Chapter 17: The Long Walk
Lucien didn't resist when they handed him off to the traders.
There wasn't even time to think. One moment, he stood in the stifling heat of that tent, the smell of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. The next, a man with bronze armor and wrapped hands seized his chain and yanked him through the back entrance like a piece of cargo.
The sun hit him like a hammer. He squinted, stumbled, adjusting to the light and heat all over again.
The chain clanked as it joined a longer link—twelve others this time. They barely glanced at him. Sunken cheeks. Cracked lips. Skin darkened and split from exposure. Lucien didn't need to look in a mirror to know he looked the same.
No one spoke.
There was no point. None of them shared a language. Even if they did, what was there left to say?
The handlers barked sharp orders.
The caravan was moving.
Lucien's group was slotted into the larger chain. Nearly a hundred people, all connected, all marching in a long, swaying line through the open sands. Riders flanked them on both sides. Wagons creaked behind.
The pace wasn't fast.
But it was endless.
The desert showed no mercy. The sun beat down without pause. The dry wind sliced at his cheeks like tiny blades, drawing blood that dried too quickly. His lips cracked. His throat was raw. His eyes watered, but there were no tears left to give.
No water. Not yet.
Only after hours passed did one of the handlers ride past and toss a waterskin down the line.
One.
It barely made it halfway before it was empty. Lucien never even touched it.
But he didn't complain.
He already understood the rules of this life: If you stopped moving, you stopped existing.
So he moved.
The world around him was a graveyard. Endless dunes. Shimmering rock in the distance. Ancient ruins left half-buried in the sand—pillars, broken arches, walls carved with symbols no one remembered. Ghosts of a dead age, staring at them as they passed.
How many had walked this path before?
How many had vanished?
Lucien didn't know where he was. What continent. What century. He didn't even know who he was anymore. That boy from another life—the one with clean clothes and clever parents and a bed that didn't crawl—he was gone.
Now he was just another body.
Another number.
Another slave.
Time blurred. The sun rose. The sun fell. Nothing changed.
They stopped once around twilight. Not at a camp. Just a ring of wagons. The chained were forced to kneel in the sand, backs straight, faces down.
Each was tossed a strip of dry meat. Barely edible. A few gulps of bitter water followed.
Then it was back up.
Another whistle. Another yank on the chain.
March.
Lucien lost track of the days.
He stopped counting. There was no point.
The march never paused.
Lucien stared at the blood smeared in the sand as they passed.
It looked like art.
One he would never forget.
Maybe the fifth day.
Maybe the tenth.
The desert began to change.
Dunes became crags. Hills rose from the flat earth, covered in dry grass and thorny scrub. The wind smelled different. Still hot, but now tinged with life. Dust. Dung. Growth.
They were heading toward something. He could feel it.
The pace changed. The formation shifted. Riders doubled. The handlers moved with purpose.
Lucien noticed how they looked at the captives now—inspecting them, evaluating. One by one, they passed up and down the line. Silent judgments.
One stopped in front of him.
The tall one.
Braided silver-black hair. Tattoos across his throat and shoulders. The man who had bought him.
He stared at Lucien. First his face. Then his body.
Lucien stood a little taller than most. Broader. Still in the Trial's body—stronger, if thinner than before. Quiet. Obedient.
The man nodded.
Then moved on.
Lucien's eyes stayed on him until he was gone.
Something twisted in his gut. Cold. Deep. Not fear. Not anymore.
It was worse.
He felt like a blade. Sharpened. Stored. Waiting.
Not a person.
A tool.
The road changed again. Sand became packed dirt. The wind picked up.
And far ahead, jagged towers pierced the horizon.
Wherever they were going…
It wasn't the end.
Only the next step.