The break had finally been announced. A short break, but long enough for the slaves to catch their breath and superficially heal their wounds. Mordred had dropped his pickaxe heavily, wiping the sweat dripping down his dirty forehead with the back of his hand, discreetly observing the groups beginning to form around him.
The change in mood among the slaves was palpable. Small groups were gathering, speaking in hushed tones, exchanging quick, cautious glances, regularly casting furtive glances around them. Mordred clearly sensed that something was going on, but it was obvious that he was excluded.
Determined to find out what was going on, Mordred slowly made his way towards the first group within range, pretending simply to catch his breath beside them. But no sooner had he approached than silence fell abruptly among them, as if an invisible hand had just cut them off.
They stared at him, their faces closed, their gazes filled with obvious distrust.
