Buried under a landslide of problems, Grey didn't immediately realize he had become the object of intense scrutiny. Two pairs of eyes, wide with astonishment, followed his every movement.
Raising his head, he met the gaze of Sheryl — a little rabbit-girl in tattered clothes, whose light-brown hair framed a pale, thin face in tangled strands. She sat across from him, as close as decency allowed. Her eyes, usually dull from exhaustion and fear, were shining now, and the fluffy rabbit ears poking out from her mess of hair twitched with suppressed emotion.
From Sheryl's perspective, even though her relationship with Grey hadn't reached the level of deep affection, they were bound by their shared fate as captives. In their situation, everyone was a comrade in misfortune, and the death of one served as a painful reminder of the fragility of their own lives. Because of this, the girl hadn't been able to stop worrying since her new acquaintance fell into a deep coma.
Although Sheryl hadn't dared to help him as directly as Lily had, it couldn't be said that she'd abandoned Grey to his fate. While he was unconscious, she performed his work and shared her daily rations with him. In the conditions of a slave camp, such help could be considered the purest manifestation of selflessness.
"Grey finally woke up!" she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of joy and lingering fear. "Sheryl thought she would never see you again..."
Grey tried to smile back, but his lip only twitched weakly at the corner.
Interacting with strangers had always been difficult for him, and now, in this horrific situation, it had become even harder. Paradoxically, Sheryl's friendly behavior made him much more nervous than Lily's slightly hostile manner of communication. He didn't know how to react to sincere care.
"Thank you, I'm fine now," Grey forced out, feeling every word scratch his parched throat.
From the far corner of the neighboring cell came a quiet movement. The old man, whose name remained a mystery to Grey , didn't hide his relief either. His usually sullen, wrinkle-lined face softened for a moment, and something like sympathy flickered in his deep-set eyes.
Despite his sternness and occasionally harsh actions, the old man couldn't remain indifferent to the fate of an innocent child. Grey might have been restless, noisy, even irritating, but he was still just a boy thrown into this hell.
"You're recovering. That's good," the old slave said in a hoarse voice. "Get your strength back, kid. There's a lot of work waiting for us soon, and you'll have to work hard to make up for your mistakes to the masters."
Grey nodded, trying to appear obedient. "I will."
The old man narrowed his eyes, doubt still readable in his gaze. "You'd better keep your head down. You've caused enough trouble as it is."
"I understand," Grey replied, lowering his eyes. "Thank you for the concern, elder. I'll be careful."
After the brief greeting, a heavy silence returned to the prison block, broken only by muffled sounds filtering through the thick walls. Somewhere in the distance, a metal door clanged, followed by hushed voices and shuffling footsteps—signs of the slave camp waking up to a new day.
Soon they would bring the meager rations—the simple fuel for the upcoming workday. Grey , leaning against the cold wall of the cage, felt anxiety building inside him. The unknown weighed on him like a heavy stone.
Gathering his courage, he decided to take advantage of this moment of quiet to learn more about his situation. Turning to the old man, whose wrinkled face reminded him of Grandma Cornelia, Grey broke the lingering silence.
"Excuse me... Could you tell me where we are?"
The old man raised his eyebrows in surprise, but didn't hesitate to answer. "The Kingdom of Thorns, on the continent of Pratos. Kid, I already told you everything. Did you completely forget how you were comparing yourself to King Orion's ninth concubine?"
"Umm... I think I hit my head pretty hard and don't remember the last few days very well. Sorry for bothering you," Grey muttered, casting his eyes down.
Shaking his head, the old man grunted. "Forget it, the location doesn't matter much. If I were you, I'd think about how to handle your tasks instead of just daydreaming. You don't want to dump all your work on little Sheryl and Lily again, do you?"
"I'll handle it," Grey replied tiredly, feeling like he wouldn't get anything more out of him.
Having obtained the necessary information, he leaned back against the cold wall of the cage and closed his eyes, sinking into his memories.
It was as if he were back with his sister at their makeshift table, taking notes during history lessons from Constantine and Constance. Their voices echoed in his mind like a distant memory:
"For a thousand years, Pratos has been the most chaotic place in all of Eridania..."
The history of Pratos began about a thousand years ago, during the reign of Cornelius Sulla, the first dictator of the Roman Empire. The Golden Age of the Republic's prosperity was marked by the relentless expansion of its spheres of influence, and the ambitious Sulla saw the wild continent as a chance to etch his name into history forever.
Driven by a desire to bend the vast and scattered continent of barbarians to his will, Sulla took an unprecedented step—he forged a strategic alliance with the Magic Empire. This alliance combined Rome's centuries-honed military machine with the innovative and sophisticated approach of the mages, creating what seemed at the time to be an invincible force.
The first years of expansion lived up to the boldest expectations. Thanks to numerical superiority and unprecedented unity, the allies swiftly captured key strongholds on the coast of Pratos, creating a secure bridgehead for further expansion.
Roman legions, famous for their discipline and tactical mastery, advanced from the south, while magic battalions pushed forward from the northeast. Caught in a pincer movement from two sides, the scattered barbarian tribes seemed to have no chance against this combined might.
Resources, slaves, and untold riches flowed in an endless stream to both empires, settling in their capitals. Rome and Veritas bathed in luxury; majestic temples, villas, and palaces were erected, while the nobility competed in displays of their wealth.
Sulla knew how to seize the moment. Relying on the support of the army and his allies, he usurped power in the Empire, becoming the first dictator of Rome.
However, years of battle and the debauched lifestyle that had become his norm took their toll. Sulla's health began to deteriorate rapidly. Realizing the end was near, he unexpectedly resigned his powers and died shortly after, leaving behind a dangerous power vacuum.
His death marked the beginning of an era of internal strife and disunity. All the attention of the Roman senators, previously focused on external "threats," shifted sharply toward internal politics. The Senate, weakened by years of dictatorship, could not prevent the crisis. Priests, military leaders, influential patricians, and even the senators themselves drowned in their own unchecked ambitions. Political intrigue, bribery, and sometimes open clashes between various factions began.
The internal turmoil spread to the new lands. The garrisons on Pratos, deprived of regular supplies and reinforcements, began to weaken. Meanwhile, as they advanced deeper into the territory, the alliance encountered increasingly fierce resistance. The continent, which had seemed like easy prey from the coast, revealed its true, untamable nature. The terrain of Pratos proved to be a true nightmare for conquerors accustomed to centralized control. Dense, nearly impenetrable forests were suddenly replaced by vast deserts, where the scorching sun by day and bone-chilling cold by night exhausted even the most resilient warriors. Beyond the deserts rose majestic but inaccessible mountain ranges, whose peaks were lost in the clouds and whose gorges hid deadly dangers.
Logistics, always considered a strength of the Roman army, faced unprecedented challenges on Pratos. Roads laid with great difficulty through impenetrable forests and endless deserts were constantly destroyed: tropical rains washed them away, and sandstorms buried entire sections.
However, the main problem for the conquerors was not the natural conditions, but the barbarians themselves. Supply caravans, vital for maintaining the troops' combat effectiveness, became easy prey for local tribes, who knew their homeland perfectly and used every feature of the landscape to their advantage.
Contrary to the expectations of the Romans and mages, the locals showed incredible resilience and commitment to their old traditions. They categorically refused to assimilate or accept a foreign way of life. This inflexibility manifested not only on the battlefield but also in any attempts at a diplomatic resolution of the conflict. All the empires' efforts to negotiate a surrender invariably failed.
"Live free and die free"—this slogan became the battle cry and life creed of the barbarian tribes.
Two centuries of continuous warfare transformed the once-peaceful natives into hardened fighters, equal to the elite units of the empires. Forced to constantly suppress uprisings, the conquerors found themselves unable to advance any further into the continent's interior.
The lingering conflict, which initially seemed like an internal matter of the human race, gradually attracted the attention of outside forces. What began as an ambitious expansion escalated into a large-scale confrontation, drawing more and more participants into its orbit.
The cultists were the first to react to the chaos of Pratos. Lesser gods, suppressed in their pantheons by more powerful deities, saw this conflict as a chance to expand their influence. They sent priests and pilgrims to the troubled lands with a single goal—to gain new followers.
The priests carried out their mission with frantic zeal. In the depths of the war-torn continent, they found desperate people—both local natives and imperial soldiers. To these souls who had lost all hope, the pilgrims offered the protection and patronage of a deity, demanding in return only loyalty and seemingly harmless sacrifices.
Many, exhausted by endless conflict and seeking stability, succumbed to the tempting promises. Across Pratos, altars to new cults began to appear, sometimes rising literally overnight. The number of fanatics grew, and soon they became a source of new conflicts themselves, fiercely defending the interests of their patrons in clashes with followers of other cults.
Following the cultists, witches and warlocks from the continent of Velnora entered the arena of Pratos. They could not allow their eternal enemies from the Magic Empire to increase their power and influence unchecked. Strangers to the concepts of nobility and self-sacrifice, the witches saw the conflict primarily as an opportunity for their own gain.
Velnora, unlike the resource-rich Pratos, was a barren continent, which made intervening in the war even more attractive to its inhabitants. Accustomed to acting behind the scenes, the witches quickly found their niche in the complex web of Pratos's intrigues.
They acted as intermediaries between various interest groups, organizing deals and supplies. However, their loyalty always belonged only to the highest bidder. Witches didn't hesitate to sell secret information about their employers to competitors or supply weapons to warring sides—everything had its price.
After the witches, vampires turned their gaze toward Pratos. Their appearance was no surprise—since ancient times, the vampire aristocracy had been spotted participating in every major conflict in Eridania. The goal of their intervention was obvious—to gain access to cheap blood.
Counts and Viscounts, driven by a thirst for "red gold," didn't skimp on spending the wealth they had accumulated over their long lives. They generously funded various sides of the conflict, seeking to prolong and sharpen the confrontation as much as possible, thereby creating ideal conditions for bloody profit.
However, it wasn't only the restrained vampire nobility that showed interest in the chaotic continent. Along with them, powerful lone-wolf vampires arrived, recognizing no authority over themselves. These anarchists pursued a single goal—to hunt freely and develop their powers.
Unbound by the laws and traditions of vampire clans, they could afford to drain their victims to the last drop without fear of addiction or persecution from their kin or local authorities. The chaos of war provided them with the perfect cover for unrestricted hunting.
The scale of the conflict on Pratos was so vast that even races that usually distanced themselves from human wars could not remain on the sidelines. Werewolves, known for their reclusiveness; beastmen, who preferred living far from civilization; and even the powerful elves, famous for their neutrality, were drawn into the whirlpool of events. Each of these races pursued its own interests, adding new facets to an already complex confrontation.
Only the demons, the eternal enemies of all living things, were forced to stay out of the conflict. They were held back by vigilant winged brothers, ready at any moment to thwart attempts by demonic forces to interfere in the already chaotic situation on the continent.
The millennium that had passed since the start of the expansion turned Pratos into a true epicenter of chaos. The continent became a boiling cauldron of intrigue, conflict, and unceasing violence. The situation spiraled out of control to such an extent that even the most powerful forces were unable to manage what was happening.
Pratos earned a grim reputation as a place where law and order were empty words. A continuous succession of wars, betrayals, and clashes of interests between various factions became an integral part of daily life. The continent turned into a symbol of absolute anarchy, where survival became the only rule, and today's allies could become tomorrow's worst enemies.
In this all-encompassing chaos, the Kingdom of Thorns—where Grey found himself by a twist of fate—was just one of many small vassal states desperately fighting for survival. Squeezed between the impassable Pass of Loss, the wild barbarian plateau, and impenetrable thickets of thorns, this small kingdom was the last bastion of the Magic Empire on the restless continent of Pratos.