The soldiers marched without hesitation, almost as if they were walking in a park.
Slaves screamed as the formations plowed forward, spears thrusting indiscriminately. Men were impaled, crushed beneath shields, trampled under armored boots. Panic erupted again, sharper and more desperate.
"They're clearing the field," Leopold said grimly. "For themselves."
He seized the young man's wrist and dragged him sideways, forcing them toward a narrow gap between two advancing formations.
"Now," Leopold snapped. "Move when I move."
They darted forward.
A spear lunged unexpectedly from the left. Leopold twisted, shoving the young man out of the way—
Pain exploded through his shoulder.
The spearhead tore into him, ripping through flesh before he could fully turn. He grunted sharply but didn't scream. Instead, he bit down hard, using the momentum to drag them through the gap.
Blood soaked his sleeve.
The young man felt it instantly. "You're hit—"
"Later," Leopold hissed. "Keep moving."
They stumbled clear of the formation just as shields slammed shut behind them. Leopold's breathing turned ragged, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating even through the pain.
Behind them, only a few dozen slaves remained alive.
Some still fought, backs pressed together, clubs slick with blood. Others fell as cavalry thundered past, hooves crushing bone, lances punching through flesh. The battlefield widened violently as the cavalry charged from both flanks.
Spells detonated. Steel rang. The goblin king raised its axe and roared a command that shook the air itself.
The slaves were no longer part of the plan.
They were expendable.
With the slaves discarded, the battlefield shifted—subtly, but decisively.
Their strategy was brutally clear now: the slaves had served their purpose. The initial clash was over, the enemy formations revealed, the strongest threats identified. From that point on, the Keepers' attention narrowed exclusively to the soldiers and cavalry. Orders flowed cleanly through disciplined ranks.
And the slaves were left behind.
No shield walls covered them. No healing light reached them. No one adjusted a spell's trajectory to spare them.
They stood in the open, unaccounted for.
Stray magic—never meant for them, never corrected for them—rained down without mercy.
A fireball fell short of its intended mark and struck a surviving slave square in the torso. There was no scream. The explosion erased his upper body in an instant, the shockwave knocking others flat. What remained collapsed into the dirt, smoking.
The young man froze for half a breath.
Leopold didn't let it become more.
"Keep moving," he said sharply, hauling him forward.
An icicle screamed down from above, impaling another slave through the chest and pinning him to the ground. Blood steamed as it spilled. The man's fingers clawed weakly at the ice before going still.
The smell followed—burnt flesh, ozone, blood turned sharp and metallic.
"They're not even looking at us," the young man said, disbelief cutting through his breathless words.
Leopold's jaw tightened. "That's because to them, we're already dead. We need to escape now."
Another spell detonated close enough to hurl dirt and stone into the air. The shockwave slammed into them, nearly sending Leopold to his knees. His injured shoulder flared with white-hot pain, but he bit it down, refusing to slow.
"Watch the sky," Leopold said. "And the ground. Magic misses in patterns, not randomly."
The young man obeyed, ducking when he saw the telltale glow overhead, pulling Leopold with him as a blast scorched the space they'd just vacated.
Ahead, the camp came into view.
Wagons stood half-abandoned, some already burning, others overturned in haste. Torn tents flapped wildly in the hot wind. Compared to the open battlefield, it was the only place left that offered cover.
A fire spell struck a wagon to their right, igniting it instantly. Flames roared up, heat slamming into their faces.
"Left," Leopold ordered, adjusting their path without hesitation.
They sprinted, boots slipping on churned dirt and blood, and dove behind a supply wagon just as another explosion thundered down behind them. The wood rattled violently, splinters snapping free.
Leopold pressed his back to the wheel, breathing hard, one hand clamped over his wounded shoulder. Blood seeped through the cloth, dark and steady.
The young man crouched beside him, peering out briefly before pulling back. "They're advancing again."
"Good," Leopold said. "That means they're fully committed."
Another scream echoed nearby—short, desperate, then cut off.
The young man flinched despite himself, his jaw tightening until it ached. "They're just… leaving us."
Leopold met his gaze. His expression was hard, sharpened by experience, yet there was no cruelty in it—only a weary clarity. "Empires don't abandon people," he said evenly. "They discard resources."
He shifted slightly, careful of his wounded shoulder, and tilted his head as if listening for something others couldn't hear. Not the chaos itself, but the pattern beneath it. The rise and fall of explosions. The measured spacing between spell volleys. The distant, rolling thunder of cavalry hooves as they repositioned.
"Once the battle was done," Leopold continued quietly. "Then they'll take accounts. Survivors where there shouldn't be any are inconvenient."
The implication settled heavily.
"They'll hunt us," the young man said.
"Yes," Leopold replied without hesitation. "Once the field is secure. Clean work, no witnesses."
He closed his eyes for a brief second, committing the rhythm of the battlefield to memory. His fingers flexed unconsciously, calculating distance and timing, escape routes already mapping themselves in his mind.
"When the noise peaks," he said softly, "no one notices what's missing."
As if answering him, a fresh wave of explosions rolled across the field. Fire and stone collided, the sound swelling until it drowned out screams, orders, even thought itself. The ground shook violently, smoke boiling upward and swallowing sightlines.
Leopold picked up a sword lying on the ground, handed his dagger to the young slaves, "Have this, we'll need it later."
He leaned forward, pain flashing across his face, resolve hardening beneath it. "Now."
They broke from cover and ran. Deeper into the camp, into smoke and shadow, weaving between burning wagons and shattered supplies. They planned to escape through the forest beyond the camp.