The camp was in chaos early in the morning.
Soldiers pulled down tents. Subjugators tightened saddle straps and checked the edges of their weapons. Wagons groaned under crates of arrows, shields, rope, and water barrels. Somewhere near the eastern side of the camp, one of the captains was shouting at a group of young soldiers who had packed cooking pots above the medical kits.
"Do you plan to heal wounds with soup?" the captain barked. "Put the damn crates in order!"
Klaus walked through the middle of it with his hood over his head, his shadowy cloak hanging loose around him.
He looked lazy.
He passed the supply carts, then the soldiers' sleeping rows, then the tied horses stamping impatiently near the road.
Then he saw the slave tent.
His steps slowed.
The tent had already been half taken down. Its cloth sagged to one side, the ropes loosened, the stakes pulled from the dirt. Beside it stood the caged wagons—old, heavy things with iron bars and wooden wheels thick with dried mud.
The slaves were being escorted back inside them.
Still in chains.
Klaus stopped.
For a moment, the busy camp seemed to grow distant.
The rattle of iron reached him first.
Then the sight.
Men and women shuffled forward in loose lines, their ankles bound, their wrists chained. Some were thin enough that their clothes hung like sacks. Some had bandages darkened by old blood. Their hair was tangled, their faces empty. They did not walk like people preparing to march.
They moved like bodies that had forgotten they were allowed to want anything.
One woman stumbled. The man behind her tried to catch her, but his own chain pulled short, nearly dragging him down too.
The guard near them sighed with irritation.
"Keep moving."
Klaus' fingers tightened beneath his cloak.
His gaze lowered to the chains.
Then he walked forward.
The guard noticed him late. When he did, he straightened so quickly that his spear nearly struck another guard behind him.
"M-Mr. Enigma."
Klaus stopped in front of him.
"Take the chains off."
The guard blinked. "Sir?"
"I said take the chains off."
The slaves turned their heads slowly. Not all at once. Not with hope. More like animals hearing a sound they did not trust.
The guard swallowed. "I… I need to ask the captain first."
Klaus stared at him from beneath the hood.
The guard did not wait for a second stare. He hurried away, armor clattering as he crossed the camp.
Klaus remained where he stood.
The slaves watched him in silence.
No one spoke.
Even their breathing sounded careful.
A few moments later, the guard returned with Captain Yeal.
Yeal walked with the tired confidence of a veteran who had survived many orders he disliked.
He stopped before Klaus and lowered his head.
"Mr. Enigma."
Klaus did not return the greeting.
"I thought the order was clear," he said. "No chains."
Yeal's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained respectful. "My apologies, Mr. Enigma. Keeper Madlock asked me to keep them restrained until the march begins."
Klaus looked at the line of slaves again.
A small girl stood between two adults, wrists bound in iron too large for her hands. She stared at the ground, swaying slightly with hunger or fear. Maybe both.
Klaus muttered, "That man is really cautious."
Yeal heard it but wisely chose not to answer.
Klaus lifted his chin toward the chained group.
"Release them."
Yeal hesitated.
Only a heartbeat.
Then he turned to the guards. "Keys."
The guards moved quickly.
Iron clicked. Chains dropped.
One by one, wrists were freed. Ankles were released. The sound of falling metal should have been small, but to Klaus, it rang louder than the morning horns.
Some of the slaves rubbed their wrists. Some simply stared at their hands, as if they had forgotten what they looked like without iron around them.
Relief passed through the group, but it was weak. Too weak.
Klaus frowned.
They were not only frightened.
They were starving.
He looked at Yeal.
"Have they eaten?"
Yeal's expression stiffened. "Last night."
"What did they eat?"
"A thin ration of grain soup."
"That's not food. That's warm water with a drop of grain."
One of the guards lowered his gaze to hide a smile.
Yeal did not smile. "It was what was assigned."
Klaus glanced at the wagons. Eleven of them, lined in a crooked row, each large enough to carry too many people and not enough dignity.
"Get bread for them," Klaus said.
Yeal's shoulders tensed. "I can't, Mr. Enigma."
Klaus turned his hood toward him.
The captain spoke carefully. "The supply is counted for soldiers and subjugators. If we give them more than assigned, I may be punished."
The guard beside him looked uncomfortable. Another pretended to check a wagon wheel.
Klaus was silent for a moment.
Then he said, "I prefer to see my soldiers die in battle, not from hunger."
Yeal blinked.
"Your… soldiers?"
Klaus raised one hand from beneath his cloak.
A dark ripple opened beside him.
The air bent.
Then supplies appeared on the ground with heavy thuds.
Bundles of hard biscuits wrapped in cloth.
Several barrels of water.
And cured pork legs—twelve of them—stacked like a butcher's blessing from a very suspicious god.
The nearest guard stared.
One of the slaves made a broken sound in his throat.
Klaus lowered his hand.
"Line up," he said to the freed slaves. "Get your share."
For one second, no one moved.
Then hunger remembered itself.
The line collapsed.
People surged forward.
Hands reached out. Bodies pressed together. A man shoved another aside. Someone fell to their knees. A woman cried out as the crowd pushed too close to the food.
The guards stepped back in alarm.
Yeal reached for his sword by instinct.
Klaus' voice cracked across the morning.
"Stop."
It was not loud like Rio's laughter.
It was worse.
Cold. Flat. Carrying enough threat to cut through hunger.
The crowd froze.
Klaus stepped closer.
"You're not slaves anymore," he said. "So don't act like frightened animals fighting over scraps."
The words struck them hard.
Some lowered their heads.
Others trembled.
Klaus let the silence sit for a moment before continuing.
"Or do you want to become slaves again?"
Fear flashed through them.
Fast.
Real.
No one wanted that.
They backed away from the food with terror in their eyes, forming a rough, shaking mass several steps from him.
Klaus watched them.
Cruel.
Necessary.
He hated how easily fear worked on people who had already suffered too much.
But kindness without order would only turn into another fight.
He pointed toward the wagons.
"You are my soldiers now. Act like it."
That changed something.
Not fully.
Not enough.
But a few of them straightened.
A man near the back raised his head. A woman tightened her jaw. The small girl stopped looking at the ground and looked at Klaus instead.
Klaus turned to Yeal.
"How many wagons for them?"
"Eleven," Yeal answered.
Klaus looked back at the group.
"I need eleven people to act as team leaders. One for each wagon."
No one moved.
Of course.
Klaus waited.
The camp continued around them, but slower now. Soldiers nearby had begun watching. Some pretended they were busy tying ropes, though the same knot had been tied three times already.
Then one man stepped forward.
He was muscular, taller than most, with a heavy beard and scars along both arms. Even starved, there was structure to him. His back was bent by chains, but not broken by them.
He lowered his head.
"Greetings, my lord. I am Gordor, at your service."
Klaus studied him.
"A slave with a name?"
Gordor's face tightened slightly.
"I was a free man before," he said. "A soldier."
Klaus nodded once.
"Then lead one wagon."
Gordor placed a fist over his chest. "Yes, my lord."
That made it easier for the others.
One by one, people stepped forward.
A quiet woman with gray-streaked hair who looked used to keeping children alive.
A thin man with sharp eyes and shaking hands.
A broad-shouldered older slave who did not give a name because he no longer had one.
Another woman with a scar through her eyebrow.
A young man who spoke too quickly.
Most had no names.
Or have a false name.
Klaus did not force it.
Then the last one stepped forward.
Young. Clean-faced despite the dirt. His chin was raised a little too high, and his eyes carried the kind of pride that slavery had wounded but not erased.
Klaus frowned.
"Chester Gaude?"
The young man flinched.
His arrogance broke for a second, replaced by panic.
"You know me, my lord?"
Klaus stared at him.
He knew enough.
A minor noble's son. Spoiled. Loud. The kind who had once spoken of commoners like mud on his boots. How he ended up in chains was a story Klaus did not care to ask yet.
But one thing is for sure.
He had enemies.
"Have you thought about it?" Klaus asked. "Being a front man will bring disaster to a man like you."
Chester swallowed.
For a moment, his gaze flicked to the food, then to the other freed slaves, then back to Klaus.
"I am a new person now, my lord," he said. "I've changed."
Klaus looked at him for a long second.
No, you don't. Not at all.
But he did not say it.
People did not change because they suffered once.
They changed because suffering kept asking the same question until they finally answered differently.
Maybe Chester would.
Maybe he would not.
Klaus waved him aside.
"Then prove it."
Chester lowered his head quickly. "Yes, my lord."
Klaus addressed all eleven leaders.
"Group everyone into eleven groups. One wagon each. Take one pork leg, biscuits, and water for every wagon. Eat before the march. Don't waste it. Don't fight over it. Anyone who steals from another wagon answers to me."
The last line settled the matter better than any military rule.
The leaders moved at once.
This time, the freed slaves did not rush.
They moved clumsily, uncertainly, but under direction. Gordor raised his voice, organizing the larger men first and sending the weaker ones toward the nearest wagon. The gray-haired woman gathered the children and placed them where they would not be crushed. Chester tried giving orders too loudly, received several ugly looks, then softened his tone after Klaus stared at him once.
Progress.
Ugly progress.
But progress.
Yeal watched quietly.
When the food had been divided and carried to the wagons, Klaus looked at the remaining supplies.
There were still biscuits, some water, and one pork leg left.
He turned to the captain.
"Take the rest."
Yeal blinked. "Sir?"
"It's yours now."
Yeal looked at the supplies, then at Klaus.
For the first time, his stiff discipline cracked into honest gratitude.
"Thank you, Mr. Enigma."
Klaus shrugged. "Don't thank me too loudly. Someone might ask for a share."
The scarred captain from earlier, who had been watching from a distance, shouted, "Too late. I heard food."
Yeal immediately pointed at the guards. "Carry the remaining supplies to our wagon before the vultures arrive."
The guards moved fast.
The scarred captain clicked his tongue. "Greedy bastard."
Ulon, walking beside him, nodded solemnly. "Military discipline is dead."
Klaus turned away, but beneath the hood, a faint smirk touched his mouth.
Behind him, the freed slaves climbed into the wagons with food in their hands instead of chains on their wrists.
It was not freedom.
Not yet.
Or might me never.