Imperial Year 155 AU, Second Moon
Kevron POV
Kevron's mind raced.
What do we do now?
The question had been circling in his head since the fire, since the bodies, since the moment they had crossed a line there was no coming back from.
There was only one answer.
He took a slow breath.
"We need to free the slaves in the mines."
The others looked at him.
"We've maybe got a few days before they realize what happened," Kevron continued. "Maybe less. We can't make it to the border with forty people. Not with the brands on us. We can't hide. We can't blend in."
"So what?" one of the men snapped. He had once been a soldier, captured years ago in one of the tribe raids. "We just die here instead?"
"No," Micheal said quietly.
Everyone turned to Kevron.
"What's the plan?" Micheal asked.
Kevron cursed silently.
This little bastard just passed it to me.
He sighed.
"We pretend to be the men we killed. Twenty of us take their armor and weapons. The other twenty stay in chains so it looks real."
A few of the men leaned forward.
"When we reach the mine, we get inside. We find the armory. We free the other slaves."
"And then?" the old soldier asked.
Kevron's jaw tightened.
"Then we kill the guards."
The women gasped.
Several of the men laughed—not because it was funny, but because it sounded impossible.
"Unless you'd rather stay slaves," Micheal said sharply. "Because after what happened back there, they'll hang every last one of us if we're caught."
Silence.
There were around thirty grown men among them—many old soldiers, hunters, and warriors before they had been taken. Five women. Five children, no older than twelve or thirteen.
None of them had been meant for the mines.
The women had been taken as servants, personal slaves for officers and merchants. The children had simply been born unlucky.
Kevron lowered his head.
"I'm sorry you got dragged into this," he said. "If anyone wants to leave now, do it."
No one moved.
Because everyone knew the truth.
There was nowhere to go.
The mark burned into their skin had made sure of that.
Finally, one of the older warriors stood.
He was broad-shouldered, with gray in his beard and a long scar across one side of his face.
"Well then," he said, giving Kevron a crooked grin. "Let's go."
⸻
The journey took another week.
They stayed close to the roads but never too close. The twenty men wearing stolen armor rode at the front and back, pretending to be guards. The others walked in chains between them, though the shackles hung loose enough that they could slip free if needed.
Whenever travelers passed, no one looked twice.
Just another group of slaves.
The bodies from the camp had been left behind. Some burned. Others dragged into the woods for the animals.
By the seventh day, the mines came into view.
The camp sat in a narrow valley between dark mountains. Wooden walls surrounded it, with watchtowers at each corner. Beyond them, black smoke drifted from the mine entrance.
Kevron counted at least fifty guards.
Too many.
But it would have to be enough.
As they approached, the gate opened.
A heavy man in a fur-lined coat stepped out to meet them. The governor.
"Twenty slaves?" he asked, looking annoyed. "That's all they could spare?"
He shook his head.
"I'll be sending your master a raven."
"Yes, sir," one of the disguised men answered, keeping his face hidden beneath his helmet.
Kevron stood near the front of the chained prisoners, head down.
"How many slaves are here?" he asked quietly.
The governor barely looked at him.
He flipped through a book in his hands.
"About two hundred in the mines right now. Most brought from around Hightower. More coming next month."
Two hundred.
Kevron forced himself not to react.
"Where do you want us to take them?" one of the disguised men asked.
"Put them to work immediately," the governor said. "The night shift starts in an hour."
⸻
Night fell slowly over the camp.
The mountains swallowed the last light, leaving only the glow of torches along the walls.
Inside the slave barracks, two hundred men, women, and children lay crowded together on filthy straw.
No one spoke.
No one slept.
Kevron sat near the back wall, chains loose around his wrists.
Across from him, Micheal watched the door.
Then—
Three quiet knocks.
Kevron stood.
The door opened.
One of the disguised men slipped inside.
"It's time," he whispered.
The door opened wider.
Twenty armored figures entered.
Several slaves flinched, thinking the guards had come for another beating.
Then one of the armored men pulled off his helmet.
The old warrior with the scarred face smiled.
"Quiet," he whispered.
The room went still.
Half the men remained in the barracks.
The other half slipped back into the darkness.
The guards' sleeping quarters sat beside the armory.
Thirty men slept there—overseers, miners, and off-duty guards.
The door creaked open.
The room smelled of sweat, wine, and smoke.
Moonlight spilled through cracks in the wall.
Kevron entered first.
For a moment, he froze.
Thirty sleeping men.
Defenseless.
His hand tightened around the knife.
Then he saw the whip hanging on the wall.
The branding iron beside it.
He remembered the screams.
Kevron moved.
The knife slid across the first guard's throat.
Blood poured onto the blanket.
Beside him, Micheal drove his blade into another man's neck.
All through the room, the disguised slaves struck.
One guard woke just long enough to widen his eyes before a hand covered his mouth.
Another tried to shout, but a knife buried itself in his chest.
Within moments, it was over.
Thirty bodies lay still.
"Armory," Kevron whispered.
They hurried across the yard.
The keys taken from the governor's belt opened the door.
Inside were swords, spears, axes, shields.
Not enough for everyone.
But enough.
They carried the weapons back to the barracks.
When the doors swung open, every slave looked up.
Kevron climbed onto one of the rough wooden tables.
For a moment, he simply stared at them.
Two hundred people.
Thin.
Bruised.
Broken.
But alive.
"They marked us," Kevron said.
He held up his wrist, showing the black brand burned into his skin.
"They chained us. Beat us. Worked us until we dropped."
The room was silent.
"They took your homes. Your names. Your families."
Some of the women lowered their heads.
A little boy began to cry quietly.
"But tonight..."
Kevron drew a sword.
The sound of steel rang through the barracks.
"Tonight we stop being slaves."
Something changed in the room.
People looked up.
"We can't run," Kevron said. "They'll hunt us. They'll see the mark and know what we are."
He pointed toward the camp outside.
"So we fight."
Micheal stepped forward and handed a sword to the old soldier.
Then another.
And another.
Weapons passed through the crowd.
The women took spears.
The older children took knives.
One by one, people rose to their feet.
"If anyone wants to stay behind," Kevron said, "I won't blame you."
No one moved.
The old soldier raised his sword.
"I'd rather die with steel in my hand than chains on my wrists."
The others shouted.
Then suddenly—
A horn sounded outside.
One of the guards had found the bodies.
"Move!" Kevron shouted.
The doors burst open.
Two hundred slaves poured into the night.
The first guard turned in surprise just in time for a spear to strike him in the chest.
Another was dragged from his horse and beaten to death.
Torches crashed into the dirt.
Men screamed.
Steel rang in the darkness.
And for the first time in their lives—
The slaves fought back.