Every step burned; every impact of his feet against the ground reverberated through his entire leg, intensifying the latent pain of his bruises and making it harder and harder to stay upright. The chain, fastened to the right foot of every slave in the line—linking them together and effectively preventing individual escape—made walking even more difficult. Micah’s back had already become a map of every kind of cut and swelling, and he had learned to disguise his limps and keep his pace synchronized with those chained to him; otherwise, leather would meet his back again.

  He had gone a few days without eating before, out of sheer neglect and lack of self-love, but the constant walking—which demanded calories—and the wounds covering his body, begging for nutrients to heal, caused such hunger that it felt as though his stomach were digesting itself. Even so, he knew that begging for food would only earn him more wounds—and more hunger.

  “This can’t be happening. I’ll wake up at any moment…”

  He couldn’t let go of denial, because it was all that kept him sane. None of this made sense—it was illogical, irrational—impossible. Still, a tiny glimmer of hope ignited in his mind, and he clung to it with all his strength.

  “Wait… If all this is a dream, then I’m the master of it!”

  Oh, Micah.

  Do indulge us with yet another pearl of wisdom pulled straight from a half-baked YouTube tutorial at three in the morning, wedged between a conspiracy theory video and a compilation of “worst cases of anime fanservice.” Yes, of course, it’s a dream. Obviously. And, like every good lucid dreamer, he thought that simply realizing he was dreaming would turn him into the Chosen One in a sci-fi movie.

  He looked at his hand—slowly, like a wise mage about to conjure an explosion of pure destruction—and extended it forward, as if trying to change the TV channel with the power of his mind.

  He took a deep breath. Imagined heat, then fire, then a flaming ball of plasma ready to barbecue the first overseer who crossed his path.

  And then, like a good little geek sick with hope, he shouted:

  — FIRE BALL!

  …

  And the universe, cruel and perfectly indifferent, replied with nothing.

  Not a spark. Not a mystical sigh. Just Micah there, arm outstretched, looking like a botched hybrid between a failed life coach and a cheap mobile-RPG cosplay.

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Some slaves stared at him in genuine horror. Others with pity. The overseers? They looked at him the way one looks at a dog barking at a lamppost.

  A little snicker escaped from somewhere in the line. A second later—CRACK!—a whip kindly reminded him of reality. The one where he was master of nothing. Not even his own bowels.

  His hope—ah, that fragile illusion of control—evaporated like a fart in the wind. No impact. No dignity. Just shame, pain, and an outstretched palm trembling with ridicule.

  Because no, Micah.

  This is not a dream.

  And even if it were, you wouldn’t be its protagonist.

  The silhouette of the city grew larger with every passing moment. The group followed the stone road, flanked by vast plantations stretching as far as the eye could see. The river cut through the landscape like a silver scar, separating two distinct worlds.

  On the higher side of the bank, the lands were extensive and well kept, surrounded by low stone walls. Windmills dotted the horizon, and carefully planned irrigation channels carried water to the crops. There lay the nobles’ farms, where slaves worked under the supervision of overseers on horseback. They carried whips and wore black garments, their rigid figures resembling crows poised to strike.

  On the opposite bank, the lands were smaller and harder to cultivate. The crops appeared more scattered, the fences improvised from old wood and frayed rope. The soil there was not as well irrigated, and the work was done by peasants in simple, faded clothes, some accompanied by barefoot children carrying baskets of grain. Unlike the nobles’ walled farms, the peasants’ gardens were exposed to wind, thieves, and the stern gaze of tax collectors.

  Micah observed everything carefully, his gaze drawn to a group of slaves on the noble estates. Most had dark or red hair, but very few were blond or silver-haired—a rarity among the captives. He frowned when he noticed that, regardless of the farm, both overseers and peasants always wore black tunics, even under the punishing sun. A uniform, perhaps? But if it was mandatory, why hadn’t he seen anyone else wearing a silver tunic, like the blond man he had encountered earlier?

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  As he pondered this, the group slowed and came to a stop. They stood in line before the city’s northern gate. The city was surrounded by a massive stone wall which, by Micah’s estimate, was roughly the height of an eight-story building. Several watchtowers rose along it, guards constantly patrolling atop the walls. The same great river that irrigated the countless plantations—the Veédras—cut the city in two, its center dominated by a large circular lake, upon which stood the Central Island.

  At the heart of the island rose a citadel of pale stone and a cathedral of similar size, built of white marble so finely polished it was like a mirror of the sky itself. On the southern part of the island stood several mansions in an aristocratic district, while to the north were numerous silos and barns holding the portion of the harvest belonging to the King, soon to be sent to the capital, Axiêna, and to other cities of the realm. Great walls, similar to the outer ones, encircled the island; their structures were nearly identical, except for the fact that these boasted double the number of ballistae, guards, and surveillance.

  Two great bridges connected the Central Island to the rest of the city. The ring closest to the island was occupied by bourgeois neighborhoods and the Ducal Market, while the ring nearest the outer wall was filled to the brim with slums and poor districts.

  The architecture reflected the subtropical climate of the region, with most buildings made of reinforced adobe, wood, and limestone, their roofs covered in red ceramic tiles.

  The group passed through the gate without difficulty, submitting only to a superficial inspection by the guards. The stifling heat of the city hung heavy in the air, and the main thoroughfare—the Grain Road, a wide cobblestone street linking the North Gate to the Ducal Market—was coated in a fine layer of dust, kicked up by the constant flow of carts and pedestrians. What caught Micah’s attention most, however, was the evident segregation of the sidewalks. Iron plaques nailed to the walls on both sides of the street made the rules clear: on the right, “Sidewalk exclusively for blonds”; on the left, “Sidewalk for brunettes, blacks, and others.” And despite the strangeness of the imposition, pedestrians followed the law without question.

  As they made their way along the Grain Road, a short alcoholic staggered out of a filthy alley on the left sidewalk, wearing ragged clothes stained with vomit and sporting a dirty, poorly kept beard. He took a long swig of his beer before lifting his gaze to the street and spotting the passing line of slaves.

  When he saw the red heads, his brow furrowed at once. In a burst of fury, he hurled the empty bottle at a slave woman in a torn dress. The glass shattered on impact, and she collapsed to the ground, motionless.

  — T-Take that! You… red-headed… tramp! Hic! Scour… of the e-earth! — the drunk slurred, barely avoiding falling face-first onto the curb.

  A man ahead of her in the line, bound by chains, widened his eyes as he saw her fall.

  — Amanda! No! — he shouted, stumbling as he lunged forward. His body was dragged down by the weight of the chains, but he managed to kneel beside the woman, holding her in his arms. His breath caught as he saw blood streaming from her scalp, dripping through her red hair.

  He tore his own tunic and wrapped it around the woman’s head, stemming the blood. He looked around desperately until he spotted the attacker. The drunk was laughing loudly, pointing at the scene as if it were a street performance.

  — Hahaha! Y-you seein’ this?! That’s w-what those… bastards deserve! Murderers! — he mocked, prodding and pestering passersby, trying to draw them into his barbarity.

  The husband’s desperation and confusion quickly turned into pure hatred. He left his wife and threw himself at the man, landing a blow squarely on his face, breaking his nose and knocking him to the ground.

  — YOU BASTARD! What have you done?! — the husband roared, his eyes blazing with rage.

  The drunk cursed through clenched teeth, clutching his broken nose. He staggered as he tried to get up, spitting a bit of blood onto the ground.

  — DAMN IT! You want a fight, huh?! C-Come at me, son'va bitch!

  With a sudden movement, he tried to strike back, landing a clumsy punch on the slave’s cheek.

  As the slave prepared another blow, he was lashed across the back, a groan of pain torn from him as he was driven to his knees. The whip struck his back again and again, the cracks echoing through the street and alleys; the screams sent chills down the spine of anyone who heard them, drawing onlookers like flies to dung. The old slaver punished him in full view of all the other slaves in the line, using him as an example.

  The man collapsed unconscious from the pain, drenched in sweat, as fresh blood ran down his skin and met the dry ground.

  The drunk let out another laugh, the alcohol in his system amplifying the pleasure of triumph. Several whispers rippled through the crowd.

  — Tsk, imagine that? A slave causing a ruckus like this? — he shook his head in disapproval, snorting as he considered something.

  He studied the slave’s wounds for a moment before ordering the four subordinates who accompanied him on the journey:

  — Take those two to the cart. I’ll deal with them later.

  They obeyed, and the two unconscious lovers were placed in the front cart along with the other goods.

  Suddenly, a shout cut through the crowd:

  — Halt, in the name of Axis!

  Two guards forced their way through the spectators, firm and imposing. In a matter of seconds, they seized the drunk by the arms, clamping dark iron shackles around his wrists.

  The blond man, his expression hard as stone, declared:

  — You are under arrest for violation of public peace, damage to registered property, and intoxication during sacred hours. By the Law of Luther and in the name of the Leviathan, you will be judged according to the precepts of the Kingdom.

  The man thrashed and shouted, demanding to be released—but it was futile. His resistance was crushed effortlessly, and soon he was dragged away as the spectators parted in silence.

  Moments later, a whistle sounded, another guard shouting, “Disperse now! You’re obstructing traffic. Or would you like to be arrested too?” The commotion quickly dissipated completely, and the routine flow of the Grain Road returned to normal.

  As they continued walking, after everything Micah had witnessed, he slowly began to connect the dots.

  “The values I know don’t apply here… I thought all this was some kind of organized crime. But no… there’s a State behind it. Laws, customs, an entire structure built atop a culture I don’t know.”

  A chill ran down Micah’s spine. As absurd as everything seemed, there was no denying the reality before his eyes. He wasn’t just imprisoned; he was property. Legalized and regulated.

  The awareness of this weighed on his chest like a rock. He looked around at the guards, the merchants, the citizens who walked by without giving the slaves more than a passing glance.

  No one questioned it.

  No one hesitated.

  No one would save him.

  “And if no one questions it… it’s because this is already part of their world. This is… normal.”

  Micah clenched his fists. He didn’t know how, or when, but a certainty grew within him: he could not accept that.

  He could not live as a slave. Not again.

  As if that could ever happen.