Chapter 2: Road To Freedom
Year 1357, 10th Week of Autumn, 9th Day
The sound of metal striking stone echoed through the cavern like a heartbeat. Pickaxes chipped at the rock. The air tasted of sweat, iron, and forgotten hope.
The Fourteenth Batch of slaves was dragged into the mine. Their eyes were wide, clothes torn from labor. Behind them marched a guard in heavy armor, his every step loud and slow. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
They were already broken.
Nearby, Zephyr and Alaric worked with the Seventh Batch. Their movements were mechanical, but their minds stayed alert. Zephyr's eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on a figure slumped against the wall.
"There," Alaric muttered, nodding ahead.
The old man barely clung to consciousness. He sat alone, wrapped in a white robe stained with dirt and drink. A pickaxe hung from his arms like a limb, and a filthy rope tied a bottle to his waist.
He lifted it to his lips and drank.
But it wasn't water anymore. Zephyr had emptied it that morning and replaced the contents with sharp, burning alcohol. The old man hadn't noticed.
Another sip. Then another. His hands began to tremble.
It started as a mutter.
"Liars..." The word echoed faintly in the cavern.
Then louder. "Liars! Murderers!"
A few heads turned. The old man staggered to his feet.
His voice rose, cracking with drunken rage. "They speak of gods, but worship gold! This mine... this cursed tomb!"
He laughed, then screamed. The sound tore through the tunnels like a storm.
Tools dropped. Eyes widened. Work stopped.
Guards turned toward the noise. Most wore simple armor—leather padded with steel.
The old man stumbled toward the center of the cavern, his voice a broken trumpet of truth and madness.
Zephyr leaned closer to Alaric. "Now."
Alaric nodded.
They dropped their pickaxes and slipped away, hidden in the noise. Behind them, more guards rushed in to silence the outburst.
The supervising officer barked, "Take his arms! Shut his mouth!"
The old man kicked weakly as they dragged him away. He laughed even as they struck him.
But Zephyr and Alaric were already moving fast, ducking between carts and slipping through shadows. They knew the way.
They reached the edge of the chamber, beyond a rusted fence, and found the narrow gap they had spent weeks carving.
The waste tunnel.
Once used to dump debris—now sealed, forgotten.
Zephyr had pried it open with patient hands.
They slipped inside, one after the other.
Behind them, a voice cried out. "There! They're running!"
Zephyr didn't look back. The tunnel was narrow—just wide enough for boys their size.
The guard who gave chase could only watch as they vanished into darkness. He cursed and slammed his fist against the stone.
Inside the tunnel, the air was cold.
"We made it," Alaric panted.
"Not yet," Zephyr said. "Keep going."
They ran in silence, broken only by their breath. Rats scattered before them. The glowing moss on the walls offered faint light.
Minutes passed. Then they saw it—light ahead. A slit in the rock. A broken gate, half-covered in vines and soil.
Zephyr reached it first and pushed. It groaned open.
Fresh air rushed in.
The outside.
Alaric stopped at the threshold, blinking. "We're out."
Zephyr stepped into the night and breathed deeply, trying to remember what freedom felt like. The sky above was gray and starless, but it was sky.
The mine was behind them. Below the ridge, forests stretched like a sea of green shadows.
He turned to Alaric. "We're not slaves anymore."
Alaric grinned for the first time in weeks. "What now?"
Zephyr looked toward the distant mountains. Calm on the outside. Fire in his eyes.
"Now... we become something more."
The forest thickened around them. Branches snapped underfoot. The air grew colder.
Alaric stumbled, holding his side. "We need to stop…"
Zephyr slowed. His own body ached, but he didn't show it. They had to find shelter before the cold dug deeper.
Then they saw it—a clearing among the trees. Half-collapsed tents, a scorched firepit. A camp, long abandoned.
Alaric squinted. "Think someone's here?"
"Only one way to find out," Zephyr said.
They stepped cautiously between torn supplies and scattered footprints.
Snap.
The ground gave way beneath them.
They tumbled into darkness and landed hard on dirt.
Zephyr rolled to his feet. Above, the brush rustled. A figure appeared at the pit's edge—tall and broad, framed in shadow. He carried no torch. He didn't need one.
"What the hell did you trip now?" a voice grumbled from above.
Then, steady and sharp, "Looks like… children."
The man leaned down. "State your names."
Zephyr stepped in front of Alaric, shielding him. "We're sorry. We thought this place was abandoned. We needed shelter."
A moment passed.
Then the man called out, "Rope. Now."
A rope lowered. Zephyr climbed first, then helped Alaric.
At the top, the armored man studied them closely. His armor was light, built for speed. A wolf emblem rested on his shoulderplate. His gaze was sharp, dissecting their clothes, hands, posture.
"You don't look like thieves," he said. "You look hungry."
Alaric hesitated. "We escaped from—"
"We were abandoned," Zephyr interrupted.
His eyes locked onto the man's. "Bandits attacked our village. We've been hiding ever since."
The man paused, studying Zephyr's calm, calculated tone.
Then he said, "Name's Garron. Vice-Captain of the Ironhorn Company. You two wouldn't last a night out here with that injury."
He glanced at Alaric's leg, then back at Zephyr.
"You can stay the night. But don't run. Don't lie."
Alaric sighed in relief. Zephyr nodded. "Thank you."
Garron turned and led them down a forest path. "Follow. And try not to fall into anything else."
As they walked, Alaric whispered, "He didn't believe us."
"He doesn't need to," Zephyr replied.
"He just needs a reason not to throw us out."
Ahead, firelight flickered through the trees.
A new place.
The camp came into view—lanterns hanging from branches, a fire crackling at its heart. The scent of meat drifted through the cold air. Laughter echoed. Not cruel—just alive.
Zephyr's eyes scanned everything as they entered.
At least twenty people moved about—sharpening weapons, cleaning gear, studying maps. But one man stood out.
He sat by the fire, draped in a black fur coat. Relaxed posture, but every glance, every breath carried quiet authority.
Zephyr knew instantly. That's the captain.
Garron approached and gave a respectful nod. "Found two near the southern trap. Said they needed shelter."
The captain looked up slowly. His eyes lingered on Zephyr, then Alaric. No smile. No frown. Just weight.
Before he could speak, a voice chimed in from the side.
"Well, they look half-dead."
A middle-aged woman stepped forward, sleeves rolled to her elbows, two bowls of steaming stew in hand. Her hair was tied back, her expression kind.
She offered the bowls. "You boys okay?"
Alaric nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Thank you."
Zephyr took his bowl slowly. The warmth stung his fingers.
"You look like you haven't eaten in days," she said softly.
Zephyr stared into the broth—chunks of root and meat floating in the dark.
Garron sat beside the fire. "I'll stay up tonight. Still tracking movement in the east. Could be those thieves again... or worse."
The captain gave a faint nod.
The woman crouched beside them as they ate. "Where're you from?"
Zephyr answered before Alaric could. "An abandoned village. Nothing left. Just ruins and ash."
She didn't press.
"You're lucky Garron found you. These woods aren't kind to lost boys."
Alaric glanced at Zephyr, then back at her. "We can help around. We're not freeloaders."
Before she could reply, the captain's voice cut through the quiet. "You can rest tonight. Tomorrow, we talk."
The woman turned to him quickly. "You can't just leave them hanging, captain. They're children. Abandoned or not—we can't send them back out there."
He stared at her, then at the boys. "I'm not running a shelter."
"They didn't ask for pity," she said firmly. "They ate like wolves. Didn't even ask for seconds. That says enough."
Nearby mercenaries fell quiet. Blades stopped scraping.
The captain finally spoke. "Alright. What do you want, boys?"
Zephyr met his eyes. "We don't want charity. We'll gather wood, help with cooking—whatever's needed. We just want a place to sleep. Something to eat."
The captain nodded. "Tomorrow morning, you prove yourselves. We don't carry dead weight."
Zephyr nodded. "Understood."
Alaric straightened. "We'll be ready."
The woman smiled faintly, placing a hand on their shoulders. "Just do your part. That's all anyone asks."
"Be up before the sun," the captain added, his eyes lingering on Zephyr—measuring more than strength.
Then he walked away, boots crunching over dirt.
The fire crackled. In the trees, something unseen shifted.
They had shelter. A chance.
More than they'd had in years.
But Zephyr couldn't rest. There was something in the captain's gaze.
Something waiting.