The dirt was cold against Pantheon's face, but the heat of the iron collar around his neck was a branding iron.
"Get up, meat!"
The shout was followed by the sharp, whistling crack of a leather crop. It didn't strike his back—it caught him right across the side of his jaw. The force of the blow snapped his head sideways, tearing the skin over his cheekbone.
The pain of simply trying to stand was a wall. Pantheon pushed his palms into the mud, his muscles shaking so violently they felt like frayed ropes. When he tried to lift his torso, his fractured ribs shifted. A sharp, grating sensation echoed inside his chest cavity, followed by an immediate, suffocating surge of agony that blocked the air from his lungs. His vision went completely white again. His arms gave out, and he slammed back into the dirt, his face plowing into the filth.
Before he could even draw a ragged breath, a heavy boot planted itself in the center of his back, pinning him down.
"I said, move!"
The First Mile
The guard didn't wait for him to find his footing. He yanked the lead chain attached to Pantheon's collar.
The iron bit into the front of his throat, cutting off his windpipe and dragging his body forward through the rocks and broken glass of the perimeter fence. The rough ground tore at his bare chest, scraping the edges of the massive, dead scar over his heart.
The sheer reflex to not be strangled to death forced Pantheon's legs to move. He scrambled, his knees scraping raw against the stones, until he somehow forced his weight onto his feet. He was standing, his hands clutching the heavy iron links just to keep the collar from choking him completely.
The heavy supply cart was already rolling. The iron chain connecting Pantheon to the wooden axle snapped taut with a violent, jarring lurch. The sudden pull threatened to rip his arms from their sockets, dragging him forward into the choking cloud of dust kicked up by the wagon's massive wheels.
Every single step was a new disaster inside his body. With every stride, the broken bones in his chest rubbed together. Pantheon felt a hot, thick wave of fluid rise in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but the pressure was too much.
A heavy spray of dark, crimson blood spilled past his lips, dripping down his chin and splashing onto the dusty collar of his shirt.
Forced Forward
"Keep the pace! Faster, you sluggish piece of trash!"
The whip came down again. This time, the braided leather wrapped entirely around Pantheon's shoulders, tearing through his thin shirt and biting deep into the flesh of his back.
Crack.
The impact jarred his entire spine. Pantheon's mouth opened in a silent scream, another dark torrent of blood spilling out, staining his teeth and running in thick tracks down his neck. He couldn't wipe it away. His hands were bound, locked to the chain that kept him tethered to the rolling tomb of the cart.
Crack.
The leather cut across the back of his thighs.
There was no trick to it. There was no deep breath that made it better. The whip tore the skin, the dust got into the open wounds, and the blood kept coming, filling his mouth with the taste of copper and filth. If he slowed down to spit it out, the cart would run him over. If he fell, the iron collar would drag him until his face was scraped to the bone.
He didn't think about glory. He didn't think about the King. He just choked on his own blood, forced his eyes to stay open through the blinding sweat and tears, and dragged his bleeding feet forward into the dust.
There was no one to save him from his misery.
No one to deliver him from his torment.
No one to help him.
No one ever encouraged him, to tell him to keep going.
That things would be okay one day.
Pantheon never dared to gloom or to pity himself from this stone cold truth.
No one will help him.
This was his path.
If it was his destiny, then so be it.
Thought he wont just suck it up and let this be the end.
no.no.no.no.NO
He would fight.
and
He will fight.
even at the very end.
.....
The sun was sinking, casting long, bloody shadows across the dead grass when the heavy supply wagon finally ground to a halt. They hadn't reached the fort yet. Ahead, the jagged stone walls of Silas's stronghold were visible on the horizon, a grim silhouette against the darkening sky. But the guards were tired, the dusk was setting in, and Silas was bored.
Unchain the three-gold piece! Silas bellowed from his padded seat on the wagon.
A guard stepped forward, kicking Pantheon's swollen ankle before unlocking the heavy iron lead from the axle. Pantheon collapsed instantly into the dirt, his knees slamming into the hard-packed earth. He could barely breathe. The taste of copper was thick and sticky in his throat, and every shallow gasp felt like someone was driving a rusted file between his ribs.
The guards formed a wide, shouting circle, their iron-shod boots stomping the ground to clear away the larger rocks.
The boy's a corpse walking, one guard laughed, spitting toward Pantheon. He won't last a single round.
That's why we're checking the inventory before we pass the gates," Silas grunted, stepping down from the wagon. He held a leather skin of wine, his wet eyes scanning the line of bound captives. He pointed a thick, grease-stained finger at a large, broad-shouldered man a few paces down the line—a blacksmith's apprentice from a neighboring village who had been weeping quietly for hours. You. Big man. Get in the circle.
The apprentice was dragged forward, his chains unlocked. He was terrified, his chest heaving, but he was whole. He wasn't bleeding from the lungs. He wasn't a walking skeleton with an empty crater over his heart.
Silas tossed a rusted iron dagger into the center of the dirt ring. It clattered against a stone, catching the dull red light of the setting sun.
Simple terms, Silas announced, his voice carrying over the crackle of a freshly lit campfire. "We're running low on grain, and I don't feed useless mouths. One of you walks into my fort as a worker. The other stays here for the wolves. Pick up the knife.
The blacksmith's apprentice looked at the dagger, then looked at Pantheon. Desperation is a terrible thing; it turns decent men into monsters faster than any whip. The big man's eyes hardened. He wanted to live. He took three heavy steps forward and snatched the rusted blade from the dirt.
Pantheon tried to push himself up.
The simple act of lifting his weight sent a fresh, blinding wave of agony through his chest. He choked, a thick glob of dark blood spilling past his lips and splattering onto his bare knees. He couldn't get his left leg to steady; the muscle was completely spent from the miles of dragging. He managed to get to one knee, swaying violently, his hands pressed into the dirt just to keep from falling flat on his face.
He didn't have a weapon. He didn't even have the breath to scream.
"Look at him," the apprentice whispered, his voice trembling as he raised the knife. "He's already dead. I'm sorry, boy. I'm going home."
The First Blow
The big man lunged.
He wasn't a trained fighter, but he had weight and momentum. He came down hard, driving his heavy boot straight into Pantheon's shoulder—the very same shoulder the Alpha wolf had crushed hours before.
The bone groaned. Pantheon was sent rolling across the dirt, his face scraping against the sharp stones of the ring. The impact jarred his shattered ribs, and a sharp, white-hot crack echoed inside his ears. He couldn't breathe. The air was entirely trapped in his throat, blocked by the sheer volume of blood rushing up from his chest.
The circle of guards roared with laughter, cheering for the easy slaughter.
"Get up, meat!" a guard screamed, poking Pantheon in the hip with the blunt end of a spear. "Make it a fight!"
Pantheon lay in the dirt, the world spinning in nauseating circles of gray and red. Through the haze, he saw the apprentice's shadow looming over him, the rusted dagger raised high, aimed straight down at his neck.