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  Oryan smiled. Armay was never wrong. Somehow, he could read people like books. Oryan was getting good at it, but nothing like his father.

  There were no gloves in the Quarter, but both boys had their hands taped to prevent boxer’s fractures, even though it often left cuts where punches were landed. The medical staff was practical, and cuts were easier and faster to heal from than breaks. Oryan came into the ring, and so did the older boy, nicknamed Crick. Just as Armay had predicted, Crick was a much more skilled boxer than wrestler and he didn’t want this going any further.

  He came at Oryan with both barrels, swinging for the knock-out, but Oryan was too fast. He only slipped away from the blows at first, but after a few heavy attempts, Crick slowed down to take more calculated shots. Oryan ducked them with ease, not delivering any of his own. Armay was red faced and screaming for Oryan to make his move, but Oryan was going to fight his way. He didn’t want it to continue either, but he wanted to make sure everyone knew even this opponent wasn’t a challenge.

  He kept his eyes on the clock, waiting until there was just under a minute left before he fought back. When Crick slid another hook past his face, Oryan delivered three solid blows to his ribs. The blood started to flow as the skin rose in red welts. Crick’s face contorted with pain, and he dropped his elbows to protect the injury. Oryan snapped a quick jab to Crick’s nose with his left and a powerful hook to his jaw, sending him spinning to the ground. The guard signaled the end of the round; Crick quickly rolled onto his back, and put two fingers in the air, signaling he’d had enough.

  Oryan raised his hands in victory before helping Crick off the ground. Still a little wobbly on his feet, Crick stood and gave Oryan a weak hug. In addition to his side, blood poured from his nose and under his eye. Crick’s mother rushed to hold him up and walked him to the infirmary where the medics were ready to receive another of Oryan’s victims.

  Armay hugged his son. A few of the other children patted him on the back and congratulated him. This was the part Oryan didn’t care for—he wasn’t fond of praise, even from his dad.

  Oryan didn’t know his mother. She died when he was very young, leaving Armay alone to raise their only son. Though he didn’t remember her, he never missed the light in Armay’s eyes when he spoke of her. The only time Oryan saw something even close from his father was when his son was victorious.

  It was why he fought, and it was why he was determined never to lose. After all he knew Armay had done for him, it was the only way he felt he could repay him. However, his success brought with it bitter enemies. When he could, he would quickly slip away after a victory so as to avoid the cheers and the pats on the back. He knew for every clap he received, it brought with it the jealousy and hatred of other boys.

  Oryan had very few friends. He kept everyone at arm’s length, even the ones who weren’t jealous of him. He learned at a young age that being his friend had consequences. They became targets by association.

  More than once, the jealous ones had cornered him and tried to beat him. A guard’s intervention or his own skill prevented any real damage from being done, but each time, the boys promised more pain to come.

  And there was Bridger. Bridger was three years Oryan’s senior and considerably larger. For every ounce of talent Oryan had, Bridger was equally skilled in torment and torture. His parents had been killed during one of Armay’s revolt attempts, leaving Bridger an orphan at the age of eight. The guards began raising him and, since he had arrived, Halgren had, too.

  Halgren stoked the flames of Bridger’s loss and directed the hatred at Oryan, convincing him that the best revenge on Armay was through his son. Bridger was hard and cruel. He used his strength and venom to form a gang of sorts. This gang was the only one Oryan feared. When they cornered Oryan, it wasn’t to settle a score of bruised egos. It was to hurt him, and hurt him they did.

  Even knowing the enemies he made and the isolation his success brought, he still refused to lose and refused to tell Armay about the attacks. He knew his father would try and protect him, which probably meant he wouldn’t be able to compete anymore, which meant that the only gift he could give him would be gone.

  ***

  Oryan’s eyes opened, and the unique smile that always accompanied dreams of her spread across his face. The morning horn had rung, as it always did, before first light broke over the walls that kept him in and others out. Save for a small light dangling from the middle of the hovel, there was nothing else to see by.

  Casually, he swung his legs over the side of his bed—little more than a cot mended many times by his father. The wooden frame had been fixed in several places with whatever Armay could concoct, and the cloth material was a patchwork quilt of his old, outgrown clothing.

  As his bare feet touched cold stone floor, he shot his routine look across the room at his father’s empty cot. Armay was always up before him. He would get dressed, walk the familiar path to the food lines, eat the same breakfast, and pass through the front gates onto the factory floor where, save a break for food, he would work monotonously until dusk.

  He looked forward to the night when he could hear stories of life outside these walls from Armay while they trained. These stories, coupled with the shrinking pool of would-be challengers, made him dream of escaping the only place he’d ever called home.

  Armay was a proud man. Even now, when the freedom and glory of his past had faded to all but him, he refused to despair. He didn’t let Oryan see how much he hated raising his son in the Quarter, nor did he let him know how much he hated himself for bringing this life upon his only child. There were other secrets he kept, not to be strong for Oryan, but to protect him from the truth that others would kill him for.

  Oryan looked like his mother, born with the same white hair. Armay looked forward to seeing it turn into the golden blond his mother had, but it remained white, and the boy was now twelve years old. The hair had not changed, but neither had his crystal blue eyes, which mirrored Kathrine’s in every way. When Kathrine died, Oryan became his life, and he swore to give him the best he could, even if it was within the walls of the Slave Quarter.

  “Morning, son!” he said brightly.

  Oryan wiped the sleep out of his eyes and smiled back at his father. “Morning, Dad.”

  “Sun’s almost up. I thought you liked being first in line for breakfast. Don’t you always say it’s the only way you have time for seconds?”

  The pair made their way to the kitchen where, true to form, Oryan ate seconds and thirds. Then it was through the gates to their work detail. The stone walls of the Quarter were only shoulder-height to Armay. They were capped with ten-foot-high barbed wire fences and watchtowers erected randomly along the wall. The ground was wild grass, kept up by the residents. Aside from the green of the grass, the only color the residents of the Quarter knew was the yellow flowers that topped the weeds sprouting up. Dilapidated rock paths traced here and there, taking the inhabitants and the guards to and from various destinations.

  Even the guards were unkempt and colorless. They wore a drab gray uniform displaying their rank, but no name as slaves were not allowed to know the identities of their captors. Knee high black boots, a black belt, side arm, slung rifle and black cap were standard. Discipline amongst the soldiers was minimal. Most of the soldiers shaved little, failed to press their uniforms, and neglected to polish their boots. The only thing duller than their appearance was their demeanor. They smiled little—if at all—and spoke less.

  The people in the Quarter were a mixed group. The Empire of Navarus kept camps like this one under extreme secrecy. These weren’t normal prisons where common thieves were sent. The people here were political rivals who needed to be broken, innocent scapegoats, or threats the Empire didn’t want free but didn’t want to kill, either. Men like Armay, the Emperor felt, were of great value, so long as they were kept in a cage.

  There was a main gate and two sub gates on either side, divided by watch towers and capped with small lights th
at blinked various colors to signify different conditions of the slaves’ lives. Green meant slaves were clear to pass and board the train to work detail, blue, that all slaves were back and accounted for, and red, that something was out of place. Armay and Oryan were half-heartedly searched as they approached the exit gate, and the lights blinked green.

  On the other side of the barbed wired and stone, a new dynamic took form. Oryan and Armay stood on the wooden platform, waiting for their train to arrive. Though armed guards paced back and forth behind them, the chatter from the slaves rose to deafening. Two boys Oryan’s age bumped into him, feigning an accident. Despite his gloomy mood, Oryan smiled.

  “You gonna be there tonight, punk?” asked Wilson, whom they affectionately called Willy.

  “Course I am. Wouldn’t want you to actually win something and get a big head about it, now would I?” Oryan teased.

  “Hey, hey,” VanSkiver chimed in. “Tonight is my night, guys. I plan on laying you both out!”

  “Good luck with that!” sneered Willy. “I’ll take you with my eyes closed.”

  “Only to get beat down by Oryan over here. When was the last time you lost?”

  Oryan smiled arrogantly as he thrust his nose into the air.

  “Hmmm? Let me think. Never.” Willy added.

  Armay listened to the boys’ banter with a smile. Even here, in bondage, life flourished. Armay tried hard to teach taking pride in one’s actions, no matter how insignificant they might seem at the time. At their various work details, Armay had taught Oryan to make sure his work was done to the best of his ability. Sometimes, their efforts were noticed and rewarded by the guards, but Armay instilled in him a work ethic regardless of the reward.

  The boys went on, changing the subject helter-skelter until they had discussed a myriad of subjects that Armay lost track. Just as the boys were making plans for the evening, the familiar horn of the train sounded, and they ran to their parents so they wouldn’t be sent to the wrong details, or worse, left behind.

  The clank of the wheels ground to a stop, kicking up sparks and dust from the dry ground beneath the tracks. Oryan felt the sun finally peeking over the trees and the immediate heat it added to the already hot day. With visions of sports and the voices of his friends rattling around his head, he boarded the train, Armay close behind. He smiled, knowing that only twelve hours of work and one meal stood between him and training.

  He did not get to train that night, or the night after. A much-needed rain had come, quickly saturating the parched earth and causing rivers of water to run through the camp. On these nights, the guards would not allow slaves anywhere but their homes, the kitchen, and their work details, so Oryan spent his evenings reading and learning from Armay. Despite his disappointment at being denied the competition he craved, he always enjoyed Armay’s lessons.

  The past few nights they’d studied some math and a lot of history. Oryan was good at math, but history was his favorite. He loved to hear Armay skillfully tell the stories of the past. The first night had been interesting, but the second, Oryan’s mind was elsewhere. While Armay spoke, Oryan stared vacantly out the small hole that acted as a window to the beating rain. With a deep sigh, he rested his chin on his hand and tried to focus on his father and not the girl he had again dreamed of.

  Seeing his distance, Armay stopped and concentrated on his son.

  “I know that look,” he said, though Oryan took no notice. “Son? Son!” Armay raised his voice, shaking Oryan out of his trance.

  “Sorry, Dad. I was listening. Something about Kentaur?”

  Armay stopped his instruction. “What’s on your mind, son?”

  Oryan hesitated, though he was not sure why. Armay had never discouraged him from talking about girls. On the contrary, he often pointed out the girls Oryan’s age he felt might be worth getting to know. However, this was no flesh and blood human being, but a figment of his imagination, and he wasn’t sure how to talk about it without sounding foolish.

  “How did you know Mom was the one you wanted?” he finally asked.

  Armay, always insightful, responded in kind. “Do you think you’ve found someone? You’re only twelve, you know.”

  Oryan looked away and felt his cheeks go flush. “Not really.”

  “Then, why ask?”

  “Well, there is a girl. But not anyone you would know.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Your sphere of influence is only slightly larger than mine.”

  “You’ve never met her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve never met her either.”

  Armay’s face did not change to scorn or levity as Oryan feared it might. Instead, he curiously cocked his head and probed deeper. “You’ve been dreaming about her again, haven’t you?”

  “How do you always know?” Oryan asked, shocked at the perceptiveness of his father.

  Armay chuckled slightly. “You don’t sleep across from someone for twelve years without overhearing a few of their more vivid dreams. I must say, she has been in many over the years. I never mentioned it. I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready.”

  “Do I ever say a name?” Oryan asked, suddenly more interested in what his father knew about a girl that, to their knowledge, didn’t exist.

  Armay shook his head.

  Oryan sank onto his cot. There were a few moments of silence then, Oryan broke it. “I’ve heard you, too. I’ve heard you talking to Mom. Does she talk back?”

  Armay retreated a bit, caught off guard by the emotion behind the question. “Sometimes.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That’s the miserable part. I can never remember once I wake up. Still, there are times I hear her voice, telling me what to say to you or how to handle a situation. She’s always there.”

  “I see her sometimes, too. I can’t really remember what she looked like, so I can’t tell if it’s her, but I think it is.”

  “What makes you think it’s her?”

  “The way I feel when she’s there. I feel…safe.”

  Armay smiled and moved to sit beside him. “And what do you feel when you dream of this other girl?”

  Oryan thought long on the question. He struggled to come up with a word or even a phrase to fit the emotion that swelled inside him when he saw her. Feebly, he tried to explain. “I feel…I…I feel…everything.” He put his head down, angered at his inability to describe what he felt.

  Armay put his arm around his son. “I know the feeling, son. You hang on to her, even if it is just a dream. That way, if she’s more, you’ll know her when you see her.”

  Oryan was happy for his choice to confide in his father. Now that he had, he knew he owed Armay something. “Sorry, Dad, I really would like to finish the lesson.”

  Armay nodded and obliged. “What made Kentaur truly unique wasn’t its technology or its advancements, but its soldiers.

  “They were feared so much that Kentaur didn’t have to build a city wall, which was the most common defense at the time. The prowess of their army kept all enemies from attempting a siege.

  “Depending on which record you believe, a single Kentaurus Knight was the equivalent of a hundred of any other soldier at the time.”

  Oryan’s shoulders shrunk as if a great weight had been placed on them. His eyelids became like lead. A blissful peace in his heart lifted all concern from him. Armay continued to elaborate on the history of Kentaur long after his son fell asleep. Oryan dreamed of the Kentaurus Knights—even that he was one of them, but with armor and weapons even he had never heard of before. He could see himself fighting off whole armies single handedly. He was there, then, in a flash, he was in another place, dealing defeat wherever he was. When all his enemies had fallen, his reward—of course—was her.

  The Dragon

  “I took it from one of the female workers coming back from duty,” the guard explained. “She claims it’s for self-defense.”

  Halgren turned the metal shard over in
his hands. He studied the crude instrument as if it held some deep mystery.

  Armay was a thorn in his side. His last revolt attempt happened just before he arrived at the Quarter as commanding officer, and it had damn near succeeded. A guard managed to carve through his eye in the attempt, but that lesson was quickly losing its effect. He could feel Armay building up again. It was only a matter of time before he tried it again… unless Halgren could figure out how to take more than just an eye and forever crush his spirit.

  Unfortunately, Lord General Kovac, the supreme commander of the armed forces of Vollmar and second only to Emperor Navarro, forbade Halgren from simply killing Armay. After the request to execute Armay was denied, Kovac kept an annoyingly close eye on him. He was even told that all “accidents” regarding that particular prisoner would be investigated with the utmost scrutiny.

  Armay needed to be put in check, and Oryan was the key. Halgren was sure that Armay’s escape attempts were a vain effort to give his son the freedom the choices of his past denied the child. Oryan needed to be taken from him. It had to be done is such a way that Halgren couldn’t be held directly responsible. If he made a direct move to say… transfer Oryan to another Quarter, the fallout would be unthinkable. Halgren was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Given the right motivation, Armay could bring this whole place down with his bare hands.

  “Self-defense,” Halgren muttered.

  “I’m sorry, sir?” the guard responded. Halgren had almost forgotten there was someone else in the room.

  “She said it was for self-defense? Against whom?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Halgren took one last look at the shard and set it on his desk. “Take her to the Post. Deal with it.”

  The guard saluted half-heartedly and left. Despite the heat, Halgren walked around his office, closing the windows. In a few moments, the slave who smuggled this from the foundry would be tied to a post and lashed at least a dozen times. The Post, as it was called, was in the main square which was within earshot of his office, and he needed quiet. A plan was forming.