Cruelty

Ezra watched Esmer's figure fade into the distance, a bitterness churning in his gut. The life of a slave was brutal—no choice in who you became, no say in what you did, and nearly no chance of escape. Sure, you could try to run, but most who did ended up right back where they started, with the slave seal branded even deeper.

As much as he despised being "owned," he knew he was better off than most. He could've been forced to toil away in some dark, stifling mine or, worse, be someone's plaything, like many enslaved women trapped under the control of sleazy masters. At least he was given a sword and a way out, slim as it might be. For a slave, he'd managed to carve out something resembling a future.

Ezra was about to resume his training when he noticed a familiar, irritating figure heading his way: the bald, skinny butler with a thin, overly groomed mustache. "Master Dammon wishes to see you, young Ezra," he said, his tone condescending and his gaze dripping with disdain.

Ezra just sighed, not even bothering to respond. He'd always found the shiny-headed butler insufferable, especially the way he looked at him—as if Ezra were something stuck on the bottom of his shoe.

When he reached Dammon's quarters, he found Dammon standing beside the noblewoman he'd met after his first match, as well as a tall man he didn't recognize. Ezra's stomach twisted; he had a bad feeling about this.

Dammon's eyes gleamed with greed as he gestured toward Ezra. "This is the Ebon Reaper up close, sir."

Ezra clenched his jaw, feeling a surge of disgust at Dammon's smug expression. He didn't even acknowledge the tall nobleman, his frustration focused entirely on Dammon. "What about our deal, jackass?" he snapped, his voice trembling with fury. "You promised me freedom if I saved up enough to break the spell. I've been fighting with a dull sword and scraps for armor, saving every coin—and now you pull this behind my back?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed Dammon's face, but it was quickly replaced by his usual smugness. "Oh my, did I promise that?" he sneered. "Funny, I don't recall any deal like that. Maybe you should've gotten it in writing."

A vein throbbed in Ezra's forehead. Ignoring the growing pain as the shock spell activated, he clenched his fists, feeling the electric jolts biting into his muscles. But he didn't care. He was done with holding back, done with swallowing his pride. Without a second thought, he pulled his fist back and swung, landing a solid punch across Dammon's smug face, satisfaction flooding through him even as the spell sent searing lightning rippling across his body.

The stranger finally spoke, breaking the tension in the room. "Oh, this one's feisty," he said with a smirk. "I heard you were supposed to be obedient, but no matter. I've already spent my money, and you don't need to worry about your freedom anymore. You'll be a soldier now. And by law, any slave who accomplishes great things on the battlefield earns their freedom."

Ezra turned his attention to the well-built man. His skin was ghostly pale, and his piercing purple eyes seemed to look right through him.

"Sorry about that, mister… whatever your name is," Ezra said, his voice still laced with irritation. "But this guy's been pissing me off ever since we met, and I've been holding back for way too long."

The pale man erupted into laughter, his amusement loud and genuine. "You're not the only one," he said, still chuckling. "No one likes him. I've met greedy people before, but Dammon? He goes beyond greedy. You'd think he worshiped one of the Six."

Ezra couldn't help but smirk. It was a small relief to know he wasn't the only one who saw Dammon for what he truly was.

Just as Ezra was about to respond, Dammon, now on his feet and glaring with fury, snarled, "Look, Ryzen, just do the damn slave transfer and get this beast out of my sight." His voice was sharp, dripping with frustration.

The pale man, Ryzen, just shrugged, unconcerned. "As you wish, Dammon. But you won't get rid of him that easily," he said, giving Ezra an appraising look. "It seems you've caught the interest of a few others, and I'm willing to bet you'll be more than just a soldier."

Ezra locked eyes with Dammon, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction wash over him. Even if his fate had already been sealed, at least for now, Dammon had lost his smug hold over him.

They completed the slave transfer and boarded a carriage, and as they did, Ezra caught sight of Esmer being taken away as well, her wings folded behind her as she was led off in the direction of the Legion.

Once they were alone in the carriage, the man—Ryzen—let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. He leaned in close to Ezra, his voice low with a mix of disbelief and frustration. "I can't believe I found an Elthar in the hands of that money worshipper. And he sold you for only three hundred gold? What a fool. To even think of using someone like you as a gladiator in the first place... ridiculous."

Ezra gave a somewhat awkward smile, not quite sure how to react. "So, you know I'm an Elthar? Not many people have recognized me—only some really old folks."

Ryzen's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Trust me, boy, I'm one of those really old folks. I knew plenty of Elthar back in my heyday. I remember the day I was told the Demons attacked your clan. I knew the Elthar were a powerful warrior race, but entire kingdoms have fallen to surprise attacks from Demons. They crawl from under the ground, after all."

Ezra's smile faded as Ryzen's words sank in. His frown deepened. "I... I don't really know the history of my people. Never really had a chance to learn about it."

Ryzen looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. "It's not surprising. Not many Elthar have had the luxury of learning about their past. But you should know, your people fought hard—harder than most would even dream. They were fierce warriors, and they didn't go down easily. The demons weren't the only ones who saw you as a threat. Even kingdoms feared the Elthar."

Ezra turned his gaze to the window, the weight of his people's lost history pressing on him. He had always felt the isolation of not knowing where he came from, but now, hearing pieces of his people's legacy, it stung in a way he wasn't prepared for. He wasn't just a gladiator anymore—he was part of something much larger, something lost in time. And that realization stirred something in him, something that made him want to fight for more than just his own freedom.