On a green leaf, a drop of pure water slides, reflecting a dirt road winding between the trees. Suddenly, the leaf shook violently due to the rhythmic trembling of the ground, causing the drop to fall and vanish into the swirling dust. The nearby birds took to the sky in a panic as the clamor of an approaching commotion rose; dozens of humans with horse-drawn carriages.
In the lead walked a total of 8 people carrying hunting rifles, followed by two medium-sized carriages, each pulled by a single horse, with simple, unremarkable designs. Behind them marched 20 people, armed to the teeth with swords and shields that covered their bodies entirely except for their eyes. Some swords gleamed, reflecting the sunlight, while others were coated in rust and grime.
These men were followed by a massive carriage with enormous wheels, painted in deep red with gold ornaments that exuded an aura of nobility and authority. At the rear of the procession were 12 additional guards, indistinguishable in appearance from the vanguard.
Next came a long line consisting of 37 people divided into pairs. They were bound by thick shackles on their hands and feet, all connected to a heavy main chain. Their faces were pale, radiating the stench of despair, regret, and hatred; they were slaves. Despite the weight of the chains, they were forced to march at a brisk pace, for behind them walked 6 guards wielding leather whips, lying in wait for anyone whose steps faltered.
Among these slaves walked a man in his thirties, his body emaciated from starvation, with curly hair, a sharp nose, and sunken eyes that hid behind them the cruelty of a harsh life. His name was "Sean". In a calculated moment, he yanked his individual chain hard backward, toppling the exhausted man in front of him. The man collapsed to the ground, unable to rise, and within a second, a guard pounced on him, tearing the air with his whip to lash the poor man's back mercilessly.
Amidst the chaos and cries of pain, a small metal object fell from the guard's belt. With a swift, subtle movement, Sean stepped his bare, mud-caked foot over the object, hiding it from sight. He watched his fellow slave being whipped in cold blood; he didn't blink, and not a muscle twitched in remorse.
"They wouldn't entrust the keys to the shackles to scum like them," Sean whispered deep within himself, his eyes watching the guard with a hidden ferocity. "But anything that drops from them might be my ticket to survival."
He ignored the glares of contempt directed at him from the other slaves; they had seen him intentionally trip his comrade. One of them spat near his foot in disgust, but Sean settled for a faint, mocking smile. In this hell, survival belonged to the most cunning.
As darkness crept in, the night drew its cold curtain over the long, desolate road. The horses were exhausted and the fatigue was evident, forcing the convoy to a halt. Quickly, the guards set up their camp, lighting roaring fires that spread a comforting warmth, and sat around them chatting and eating, indifferent to the wretched souls left out in the open.
A few meters away, the slaves were left to face the biting frost. They huddled and clung to each other, forming a shivering human pile in search of warmth. But the hatred was stronger than the cruelty of the cold. The slaves glared at "Number 9" with angry eyes, and in a silent agreement, they shoved him out of their circle. They turned their backs on him, banishing him to the freezing outer edge, hoping the frost would end his life before sunrise.
But in the freezing darkness, while everyone thought he was shivering in wait for death, Sean was fighting his own battle. He took out the small metal pin he had picked up during the day. His fingers were stiff and numb from the frost, barely able to grip it. He brought his bound hands close to his mouth, blowing his warm, ragged breath onto them in a desperate attempt to bring life back to them. With feverish concentration, he began to pick the lock of the shackles. Every tiny click raised his heart rate, and every slip of the pin due to his numb fingers made him bite his lip until it bled. Finally... a muffled click was heard. The shackles sprang open.
The night passed heavily. In the early morning, before the sun fully rose, a thick fog draped the area in a gray chill. One of the guards approached with heavy steps, crushing the frozen gravel, and began kicking the slaves ruthlessly to wake them up. Suddenly, the guard stopped. He kicked a certain spot in the pile but felt no body; instead, he heard an empty metallic clink.
He lowered his gaze through the fog, and the blood froze in his veins. On the frozen ground lay iron shackles, detached from the main chain and carelessly tossed aside. His eyes widened in shock, and he spun around toward his colleagues, shouting with a voice that tore through the desolate silence of the morning:
"Slave Number 9... Slave Number 9 has escaped!"
While the guards were discovering his escape, Sean—a long distance away deep in the forest—had been running nonstop since last night. He surged forward with the power of despair, panting and tripping over tree roots. He forged his way, tearing the silence of the forest with his rapid breaths, until his legs finally betrayed him at sunrise, and he collapsed weakly onto the ground blanketed with dead leaves.
He lay on his back, his chest rising and falling violently. He raised his trembling hand and slowly opened his fist to reveal the pin. He turned his head slightly toward the direction he had come from, and his smile widened into a faint, muffled laugh.
"If it weren't for those fools who hated me and turned their backs, leaving me to freeze to death, I wouldn't have had the space and time to pick the locks unnoticed... I suppose I should send them a thank-you card."
"I must be careful... this is the 'Ramed' forest, one of the most dangerous cursed places," he told himself, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. He carefully hid the pin in his curly hair and stood up with difficulty. He began turning over rocks with his trembling hands, searching for non-poisonous insects to satisfy his hunger.
He caught a small insect; the fluttering of its wings between his rough fingers sent a strange shiver through his body. That texture... pulled him against his will into the past. An image of a group of children running joyfully in an open field. A little boy laughing heartily as he chased the others with a locust he had caught.
Then suddenly... the memory warped.
The pure laughter turned into terrifying screams. The boy who was running with joy suddenly stopped in terror before a massive wall of fire that consumed everything in its path. The voices of the other children behind him blended into heart-wrenching, panicked cries:
"Sean! Run! Run, Sean!"
Sean snapped out of his daydream, returning to his harsh reality. The hardened look in his eyes vanished for a few seconds, replaced by features of profound sorrow.
"That night... everything changed," he whispered to himself in a faint voice.
Sean spent the rest of his day hiding and catching his breath, and as darkness approached, he climbed the tallest tree he could find to take shelter among its high branches. His sleep was never comfortable; the harsh branches of the tree dug into his frail flesh, reminding him that he had escaped the hell of slavery only to fall into the hell of nature.
And while he was trying to force himself to sleep, cloaked in the darkness of the night, a foul odor suddenly crept into his nose... the smell of hot, putrid breath brushing directly against his face.
He opened his eyes slowly and heavily, and in that moment, he wished he hadn't.
An inch away from his face, a massive black panther's head emerged from among the branches. Its sharp fangs were clearly bared, and its dark fur gleamed coldly under the reflection of the pale moonlight.
In that fatal moment, the blood froze in Sean's veins, and his breath caught in his throat...
...To be continued.