Before proceeding to the camp, they hid their horses in a dense thicket far from the main road, ensuring the royal beasts wouldn't draw unwanted eyes. The sun was already climbing high now, pressing down harshly over the land, turning the air dry and tense with heat.
They moved on foot, staying low until they reached a ridge overlooking the valley. Squatting behind a large, tangled bush, they peered through the branches at the sprawling labor camp below.
"Look," Asarmose whispered, his eyes narrowing.From their vantage point, the chaotic movement of the camp became a clear, calculated system. People weren't just being herded; they were being systematically split into three distinct lines the nearer they got to the heavy iron gates.
Alistair stared for some moment, his predatory eyes tracking the guards' movements. "They are differentiated according to their traits," he said, his voice a low, cold vibration. "Whether Alpha, Omega, or Beta. They are being sorted like livestock for their specific utility."
Asarmose turned to him, his brow furrowed with a practical concern. "Then what do you suppose we do to mask our scent? Even in these commoner's rags, a high-born Alpha or Omega will stand out to any guard's nose like a flare in the dark."
Alistair didn't say a word. Instead, he reached into his pilgrim's scrip and pulled out a small, unassuming glass bottle. He gripped the cork and pulled it open.
Immediately, a thick, putrid stench hit the air. It was a vile combination of rotted marsh-weeds and stagnant musk. Asarmose's eyes widened; he squinted and instinctively covered his nose with his sleeve, gagging at the sheer potency of the smell.
"What is that?" Asarmose managed to choke out, his voice muffled by his cloak."It smells like a thousand years of decay."
Alistair didn't even flinch. He looked at the vial with a grim, detached focus. Without a word of warning, he tilted his head back and took a long, deliberate swallow of the foul liquid. His throat bobbed, and for a split second, his jaw tightened as the bitter sludge went down, but his expression remained like stone.
He lowered the vial, his breath coming out in a low, sharp hiss. "You're too dramatic," he said flatly, glancing at the Prince's visible distress.
"Dramatic?" Asarmose hissed, his eyes watering even more now that the scent was on Alistair's breath. "You just drank decay, Alistair. My dignity was already hanging by a thread in this wool, but I will not ingest that filth. Over my dead body."
"Have it your way," Alistair muttered.
Before Asarmose could even blink, Alistair moved. With the terrifying speed of a trained predator, he lunged forward, catching Asarmose by the back of the neck and pinning him against a gnarled tree trunk.
"Alistair, don't you dare—"
Asarmose's protest was cut short as Alistair used his thumb to press hard against the hinge of the Prince's jaw. The reflex forced Asarmose's mouth open, and in one swift, brutal motion, Alistair tipped the remainder of the vial down his throat.
The thick, bitter sludge hit Asarmose's tongue, tasting of earth, bile, and stagnant water. He gagged, his eyes widening in a flash of pure, royal fury, but Alistair clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing him to swallow every drop.
"Don't spit it out," Alistair whispered harshly, holding him pinned until he saw the Prince's throat bob. "If the guards smell even a hint of what you really are, they won't just kill you—they'll tear you apart. This is survival."
Alistair finally let go, stepping back as Asarmose collapsed forward, coughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The Prince's face was flushed, his eyes burning with a promise of future retribution."You... you absolute barbarian," Asarmose wheezed, his voice raw. He spat into the dirt, the taste of the concoction lingering like a curse. "I will never forget this. When we return to the palace, I will make sure your wine tastes like this for a century."
"If we return," Alistair countered, his eyes already turning back toward the camp. "Now, stand up. The internal scent-blocker takes a moment to sweat through the skin. By the time we reach the gate, you'll smell like every other wretch in that pit."
Asarmose rose slowly, his dignity bruised but his resolve sharpening into something much more dangerous. He adjusted his hood, the sass in his eyes replaced by a cold, clinical focus.
"Fine," Asarmose muttered, brushing the dirt from his tunic with sharp, jerky movements. "But I will remember this."
They emerged from the thicket, walking down the rocky slope toward the gates of Sector Seven. As they approached the back of the line, the guards were already barking orders, their whips cracking against the dusty ground.
One of the Alpha guards, a man with a broken nose and eyes like flint, stepped forward to inspect the new arrivals. He stopped in front of Asarmose, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air.
"Ugh," the guard grunted, waving a hand in front of his face. "You smell like you crawled out of a mass grave, boy."
Asarmose didn't flinch. He looked the guard in the eye, his expression one of perfect, weary apathy. "I've been traveling through the marshes. Unless you have a bath waiting for me, I suggest you just give me my assignment."
The guard's sneer faltered as Asarmose's expression shifted with terrifying ease. The Prince's cold apathy melted into a look of fragile, weary desperation. He lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping just enough to appear broken by the road.
"I haven't had a bath in weeks, sir," Asarmose murmured, his voice soft and slightly trembling. He looked up through his lashes, a move so calculated it was lethal. "The marshes were unkind to us."
The guard, who had been ready to backhand a defiant peasant, froze. He stared at Asarmose's face—the high curve of his cheekbones, this plum lips and the way his hazel eyes shine in the sunlight. Even through the grit and the overwhelming stench of the blocker, Asarmose's beauty was a physical force.
The Alpha guard's face flushed a deep, mottled red. His grip on his whip loosened, his eyes wandering over Asarmose with a sudden, predatory hunger that had nothing to do with labor assignments. He was clearly noting how alluring the "traveler" looked, even draped in filth.
Alistair, standing half a step behind, felt a visceral surge of possessive rage. His eyes darkened until they were shards of black obsidian, and his pheromones—buried though they were—seemed to simmer beneath the surface of his skin. His jaw was locked so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack."Problem, officer?" Alistair—as Kael—grunted, his voice dropping into a low, threatening rumble that vibrated in the small space between them. He stepped forward, his massive frame partially eclipsing the guard's view of Asarmose.
The guard snapped out of his daze, his embarrassment turning instantly into aggression as he looked at Alistair. "Watch your tone, dog," he barked, though his voice lacked its previous conviction. He cleared his throat, avoiding Asarmose's gaze now. "He... he goes to the sorting sheds. Soft hands like that won't last an hour in the deep shafts. You," he jabbed a finger at Alistair, "you look like you can take a beating. Get to the pit line."Asarmose cast a quick, sideways glance at Alistair. The "pathetic" look was gone for a split second, replaced by a flash of sharp, sassy triumph that said, I told you I could handle the guards."Wait," Alistair growled, his hand catching the guard's sleeve—a dangerous move for a commoner. "We're partners. We work together."
The guard ripped his arm away, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. "You'll work where I tell you, or you'll die where you stand! Move!"
Asarmose placed a gentle, grounding hand on Alistair's arm, a silent command for the King to stay his hand. "It's alright, Kael," he whispered, the name tasting like a tease on his tongue. "I'll see you at the evening ration."
The guards shoved them in opposite directions. Asarmose was led toward the wooden sheds where the "specialized" labor was kept, while Alistair was pushed toward the mouth of the dark, yawning quarry.
The sorting sheds were a vision of absolute despair. Asarmose was shoved through the heavy timber doors, and the air inside was thick with the scent of stale sweat, cold iron, and a heavy, artificial suppression.The space was filled with Omegas and Betas—most of them barely in their teens. They sat in long, cramped rows at low wooden benches, their fingers moving with a terrifying, mechanical speed as they sorted through raw ore and strange, glowing crystals. Their movements were rhythmic and hollow, devoid of any human spark.
Asarmose felt a chill run down his spine as he walked past them. Their eyes were wide and vacant, staring fixedly at the tasks in front of them with a soulless intensity. They didn't look up when the doors groaned open; they didn't flinch when a guard's whip cracked nearby. It was as if their very consciousness had been extracted, leaving behind nothing but flesh and bone to serve the forge.
"Sit," a guard barked, shoving Asarmose toward an empty spot at a bench. "If your hands stop moving, you stop breathing. Clear?"
Asarmose sank onto the rough stool, his fingers brushing against the cold stones on the table. He leaned toward the girl sitting next to him—a slight Beta with matted brown hair."What is this place?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. The girl didn't turn her head. Her fingers continued to sort, her eyes fixed on the gray stones. "The silence," she murmured, her voice sounding like dry parchment. "We are the silence. Don't speak, or they'll give you the 'gift' too."
Asarmose's clinical mind raced. This wasn't just exhaustion; this was a chemical or psychological breaking of the will. These weren't workers; they were husks. "The gift?" Asarmose thought before working.
Meanwhile, deep in the quarry pits, Alistair was surrounded by the Alphas. The atmosphere there was the polar opposite—violent, chaotic, and brimming with a suppressed rage that felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark. He swung his pickaxe into the dark rock, his eyes never leaving the guards, his heart hammering with the need to find Asarmose and burn this entire camp to the ground.
The heavy air in the shed was punctuated only by the mindless clink of ore against wood. Asarmose's fingers moved over the stones with a clinical grace, but his eyes were constantly scanning, mapping the soulless faces around him.
A heavy-set guard with a rusted breastplate stomped down the center aisle, his eyes narrowed as he looked for a reason to exert his power. He stopped abruptly at a bench three rows down. A young girl, her frame so thin she looked like a gust of wind could shatter her, had succumbed to the crushing weight of her fatigue. Her head had slumped against the rough wood, her small hands still clutching a piece of raw iron.
The guard's face twisted into a cruel grin. He raised his heavy, iron-tipped rod, drawing it back for a blow that would likely break the child's shoulder.Before the rod could fall, Asarmose deliberately upended his heavy tray of sorted ore.
The crash of stone hitting the wooden floor echoed like a thunderclap in the silent shed. The girl jolted awake, her eyes wide with terror, and her hands instinctively flew back to the stones. The guard spun around, his rage successfully diverted as he stomped toward Asarmose.
"You clumsy wretch!" the guard roared, his face turning a deep, ugly purple. "You'll pay for that with your skin."
Asarmose stood up slowly, shedding the "pathetic traveler" act like a discarded cloak. He didn't cower. Instead, he drew himself up to his full, divine height, his eyes turning a sharp, piercing silver in the dim light of the shed. He looked at the guard not as a prisoner looks at a captor, but as a judge looks at a condemned man.
The guard reached out to grab Asarmose's tunic, but his hand stopped inches away. A sudden, visceral chill swept through the man's body. His skin prickled with a primal, inexplicable fear—the kind of terror a rabbit feels when it realizes it has accidentally stepped a wolf.
Something in the guard's mind screamed at him to stay away. The "commoner" in front of him felt... immense. Terrifyingly old and dangerously powerful. The guard shivered, his hand trembling as he lowered his rod. He stepped back, blinking rapidly as he tried to reconcile the stench of the swamp-water with the predatory aura radiating from the man in front of him.
"Pick... pick it up," the guard stammered, his voice cracking. He didn't wait for a reply; he turned on his heel and hurried toward the other end of the shed, his pace nearly a run.
Asarmose watched him go, then felt a small, frantic tug on his sleeve. The young girl was staring at him, her soulless eyes flickering with a tiny, fragile spark of wonder.
"You shouldn't have," she whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound. "They'll send you to the Black Barrack now. No one comes back from there."
Asarmose looked down at the girl, and for a fleeting second, the sharp, clinical mask of the Prince softened into something genuinely warm. "Don't be afraid," he whispered, a reassuring smile touching his lips. "I'll be alright."
That smile was like a match struck in a dark room. All along the benches, the Omegas and Betas—those who had been moving like hollow machines—stopped. They stared at him with a sudden, aching admiration. For a brief, flickering moment, the "gift" seemed to lose its hold, and the spark of human life returned to their eyes as they witnessed someone finally stand up to the shadow.
Asarmose's gaze lingered on the girl's face.
A strange, nagging sensation tugged at the back of his mind; she looked familiar, the structure of her brow or the set of her eyes ringing a distant bell. He quickly shook the thought away—if he had met someone like her in the high courts or the temples of Ta-Mery, he would have remembered.His mind shifted back to the guard's retreating back and the girl's warning. The Black Barrack. Instead of fear, a slow, terrifying smile crept across his face. It wasn't the smile of a victim, but that of a predator who had just found the door he was looking for. If the Black Barrack was where the "vanished" went, then that was exactly where he needed to be.If I make enough ruckus, they'll have no choice but to take me there, he thought, his eyes shimmering with a dangerous, silver light.
This will be fun.