her own heart.
One of the guards noticed her falter and jeered in broken Alathi:
"Even the rani bends! She will serve the throne—or we will take her first!"
Laughter rippled down the line.
Arani's jaw tightened. His gaze rose, cold and cutting, but he said nothing. To speak was to die. His silence was his blade.
He memorized the guard's face—the angle of his nose, the pattern of scars on his left cheek.
One day, he thought. One day.
The Fort
By dusk, the line reached the Ruined Fort of Vashra, once an Alathar stronghold of stone and flame. Its towers had been carved with lotus and serpent motifs—symbols of renewal and fire. Now, those carvings were defaced, gouged with the claws of chisels. Over the gate hung the banner of the Lion Throne, rippling in the dying light.
The fort stood on a rise above the river. The stones were blackened, the air thick with rot. The Veyon had turned the inner court into a prison: wooden stockades, iron rings set into the walls, and watchtowers manned by riflemen.
The prisoners were herded inside. Chains clanked, boots stomped, and the air filled with the low hum of suffering.
Women were shoved toward one corner; men toward another. Children wailed until exhaustion stole even their voices.
Ila stumbled. Her knees hit stone. The trunk fell open, spilling pages into the mud. She reached for them, desperate. A guard kicked one page into the filth.
Before he could strike again, Arani stepped between them—not with defiance, but with quiet precision, his posture unyielding. The guard froze for half a heartbeat, startled by the calm in his eyes, before shoving him aside.
The pages were ruined, but Ila clutched them anyway, her hands trembling.
Later, when darkness fell, the prisoners were chained to the inner walls. The torches hissed in the damp air. Smoke from the brazier drifted upward, painting the stones in amber and shadow.
Rhevar Dorn watched from above, his face unreadable. To him, they were numbers—so many prisoners, so many rations, so many to die before sunrise.
But when his gaze fell again upon Arani, that uneasy flicker returned.
Below, Arani sat motionless, his wrists bound, his eyes open.
He was not praying. He was remembering—every guard's route, every gate, every weapon.
Across the yard, Ila coughed blood into her sleeve. The sound echoed faintly.
And somewhere in the distance, the river answered with a low, endless roar.
The Lion banners stirred.
The night deepened.
And the counting began again...
TO BE CONTINUED...