Shackles of the Forsaken: The Forsaken, #1

By K. R. Tegze

Journey into the captivating world of Shackles of the Forsaken, the thrilling first installment in The Forsaken series. Enter a blood-soaked world governed by humanity's most sinister cravings.

 

Within the vast continent of Soqra, where humans revel in their darkest desires through the enslavement of others, a glimmer of hope emerges. Explore a shattered society through the eyes of the oppressed where the chains of slavery are forged by the belief that the gods themselves created them of mud, to serve the masters who bear divine lineage. Can any slave break free? Will any slaver find redemption?

Embark on an unforgettable adventure alongside Brakhar, a former fighter-slave, as it escapes the clutches of its oppressors. Guided by Haanu, an ally with a heart of gold, who is capable of transforming into an eagle. Together, they navigate a perilous path towards freedom. But their pursuers are relentless, for no slave has ever managed to escape. Brakhar's recent loss of its hand and a newfound power further complicates their journey.

Elsewhere in Soqra, a young slaver finds himself disgusted with the corrupt world he must live in. To make matters worse, the merciless general of their powerful empire's army arrives, instilling fear in him and one of the slaves whose perspective we follow.

Yet, these are mere pieces in a grand tapestry. Overseas lays Feud, where kingdoms rise and fall in an instant, and women are oppressed. A courageous female warrior battles not only external adversaries but also her own inner demons, grappling with the fear of embracing her femininity. Has she been born into the wrong body?

On the fringes of the icy unknown lands, encounter the shape-shifting clan, Mammuthus. Exiled by the new rulers of one of the five kingdoms, they must overtake a treacherous journey across the frozen wilderness, facing unimaginable challenges and perils lurking beneath the ice.

 

The Forsaken is not a tale of kings and emperors, it is a tale of the oppressed, the tale of the forsaken. This 100,000-word-long entry is merely the beginning, beckoning you into an epic saga that will leave you yearning for more. Prepare yourself for an extraordinary odyssey as the tale of The Forsaken continues to unfurl, offering new landscapes to explore and a diverse cast of characters to encounter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. R. Tegze
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223208914

Book preview

The monster

DARKNESS SWALLOWED the world. A soothing, comforting, and serene darkness that would soon be overtaken by a fierce and unstoppable storm, destined to claim numerous lives. Brakhar knew that all too well, as it bore the scars of countless storms. Yet, it was not trying to seek shelter, no, for Brakhar itself was the embodiment of lightning. The lighting fears not the storm that brings it to life. And only emptiness surrounds life—hollow voids devoid of purpose, or emotion, for that matter.

The monster could do naught but wait for the rumble to begin and allow it to become the lightning it was meant to be. Such was the will of the heavens.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

And there it was, at last, the rumble. It seemed faint and distant, but that was only a mere illusion Brakhar failed to fall for, though it never stopped wondering whether its own numbness or the imposing wooden gate before it created this deception.

As the gate slowly ascended with a resounding and agonizing crack, light and clamor flooded into the small chamber where the monster stood. The massive hardwood structure required the strength of two auroch bulls to lift, their steps sluggish as the gate rose higher and higher. Yet, this barrier was one of the four lighter ones, overshadowed by the two hardened metal gates designed to restrain even greater monsters than Brakhar. Only with such abominations slavers could hope to subdue whatever was dragged to the mighty arena of Ihkq to die.

The gate reached its zenith, halting abruptly with a thunderous crack. For a fleeting, shattered fragment of a second, excitement coursed through the monster's body, rapidly crawling from head to toe with sharp claws. The sensation perished almost as quickly as it came, yet the claws left their bleeding marks—and for a moment Brakhar could nearly feel something. Something good.

With closed eyes, Brakhar stepped forward, gradually opening its eyes to acclimate to the blinding light. Like blood seeping from a fresh wound, patience drained from its body. However, haste was not an option. In the arena, even the slightest misstep could determine life or death. Often, it truly was that simple. And the monster had no desire to lose.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Its bare feet made no sound when it landed on the floor of the pit. There was a time when the scorching sand would sear its skin, but it had long since hardened. Nevertheless, in those bygone days, the blood soaked into the ground burned hotter than any flame ever could.

Yet, not even fragments of those memories remained within its grasp.

There was no need for it to survey its surroundings, as the layout of the circular arena was all too familiar. For many long years, it had been forced to fight for its life every ninth day within these confines. Even if it desired to properly inspect its surroundings, that would have been futile. The majority of the edifice was cloaked by a roof, casting a colossal shadow over the thirty-row-high amphitheater that encircled the battleground.

A large hole punctured the roof's center, allowing slivers of sunlight to filter into the arena, illuminating the pit, while keeping the rest of the building  in darkness. Being in such close proximity to the deadly desert, Baar, and with a structure of such magnitude, this design was the sole means of coping with the scorching heat and searing rays of the sun.

The fights commenced at the same hour every week, so the pit's thick layer of sand  would receive the majority of the sunlight, rather than the auditorium where slavers and visitors from beyond the empire of Welqar were seated.

Throughout the day, as the sun shifted its position, a thick canvas would be moved to cover the hole, ensuring that no spectators were subjected to the harsh glare during the games. The same could not be said for the slaves who operated the lid. Their lives were so harrowing that, perhaps, their short lifespans were a mercy.

On the days of arena events, several candles were lit around the four narrow staircases that broke the line of seats, guiding the spectators to their designated places. Just before the first battle, the candles would be extinguished and then lit again after the final one.

Despite the immense interest in the fights, the seating arrangements were relatively spacious, allowing the slavers to recline comfortably, accompanied by a few of their slaves who catered to their every whim and desire during the spectacle.

Although the monster had never set its eyes upon the spectators, it could always hear their voices distinctly. The incredibly loud cacophony emanating from the thousands of excessively excited voices seemed to defy the very heavens. In this aspect, the slavers truly were descendants of the gods, as they proclaimed.

Brakhar believed that the slavers' screams were so thunderous that they caused the very foundation of the arena to tremble, but it had learned long ago not to pay attention to most of them. However, there was one brightly illuminated pavilion that it couldn't help but fixate on. It was forbidden to avert its gaze, for within the grandest pavilion sat the owner of the arena, the arena master, and occasionally esteemed guests.

Even though the opulent city of Ihkq was situated in one of the most inhospitable places imaginable, Brakhar wasn't surprised by the sheer number of slavers in attendance, nor by their consistent presence week after week. It had lived long enough to comprehend what slavers truly were. Although it had never witnessed their daily lives. There were no pretenses or false smiles here. Everyone bared their true faces to the world as the slaughter commenced.

They smiled, cheered, and demanded more. No amount of bloodshed could satiate their appetites.

Yes, Brakhar understood their nature all too well.

Monsters. Not unlike itself. The fleeting glimmer of hope that it might not be so distinct from them was overshadowed by the boundless hatred it harbored towards their entire kind. It buried this thought so deeply that even the monster itself couldn't recollect the existence of such sentiment.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

The slavers, after all, were the direct descendants of the gods, while slaves were created from mud, destined solely for servitude. This piece of history was instilled in each and every slave, even before they could crawl.

To honor this, every fighter had to turn toward the arena master's pavilion and bow, even before acknowledging the presence of the other combatants. The master sat only four swords' length above her fighters, close enough that any fighter daring to attack the slavers in the pavilion could successfully execute such a daring plan.

Yet, as far as Brakhar knew, such an act had never occurred, nor was it likely to happen anytime soon. Such an action would be considered blasphemy, if their words were to be believed.

Apart from the slavers, a few slaves occupied the pavilion during the games. Most served as additional entertainment, some as messengers, and one as the announcer-slave.

Of all the participants, the announcer-slave held the most significant role in the arena, serving as the voice of the arena master. A slaver would never stoop so low as to shout like a slave.

The announcer slave held a five-sword long iron pole in its hands, and at the very top of the rod, a white fabric hung lazily. Brakhar knew that soon the fabric would be stained red, then brown. The cloth served as both a trophy and a tool, and perhaps even as a warning.

As the slave began to wave the pole, the spectators fell silent, anticipating the impending announcement. The fighter-slaves were always introduced before they entered the pit, so the monster never heard what was said about it—whether they praised its survival in countless battles (though it had long lost count) or wished for this to be its final fight. It suspected the latter, but the hopes of the crowd held little significance. Brakhar's duty was to kill and survive.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

Finally, the announcer-slave spoke, delivering a brief but sufficient announcement: Dear slavers and free visitors, it is my honor to mark the start of today's first battle. Dear slavers, free visitors, let the games begin! The final words of the announcer-slave were drowned out in a cacophony of shouts as the fighters pivoted, their eyes locking onto their adversaries for the very first time. The anticipation in the air was palpable, a charged energy that surged through the pit and reverberated within each combatant.

Brakhar wasted no time and quickly assessed each of its opponents. This time, there were four fighters in the pit. The one furthest from it, a female armed with an awl pike, was already advancing toward a male who wielded a trident and a weighted net.

They mattered not, Brakhar decided, as they would engage in combat with each other first. It only had to deal with the victor after dispatching the fourth slave—a tall, cocoa-skinned male—who had chosen a flail as his weapon. The freedom granted to fighter-slaves was limited to their weapon selection.

Choosing its own weapons, the monster favored the armaments of the southern landlords. It wielded a poorly crafted wooden heater shield in its left hand and a long sword in its right. To ensure further protection, it wore a belt with two daggers. This leather belt was the only covering granted to most slaves, as the slavers saw no purpose in concealing any part of their possessions.

The monster had faced flails many times before, and as it observed the cocoa-skinned male's bulging muscles, it discarded its shield. In such strong hands, the flail could shatter bones like glass. If that alone failed to weaken or kill, the long spikes would pierce flesh and bone effortlessly. The flimsy shield would be useless against such a weapon.

Dodging and utilizing the dagger, the monster decided would be its strategy.

Brakhar's gaze fixated on the cocoa-skinned male, his opponent in this deadly dance. As their eyes met, a moment of primal recognition passed between them—an acknowledgment of the imminent clash, the battle that would unfold with blood-soaked fervor.

In that instant, Brakhar's mind focused solely on the task at hand. The shouts of the spectators melded into a chaotic symphony, their voices merging into an indistinguishable mass of fervor and bloodlust, then faded into the background completely, replaced by an intense clarity that narrowed its world to the impending fight. The monster's senses heightened, attuned to the slightest movement, the faintest shift of weight or intent.

Time seemed to slow as the fighters prepared to engage. The anticipation hung in the air like a charged storm, a silent understanding that this was a clash of survival, where only one would emerge victorious, and the other would be left broken and lifeless on the crimson-stained sands.

With every fiber of its being, the monster steeled itself, drawing upon its primal instincts, honed through years of brutality and combat. In the deafening storm of shouts, Brakhar stood poised, ready to confront its enemy and fulfill its purpose.

Obey.

Kill.

Survive.

With a deep, raspy roar, the cocoa-skinned slave began to approach Brakhar. Countless scars on the fighter's distorted body attested to its survival in numerous battles. The male did not waste energy on running; instead, it walked slowly and confidently on the blood-soaked sand.

Silent as a shadow and with a wicked smile, the male advanced towards Brakhar, moving deliberately and cautiously. By the time the two fighters drew near enough to commence their deadly dance, the sound of metal clashing from the other two combatants grew audible, as did the increasingly raucous cheers of the crowd. The noise reverberated so loudly that it could be heard even from distant plains, but in the heart of the commotion, the monster failed to register any of these sounds—its focus remained unwavering, locked onto its lone adversary who stood before it, a formidable obstacle in its path to survival.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

The male raised its flail for the first strike with surprising speed, maneuvering the heavy weapon towards the monster, aiming to catch it off guard. However, Brakhar, aware of the dangers of underestimating an opponent, swiftly evaded the attack.

The monster's agile evasion showcased its experience and understanding of combat. It recognized the significance of remaining alert and agile, for a momentary lapse in judgment could have dire consequences. The dance of battle unfolded as both fighters assessed each other's moves, searching for any opening that would grant them an advantage.

The flail rose again, but once more, Brakhar effortlessly sidestepped the impending strike. The monster's instincts sharpened, and it could sense an opportunity to retaliate. It decided to seize the moment and countered with a calculated jump, aiming its sword and dagger towards the vulnerable spot between the male's thick arm and shoulder.

The jump enhanced the force of the monster's attack, compensating for the difference in height between the combatants. However, the airborne maneuver made precise targeting more challenging. The male, anticipating the monster's strategy, reacted quickly, causing the sword to graze only the surface of its skin while the dagger sank deep within the muscles of its upper arm instead of the intended target.

Brakhar, witnessing the male's anguished scream and the sight of fresh blood, couldn't help but smile—a dark and bitter smile born from the harsh life it had endured. The pain inflicted upon its opponent gave the monster a twisted sense of satisfaction, reinforcing its survival instincts honed through countless battles.

Despite the male's agony, it refused to succumb to the pain. In an impressive display of resilience, it swiftly raised its weapon again, forcing the monster to create distance before it could retrieve the embedded dagger. Brakhar adeptly evaded the oncoming strike, managing to step back and retrieve the remaining dagger from its belt.

The sturdy chains of the flail rattled as its head hurtled towards the monster's chest. Instead of dodging, Brakhar made the bold decision to parry the attack with its sword, causing the chain to collide with the blade that connected it to the handle. The collision momentarily shifted the trajectory of the flail and the sword, entangling them mid-air. The chain continued its trajectory, dragging along the sword, but the entwined weapons ceased their movement, eliciting a painful cry from the male as the flail's momentum waned.

Halting the flail exacted a heavy toll on Brakhar's arm, causing pain to ripple through its entire body. The monster's blade also suffered, as the chain left visible notches on the once-sharp edges. However, despite the agony, the monster deemed the action a worthwhile sacrifice. It maintained its balance and seized the opportunity to strike with its dagger before the cocoa-skinned slave could react.

Again and again, the monster plunged its blade into its opponent's soft stomach, driven by a single-minded desire for more bloodshed. It lost count of the wounds it inflicted, consumed by a primal urge to dominate and survive.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

The multiple deep wounds weakened the male, causing it to falter and allowing the monster to yank both sword and flail away. The weapons clattered against the ground, their metallic symphony marking the end of their brutal dance.

Despite being unarmed, the cocoa-skinned slave could still have posed a threat with its powerful fists. However, the intense battle had taken its toll on the fighters, as it soon found itself weakened and exhausted, and collapsed onto its knees, desperately attempting to staunch the bleeding and hold its disemboweled guts inside.

Brakhar approached the male, casting a shadow over the fallen warrior. The monster stood silently, waiting patiently for the male to lift its gaze and acknowledge its defeat.

There was a moment of stillness, broken only by the sounds of heavy breathing and the moans of pain. The cocoa-skinned slave, with bloodied hands and a face contorted with agony, slowly raised its eyes to meet Brakhar's gaze.

As Brakhar looked into the dying male's eyes, a mix of emotions stirred within the monster. Despite having taken countless lives, the expressions of those on the brink of death still unsettled it. There was an eerie familiarity in the eyes of the dying, a combination of fear, surprise, regret, and an odd sense of liberation.

The monster surmised that the surprise in the male's gaze stemmed from its defeat at the hands of a smaller and seemingly weaker opponent. Perhaps it had grown accustomed to victories and had never imagined being bested. Fear, on the other hand, could represent the male's concern for losing its fame and reputation, or the uncertainty of what awaited it beyond the demise of its physical body. And within that fear, there might have been a glimmer of hope for finding some form of freedom in death, even if it was nothing more than a delusion.

As Brakhar considered severing the defeated slave's head, though it realized quickly that the damaged state of its sword rendered the task impossible. The blade only managed to softly stab through the male's neck, failing to achieve a clean decapitation. Recognizing that it would have become a mockery of itself had it continued, Brakhar withdrew the blade. Warm blood cascaded onto its exposed chest, and an unusual sense of satisfaction filled the monster. Perhaps it was the feeling of being in control, or perhaps it was a confirmation of its monstrous nature.

With the male's life extinguished Brakhar's attention turned to the ongoing battle between the two remaining opponents. Both combatants were wounded, their bodies bleeding from several injuries, indicating that their end was drawing near, particularly for one of them, and it observed with a mixture of anticipation and detachment, ready to confront the fate that awaited the survivor.

Brakhar swiftly retrieved its stuck dagger from the fallen opponent and secured both daggers back onto its belt. It then retrieved its sword and walked back to its shield, ensuring it was fully equipped once again. Turning its attention to the direction of the other two fighters, the monster observed that their battle had also reached its conclusion.

The female fighter lay on its back, defeated and defenseless, with the trident held at its neck. Its weapon, the awl pike, lay discarded on the ground, a distance away from it.

Both combatants remained motionless, waiting for the audience to determine the fate of the defeated slave. If a defeated combatant received no fatal wounds it was the right of the spectators to decide its fate. The unified voice of the spectators shouted marvanok, signifying their demand for death. It was blood that they paid for, after all, and their desire was always fulfilled.

Sorqan! Sorqan! Fisher! Fisher! they shouted as the victorious fighter basked in the glory bestowed upon it by the chanting crowd, proudly raising the bloody trident high. The cheers soon transitioned into hopeful cries for the next battle, as the spectators chanted for the next clash, Frotalq! Frotalq! Fight! Fight! Their calls were not in vain, as the two fighter-slaves approached each other, preparing for their first and final fight.

Sorqan wielded a weighted net and a trident, a weapon three times the length of Brakhar's sword, giving the fisher an advantage in reach. Weighted nets could pose a challenge if utilized effectively, but often the net wielder failed to successfully entangle their enemy. Nevertheless, the monster had faced various weapons in its battles and knew how to adapt.

Brakhar's new opponent bore fresh wounds on its upper arms, right thigh, and chest, while the monster itself remained unscathed. However, its sword had become nearly useless due to its damaged state, though some of the net's bindings had been severed during the previous fight.

Brakhar raised its shield, positioning it in front of its chest, while holding its sword close to its only source of protection. Sorqan responded by slightly leaning its trident, leaving space for the monster to approach. However, Brakhar would not be so foolish to advance. Sorqan soon realized this and hurled its net towards Brakhar, who easily evaded the attack.

The battle continued with more evasions and unsuccessful trident thrusts from Sorqan. The fisher attempted to employ the net once again, but this time Brakhar stood farther away, allowing the net to open up. Seizing the opportunity, the monster twisted its weapon on its shield, disarming Sorqan and simultaneously making a stab with its sword.

The male slave skillfully dodged the strike, managing to avoid being wounded but losing the weapon in the process. Brakhar, on the other hand, found itself with a slightly twisted net hanging from its shield and arm, binding them together. Despite its attempts to remove the net during the fight, the monster was unsuccessful, and the original plan to wrap the fabric around its arm multiple times failed when Sorqan attacked again.

In order to avoid getting even more entangled in the net and risking a fall, Brakhar was forced to keep its left hand away from its body, giving its evasions an appearance resembling that of a foolish dance. However, the monster succeeded in dodging the strikes, recognizing that avoiding harm was the only thing that truly mattered in the end. It reminded itself of its purpose: Obey. Kill. Survive.

The fisher gripped its trident with its empty left hand, increasing the weapon's force but potentially sacrificing mobility, and made another strike. However, the trident missed its mark once again. This time, the monster decided to retaliate. Closing the distance with long and fast steps before the male could react, Brakhar easily stabbed with its sword, piercing Sorqan's side. The strike was not accurate enough to be lethal, but it caused a deep and painful wound. Yet, the fisher showed no signs of flinching or fear.

Instead of following up with a second stab, the monster attempted to evade the trident's next attack, momentarily forgetting about the extra weight on its left hand. In that split second, a small but critical mistake was made. Its leg became entangled in the net, causing it to lose balance and fall to the ground. Landing on its left side in an unfortunate manner, its own dagger tore through its thigh. Despite the pain, the monster knew that weakness could determine life or death in an instant, and it had already made too many mistakes.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

Reacting swiftly after the fall, Brakhar managed to shift onto its back, narrowly avoiding a direct hit from the trident. Only one of the spikes managed to wound it, leaving a deep scratch on its side, while the other two struck the crimson sand.

As the male raised its weapon for the next attack, its strike was intercepted by the monster's shield. Taking advantage of the situation, both of the monster's legs kicked Sorqan's left knee, causing the fisher to lose balance and topple onto the monster. Without hesitation, Brakhar threw Sorqan off and swiftly rolled onto the male before it could react. In no time, a dagger found its way over the fisher's heart.

A single word reverberated throughout the arena as the dagger plunged deep into Sorqan's heart, abruptly ending its wretched life.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

Warm blood sprayed across Brakhar's face, and for a moment, a sense of joy coursed through its body. Or at least, it believed it to be joy. But joy had no place in the talons of the monster. A mere moment later, the feeling dissipated into the endless abyss that resided in its heart.

Obey. Kill. Survive.

Nothing else matters.

The general

THE WORLD WAS FILLED with screams, cries, and death. Runaway slaves fell one by one, and blood stained everything. The general took immense pleasure in slaughtering those fools, savoring every moment. The process was deliberately slow, extremely slow, to satisfy the general's twisted desires.

The general found it amusing that he had brought slave-soldiers along to kill the runaway slaves. It brought him great pleasure to see those worthless beings slain by their own kind. His wicked smile never left his face as he watched the carnage unfold. Leave that one alive, the slaver pointed towards one of the four remaining barely wounded runners, giving specific instructions to the soldiers. The general's command wasn't out of mercy, though. The soldiers nodded and took care of the rest.

One of the slave-soldiers cleverly cut open important veins of the first runaway, causing it to bleed out. It was an effective punishment, but too mundane and quick for the warrior's taste. The general made a mental note of which slave came up with the idea so that he could punish it later.

Every slave-soldier bore a unique code consisting of two letters and three numbers tattooed on their bodies in various colors. This code allowed their unit and specific position to be identified at a glance. It was the sole reason the general was able to distinguish one from another. He often remarked, Filth is filth, emphasizing his disregard for their very beings.

The second one received three powerful blows from a knought, causing severe injuries and eventually leading to its collapse and death. This display showed slightly more creativity, but it was still too quick. The slave responsible would also face punishment.

The third one had their eyes gouged out with a dagger, replaced with a hot iron, and covered with a thick iron brand to keep the pieces from falling off. The slave writhed in pain and screamed while kicking around in the dirt. The general enjoyed this method of execution, although he had seen it too many times before. A few lashes wouldn't hurt the responsible soldier either, nor the rest. Let them fear the gods, he believed. Let them fear me.

However, the pain inflicted on the three runaway slaves was nothing compared to what awaited the fourth one at the hands of the general. Just the thought of the punishment made him aroused, and he laughed with a chilling sound that could send shivers down anyone's spine. Some claimed to have nightmares for weeks after hearing that laugh.

The general knew that the fourth runaway would suffer greatly for many days, at his divine hands. And even that would be nothing compared to the torment awaiting it in the afterlife. The slaver's devilish smile revealed his belief in the vengeful and merciless nature of the gods towards such worthless beings.

There was no need for words. The loyal slaves already knew what they had to do. They detached a long rope from the general's saddle and tightly tied one end to the hands of the last runaway while the other end was secured to the track. They quietly followed the general and the slaver's white mount, ignoring the desperate cries of the unfortunate female. It was already crying out in despair, but the worst was yet to come. The slaver laughed again, relishing in the suffering to come.

The blighter

THE BLIGHTER'S LOVER made barely a sound as he slipped out of bed. If Alokhe hadn't been such a light sleeper, the guard-slave could have easily departed without his notice. In the gentle morning light, Alokhe stretched his muscles lazily, letting out a yawn, while his lover adorned himself with cheap armor. As the slave turned toward the slaver, the sunlight danced playfully around his head, transforming his almond skin into a radiant gold.

With a small smile, the blighter hopped out of bed and kissed his lover. If it were up to them, they might have remained in each other's embrace for eternity. However, duty called. It's such a shame that you always have to leave so early, the blighter whispered.

In response, the slave cast a sad look. I will find a way for the two of us to be together, I swear, he added. His lover's amber eyes conveyed fleeting sorrow for a brief moment, so fleeting that it could have been missed with a blink. Sorrow swiftly transformed into passion as the male kissed the blighter once more before departing.

The blighter stared at the closed door for several minutes before getting dressed. Although he had a slave designated for such tasks, he preferred to handle things himself. He loathed the idea of becoming like the other slavers he knew, relying on slaves for every aspect of their lives. His father had advised him to dress nicely because an important guest would be visiting that day. Despite being a slaver, Alokhe had little wealth to his name, and his father provided him with a meager allowance. After rummaging through his closet for half an hour, he settled on his finest black trousers, a beautiful sanguine shirt adorned with a white nuk sewn with soft feathers, and his worn black gigathes leather boots—the best he had.

Contrary to common misconception, not every slaver bathed in gold.

He rang a small bell, and moments later, a golden-haired female slave appeared. How may this one serve you, owner? she asked with a smile. Her blue eyes sparkled in the early morning light. With her slender body, chestnut skin, and ever-present smile, she could have been considered beautiful. Some part of him recognized that she indeed possessed beauty, as most slaves of her caste did, thanks to generations of selective breeding. However, he could discern the artificiality of her smile, and the purple tattoo crossing her face did her no favors either.

A slave with a genuine smile was as rare as nuks these days. In his fourteen years of life, the blighter had witnessed such a smile only once, and it belonged to his lover. Unfortunately, even his lover's smiles were short-lived.

Breakfast, the usual, he instructed not her, but it, reminding himself to refer to the slave as an object rather than a person. Slaves were mere possessions meant to serve the descendants of gods, not individuals. It was not uncommon for even mounts, such as horses, to receive better treatment than slaves. The girl nodded and promptly left. She returned shortly with a plate and a jug, placing them on his wattle wood desk in front of the windows.

The food, as always, was prepared exactly to his liking: three freshly-fried vulture eggs with liquid yolks on roasted garlic bread, sprinkled with his favorite spices, and accompanied by cold camel milk, as chilling as the breeze of midnight.

Once Alokhe finished