The Castle Gardens

The rest of the day went smoothly; there wasn't much work to do– after all, the bastard had been away.

He'd been called more frequently to the Royal court.

No doubt he'll take advantage of it to get to raise his status and rank.

The bastard would no doubt attempt to worm his way into favor, clawing for any scrap of status that could elevate him. But Artam? He was grateful for the bastard's ambition—grateful that it kept him far away from him.

In fact, he was delighted that there was something to keep the bastard away.

Of course, the bastard wouldn't bring a Naldean as his cupbearer to the Royal court. That would be an insult not only to the nobles but to the king himself.

That would be a great way to commit social suicide.

And how did an unlearned slave like Artam know this?

Well if you've served nobility long enough, you learn to read and understand things, ordinary slaves wouldn't.

He developed the skill very quickly. He had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes, and how not to get on their bad sides.

After all, they could kill him with a single word. No one cared if a Naldean died, especially a wretched one like him.

But he didn't let that ruin his mood.

He loaded the sack with coal, The bastard had used his recent supply. And he would beat Artam boneless again if the coal ran out during the night.

Though the thought of the bastard shivering in the night did put a smile on his face.

He chuckled.

Artam was so happy, he didn't know when he started humming in a happy tone.

"What makes the Murmer happy?" a voice cut through Artam's humming.

He turned to see Ilda, a fellow Naldean, he thought her expressionless face has a slight scowl. She was older by a decade or so.

Artam's humming ceased immediately.

"Nothing," he muttered,

Ilda's eyes narrowed.

"Be careful, let your joy not cause you to misstep, Child." Her voice was cold.

Artam said nothing.

He met her gaze for a moment before returning to his work.

Ilda opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind halfway, she shook her head, a mixture of pity and curiosity flickering across her features.

"What's her problem?" Artam thought,

He was a bit surprised that she spoke to him. Most of his tribesmen wouldn't speak with him, and when they did it was always in a negative way.

It was the superstition that made them like that.

His gray eyes—supposedly sky breaker and his men had gray eyes—were an ill omen, a mark of misfortune. An omen.

Among the Naldeans, it was said that gray eyes meant the bearer would bring tragedy wherever they went, just as red hair among Amarakians signified the blessings of fire and fortune.

His eyes had always set him apart, even back in Pondor his hometown.

But he felt as though Ilda spoke with a motive he couldn't perceive.

He shook the thought away, why should he dwell on it too long? It didn't matter. Not really.

He threw the coal over his shoulder and hauled it as he walked towards the bastard's quarters.

It was pretty well into the night when the bastard returned.

Artam was made to boil the water, add the wood ash, bring his dinner from the kitchen, stoke the hearth, and a lot of other things. Before he was dismissed and allowed to retire for the night.

Returning to his room with his body feeling like it weighed lead, Artam plopped down on the straw bed, spent and drained.

He nestled his head between the straw, and the shadows moved around him, the room seemed to grow darker and colder.

I will train tomorrow, Artam thought. Yeah, I will shadow my movements from earlier. I just need shom shut eye…. He yawned.

He must have dozed. The crow stood on the face, scrabbling at it with his feet.

"Train!" it cawed.

Artam cursed and shooed it away, turning to the other side of his body. He desperately needed sleep, but the crow was not letting him off.

It pecked and nagged till he finally gave in.

"Ah to hell with you! Fine, fine!" he cursed, getting out of the straw bed, and then he left the room.

He crept around the servant's quarter like a mouse, making sure not to bother anyone or stir noise.

It was bad enough no one liked him, he wouldn't willingly cause trouble or give them a reason to punish him.

He stole a mop stick from one of the storage rooms and quietly closed its door.

Finally, he left the servant quarters and made his way past the yard.

He snuck past a sentry in the shadow of the wall and lept from the barracks to the Serpent's den. Then he snuck into the castle manor, and crept to its gardens, abandoned and unused.

The castle gardens were a vast expanse of tangled, forgotten wilderness, far from the pristine beauty it once was.

The outer perimeter faired a lot better than the inner.

Overgrown ivy choked the once-stately stone walls, its tendrils twisting and coiling around the crumbling statues of long-forgotten figures. Weeds, tall and unruly, had taken over the flowerbeds, smothering the delicate blooms beneath a suffocating carpet of green.

Thorny brambles from ironwood shrubs crawled across the paths, making it impossible to walk without snagging clothing or skin.

Once-carefully pruned hedges had grown wild and untamed, their sharp branches jutting out at odd angles, casting dark shadows in the late afternoon light.

The grass, left uncut for seasons, had grown thick and wild, reaching up to knee height in some places, damp with dew and littered with dead leaves.

Here and there, the remnants of once beautiful flowers struggled to survive amidst the chaos; their petals faded and bruised.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and decay, the sweet fragrance of past blooms replaced by the musty smell of rotting vegetation.

In the center of it all, was a large ancient hearthwood tree, tall and moderate in width. Its scarlet leaves blanketed the unruly inner of the garden. And at its feet a stagnant pond sat, covered in a film of green algae, its black water murky and still.

Well, it was to be expected; the Castle had once belonged to The Great Amarak, Serpent of War.

When he was still nothing more than a lord in the malice wars. After the defeat of Naldea and the death of the traitors. The victors had spared the Naldean children, from the sins of their parents. Their punishment would be less harsh.

Starting from then on the children born would be subjected to eternal slavery for all eternity. For the crime of betraying humanity in favor of the thieving gods.

Amarak had made an empire in the process of winning the Malice wars. He named it Amarakia and renamed the Cassan tongue to Amarakian dialect. He also renamed a number of things, like Helian steel, Helian plate armor, and a whole lot more.

Well, after the expansion of Amarakia, he built the Red Crown and abandoned the Serpent's Den.

Now it's only used as a guest house for lower nobles…. Artam grimaced and climbed down from the ledge.

After dark, the gardens took on an eerie, shadowed beauty.

At night, the place became a haven of silence, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of an owl.

The moonlight barely pierced through the thick canopy of trees, casting a soft yellow glow over the secluded corner.

 No one came to the gardens after nightfall—soldiers hated the chill of the night air, and servants had no reason to linger.

The isolation made it perfect. Artam could shadow his combat movements, his form reflected in the still water.

The soft sound of his footfalls and the quiet rustle of his clothes were the only noises as he danced through the stances, his muscles moving with quiet precision.

Here, in the hidden corner of the gardens, he was unseen, unnoticed, and free.

Here he could practice shadowing his moves.