Clink. Clink. Drag.
The sound was heavy, rhythmic, and metallic, scraping against the edges of a consciousness that didn't want to return. It vibrated through the floorboards—or was it earth?
"...won't last the march," a rough, gravelly voice muttered. The words sounded distant, as if traveling through a thick layer of wool. "Look at the chest on 'im. The skin's puckered up like a drowned pig. Something tore him apart."
"He's breathing, ain't he?" a second voice shot back, spitting a wet glob of phlegm onto the ground. "If it breathes, it walks. If it walks, it sells. The Vanguard doesn't waste meat, especially not after burning a whole village for a handful of copper. Keep moving the line."
Clink. Clink. Drag.
Pantheon tried to reach for the mantra. Endure. But the word felt broken in his mind, shattered like his ribs. He remembered the cold white light. He remembered the smell of the rogue wolf's spit. He should be food for the carrion birds.
CRACK.
A heavy, iron-toed boot slammed directly into Pantheon's side, right against his fractured ribs.
The world rushed back in a blinding, agonizing flash of heat and color. Pantheon gasped, a ragged, wet sound tearing from his throat as his eyes snapped open. He didn't see the stars. He saw a gray, ash-choked sky and the mud-splattered leather armor of a soldier towering over him.
"Up, scum!" the soldier barked, ripping upward on a heavy iron collar clamped tight around Pantheon's neck.
Pantheon was jerked to his knees. The movement sent a white-hot spike of agony through his chest. He looked down. The jagged wooden stake was gone, but in its place was a horrific, twisted crater of dark, dead-looking scar tissue right over his heart. It didn't leak red blood anymore—just a dark, sluggish fluid that had crusted against his skin. He was alive, but he felt hollow. Wrong.
Around him, the reality of his situation laid itself bare.
The Scavengers of the Vanguard
These men werent no rescuers
Clink. Clink. Drag.
The sound was heavy, rhythmic, and metallic, scraping against the edges of a consciousness that didn't want to return. It vibrated through the floorboards—or was it earth?
"...won't last the march," a rough, gravelly voice muttered. The words sounded distant, as if traveling through a thick layer of wool. "Look at the chest on 'im. The skin's puckered up like a drowned pig. Something tore him apart."
"He's breathing, ain't he?" a second voice shot back, spitting a wet glob of phlegm onto the ground. "If it breathes, it walks. If it walks, it sells. The Vanguard doesn't waste meat, especially not after burning a whole village for a handful of copper. Keep moving the line."
Clink. Clink. Drag.
Pantheon tried to reach for the mantra. Endure. But the word felt broken in his mind, shattered like his ribs. He remembered the cold white light. He remembered the smell of the rogue wolf's spit. He should be food for the carrion birds.
CRACK.
A heavy, iron-toed boot slammed directly into Pantheon's side, right against his fractured ribs.
The world rushed back in a blinding, agonizing flash of heat and color. Pantheon gasped, a ragged, wet sound tearing from his throat as his eyes snapped open. He didn't see the stars. He saw a gray, ash-choked sky and the mud-splattered leather armor of a soldier towering over him.
"Up, scum!" the soldier barked, ripping upward on a heavy iron collar clamped tight around Pantheon's neck.
Pantheon was jerked to his knees. The movement sent a white-hot spike of agony through his chest. He looked down. The jagged wooden stake was gone, but in its place was a horrific, twisted crater of dark, dead-looking scar tissue right over his heart. It didn't leak red blood anymore—just a dark, sluggish fluid that had crusted against his skin. He was alive, but he felt hollow. Wrong.
Around him, the reality of his situation laid itself bare.
The Scavengers of the Vanguard
Pantheon heard about them before. He knew these men weren't rescuers, rather they were slave traders
Children boys girl women and men all for coin
An army of scavengers—human vultures flying the gray banners of a rogue warband—had picked clean the bones of his ruined village. A long, miserable line of survivors from neighboring settlements were chained neck-to-neck, their hands bound in rusted iron. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, unwashed bodies, and despair.
Pantheon was hauled to the front of the line, his bare feet dragging in the dirt.
"We got a live one here, Master Silas!" the soldier yelled, shoving Pantheon forward. Pantheon stumbled, falling hard onto his hands and knees before a makeshift wooden desk set up at the edge of the camp.
Sitting behind the desk was the man who now held the ledger of Pantheon's life.
Silas was a mountain of a man, grease-stained and smelling faintly of sour wine and spoiled lard. His fingers, thick as sausages, were covered in cheap, mismatched rings that clicked against the wood as he counted out a small pile of dull metal discs. His eyes were small, wet, and utterly devoid of pity. He looked at Pantheon not as a boy, or even a human being, but as a beast of burden nearing the end of its usefulness.
"This?" Silas sneered, reaching out with a thick, dirt-caked finger to roughly prod the massive scar on Pantheon's chest. Pantheon winced, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned. "He's damaged goods. Look at this wound. It's a miracle his lungs haven't collapsed. He'll die before we hit the border."
"He survived whatever did that to him," the soldier argued, eager for a profit. "He's tough. Strong bones. Work him in the pits or the mines till he drops."
Silas leaned forward, his sour breath washing over Pantheon's face. He picked up a small wooden rod and used it to force Pantheon's mouth open, inspecting his teeth like a horse trader.
"Two gold," Silas grunted, tossing the rod aside in disgust. "Not a copper more. He's a stiff wind away from a grave."
The soldier hesitated, cursing under his breath, but nodded. "Fine. Take the wretch."
The Price of a Soul
Three dull, scratched gold coins were tossed onto the wooden table. They clinked together—a pathetic, tinny sound. That was the value of Pantheon's life, his survival, and his suffering.
Three gold coins.
"Get him out of my sight," Silas muttered, raking the coins into his palm. "Chain him to the heavy cart. If he falls behind, let the wheels do the rest."
A heavy iron chain was snapped onto Pantheon's collar, the cold metal biting into his skin. He was yanked away, his legs trembling as he forced his broken body to stand.
He had survived the Alpha. He had endured the pain of the stake. Yet, as he gazed down the endless, dusty road ahead, the weight of despair began to crush him. The sounds of clanking chains and the sharp cracks of whips echoing around him served as reminders of his grim reality. A dark, icy realization sank deep into the hollow cavity of his chest, the place where his heart once beat with hope and defiance. Now, it lay silent, swallowed by the shadows of his new masters and the bleakness of his fate.
....