Aris and Fred made their way toward the squire's camp, the silence stretching between them was almost tangible. After about twenty minutes of walking over flat terrain dotted with small trees and shrubs, they reached a fortress. Though the fortress was not the largest building he saw it was nonetheless large enough to amaze him.
Aris estimated the wall's height to be around fifteen meters. The sturdy black walls of the fortress stood firm, and at the gates, two guards clad in iron armor with leather accents stood vigilant, keeping watch over the entrance to the fortress.
The guards opened the gates as they saw Fred approaching with a single slave boy. "Whyishecomingwithonlyoneslaveboy?" one of the guards thought. Typically, Fred arrived with five to ten slave boys, and it wasn't just Fred; other attendants of other young masters also brought along many slave boys to join their camps.
The guards were curious about what was special about this particular slave boy, but they couldn't ask Fred directly. However, they knew they would find out the reason soon enough as they always do.
As Aris stepped inside the fortress, his eyes were drawn to the right, where a vast training ground stretched out, large enough to hold at least four hundred people.
The ground was packed earth, worn smooth in some places and rough with scars in others, marked by the relentless footfalls of those who trained here daily. The faint scent of sweat and dust lingered in the air, mixing with the distant clang of steel on steel.
Rows of training dummies stood like silent witnesses to countless drills, their wooden limbs scarred from repeated strikes. Some leaned at odd angles, their frames barely holding together after enduring blow after blow. Others had been hastily repaired, their battered surfaces still bearing fresh cuts.
To the west of the training ground stood a row of straw targets set at varying distances. To the north, Aris spotted a group of kids his age training with swords under the watchful eyes of their instructors. They all wore grey t-shirts that reached their thighs, secured with belts that held their swords, along with black pants and brown boots.
Most of them were fit, their bodies well-built from rigorous training. Seeing this, Aris felt a rare flicker of satisfaction. "They'rewell-fed," he thought. "Thatmeansdecentfood—realfood, notthattoxicporridge." A silent relief washed over him. "AtleastI'llneverhavetoeatthatslopagain."
His gaze lingered on the trainees, observing them more closely. Despite their strong physiques, their faces didn't reflect the same vigor. Their expressions were tense, their eyes hollow—worn down by something beyond mere exhaustion.
"Maybeit'sjustthetraining," Aris mused, though a nagging feeling told him there was more to it than that.
Fred and Aris moved forward, leaving the training ground behind. As they walked, Aris glanced around, realizing how different the fortress felt from within. From the outside, it had seemed like an imposing, lifeless structure of stone and iron. But inside, it was a world of rigid order—soldiers drilling, squires training, the air thick with the scent of sweat and steel.
Before he could take in more, they arrived at a small, dimly lit room. There was nothing inside but a wooden table and chair, where a middle-aged man sat hunched over a thick ledger. His face was marred by a terrible scar that ran from his temple down to his hollowed left cheek, splitting his useless eye in half. His right eye, sharp and watchful, flicked up as Fred entered.
Fred stepped forward without hesitation. "Record this one under my young master's camp," he demanded.
The man's gaze shifted to Aris, scrutinizing him for a moment. Then he finally spoke, his voice was rough, as if his throat had once been torn and never fully healed. "One slave boy?"
Aris, standing behind Fred thought, "Didhedamagehisvocalcords?"
Fred didn't seem to care for the man's doubts. "Just register him,"he said, his voice flat.
With a shrug, the man stopped questioning. He picked up a quill, dipped it into ink, and scrawled Aris's number into the ledger.
Then the man yelled, "Chris!" after finishing recording Aris. A boy, around twelve or thirteen years old, immediately entered the room and responded, "Yes, sir."
"Take this slave boy to the dormitory, get him his training clothes, and show him where he'll be sleeping," the man ordered.
After that Aris followed the kid. As they walked through the fortress, Aris glanced at the boy leading the way. Chris looked to be around twelve or thirteen, with an easy-going expression and a slight bounce in his step. Unlike the grim faces Aris had seen on the training ground, this kid didn't seem too burdened by his circumstances.
Aris decided to probe for information. "You've been here long?"
"Two years," the boy answered without hesitation. "Name's Chris, by the way. What's yours?"
Aris paused before replying. "I don't have a name, just a number."
Chris stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "What, seriously? You're still going by a number?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Look, once you're outta the slave quarters, you pick a name. Makes life easier."
Aris didn't respond to that as he already had a name for himself. Instead, he shifted the conversation. "What's the training like here?"
Chris grinned. "Hell, at first. You wake up at dawn, train till your body feels like it's gonna fall apart, eat, then train some more. Instructors don't care if you're tired—they'll beat you for complaining. But after a while, your body gets used to it." He flexed his arm with exaggerated pride. "Now I barely feel sore."
Aris raised a brow. "That's because your muscles are already built."
Chris laughed. "Fair point. You'll get there, though."
Aris ignored the casual reassurance. He wasn't here to 'get there.' He was here to survive then grow in hierarchy of power."What about the knights? Are they strict?" he asked instead.
Chris let out a dry chuckle. "Strict? Try ruthless. Some just enjoy making us suffer. Others will train you properly—if you're worth their time." His grin faded slightly. "But if you're weak? You're just another body for the battlefield."
A flicker of understanding settled in Aris's mind. "So, that'swhytheylookedlikethat." He recalled the hollow-eyed trainees he had seen earlier—well-fed but drained, worn down by more than exhaustion.
Aris absorbed the information. "How are the squires ranked?"
Chris's face lit up at the question, clearly eager to explain. "Oh, that's important. There's no official ranking, but everyone knows who's at the top. Strongest kids get better treatment, better gear, even a shot at being noticed by a real knight. The weak? They're just fodder they barely get the scraps." He shot Aris a curious glance. "What about you? You any good with a sword?"
Aris gave a noncommittal shrug. "I learn quickly."
Chris whistled. "That's a dangerous thing to say here. Quick learners get noticed fast. Just make sure it's the right people noticing you."
Aris nodded thoughtfully, but before he could respond, Chris continued, his tone dropping a little.
"The food here's much better than the slave quarters. You don't get a ton, but it's real meat and white bread, not that porridge slop. But yeah, you gotta work for it. The higher you rank, the more you get. If you're lucky enough to be in a noble's camp, you'll be eating like royalty."
Aris pondered the thought. "AmIinanoble'scampifI'mregisteredundertheso-called 'youngmaster'?"But he didn't ask about that. Instead, he asked, "What happens to those who don't rank well?'"
Chris glanced at him, his eyes widening as if the answer was obvious. "You'll still get food, but not as much. The higher the rank, the better the portion. It's all about your worth. If you make it to the higher camps, they treat you better. But most kids? We just fight to survive here, training for two years. And then? You go to war. Doesn't matter if you're ready or not."
Aris's mind whirled with the implications. "So, if you make it into a noble's camp, you're safe?"
Chris shook his head. "Not really. Even if you're in a noble camp, you're still a soldier, still a weapon. You're just better fed, better equipped. After training, they send you to war. You either make it or you don't. It's all about how useful you are. Some kids never make it out of here. If you do, you might get lucky—become a knight and leave the status of slave behind or something."
"That's how it works here. But hey, at least you're not starving and not eating that slop" Chris said.
Aris didn't reply, feeling the weight of the boy's words. The grim truth about the camp was sinking in. Survival meant proving your worth, and even that wasn't a guarantee of safety.
"Where do we sleep?" Aris asked, trying to redirect his thoughts.
"Oh, the dorms," Chris said, eyes bright. "It's not like the slave quarters, that's for sure. Not much space, but it's better. There are a lot of kids in each room, but it's warmer than those old houses that looked like they might fall anytime. You'll get a bunk and a blanket. It's not luxury, but it's better than what we had before."
Aris felt a slight relief. For once, his mind wasn't consumed by the harsh realities of the slave quarters. Here, he would receive better treatment, but not without a price. Everything had a cost.
After five minutes, they had reached the dormitory. Chris pushed open the door, revealing rows of simple wooden beds lined up against the walls. A few boys were inside, either lying down or tending to their gear. Chris gestured to an empty bed. "That one's yours. Get used to it—it's the only personal space you'll get."
He then handed Aris a folded set of clothes he took from the corner of the dormitory."Training gear. Wear it unless you wanna get chewed out first thing in the morning."
Aris took the clothes but had one last question. "And what of those who don't progress as quickly?"
Chris's grin faded slightly. "If you can't keep up, you get left behind. And if you're useless, you don't stay here long."
He didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear. Aris nodded, tucking away the information. He had expected as much, but hearing it confirmed made it all the more real.
Chris, sensing the shift in mood, clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't think too much about it for now. Just focus on getting stronger. That's all that matters here."
With that, he turned and left, leaving Aris alone to settle in.