slavery people
The wind carried an empty echo through the hollow streets of Ashenveil.
Once, the village had been a place of laughter-of children playing by the riverbanks and women trading fruits and woven baskets in the morning light.
But now, as Voltaro and his men rode through the gates, silence reigned.
Broken doors hung from their hinges, and a faint scent of ashes still lingered where the hearths had long gone cold.
Voltaro's boots pressed against the dirt as he dismounted, his cloak brushing the earth. His eyes scanned the remnants of the settlement. Cracked walls. Abandoned carts. An old toy-half-buried in the mud.
Raven followed behind, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "It's too quiet," he murmured, glancing around the lifeless street.
Voltaro's jaw tightened. "Yes," he said softly. "Too quiet for a place that was once filled with life."
They approached the center of the village where a few villagers had gathered.
Their faces were pale, thin, and drained of hope.
Among them stood a man in battered armor-the village guardian.
His once-bright steel had dulled with time, and his eyes carried the exhaustion of a man who had fought too many battles alone.
Voltaro stepped forward. "Guardian of Ashenveil," he said, his tone steady but firm. "I am Voltaro. Tell me-what has happened here?"
The guardian looked up, eyes wide as recognition dawned. "You're... the adventurer from Eldrath, aren't you? The one who saved the Dusk Vale?"
Voltaro gave a curt nod. "I am. Now speak."
The man swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he replied, "It was three weeks ago. The Elite Knight of Eldrath-Sir Darius-and his men came through. They said they were collecting people for the kingdom's service. But it was a lie."
Raven frowned. "A lie?"
The guardian clenched his fists. "They took our women and children. Said it was for a royal order... but none of them returned. We heard rumors-they were sold off. To the slave markets in Eldrath's undercity."
A heavy silence fell. Voltaro's expression darkened, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly beneath the shadow of his hood. The sound of the wind almost seemed to scream in his ears.
He had seen corruption before. But not like this. Not the innocent dragged away while soldiers of a crown claimed righteousness.
Voltaro's hand rested on his sword hilt as he asked quietly, "Why didn't you send word to the capital?"
The guardian laughed bitterly. "To whom, my lord? The king's own men were the ones who took them. There's no justice for the poor."
Voltaro stared at the ground. Then, without a word, he turned away, walking through the ruins of the village. Raven followed silently, the weight of anger pressing in his chest.
They passed by houses where dust clung to the windows, where toys and shoes lay abandoned. Each one told a story of loss. Each one fed Voltaro's resolve.
Finally, they reached the outskirts where a small group of boys huddled under a broken roof. They were thin, their faces streaked with dirt, their eyes hollow yet still holding a faint spark.
Voltaro knelt beside them. "Where are your families?"
A small boy, barely ten, looked up. "They took them," he whispered. "The men in black armor. They said our mothers were going to serve the capital."
Raven clenched his fist. "Damn them."
Voltaro's voice softened. "What's your name, boy?"
"Lio," the child replied, barely audible.
Voltaro nodded. "Lio, and you others-how many of you remain here?"
"Only twelve of us," Lio said. "Some tried to run... but they never came back."
Voltaro rose slowly. His mind was already forming a plan. "Then listen well," he said, his tone deep and commanding. "You have two choices-run and die in fear, or stand and rise with me."
The boys looked up, uncertain.
Raven glanced at Voltaro. "You're going to train them?"
Voltaro nodded. "They took your people," he said to the boys. "We'll make sure they regret it."
For the first time, something flickered in their eyes. Hope.
---
Over the next few days, the ruins of Ashenveil began to stir again. Voltaro gathered what food and weapons they could find. His men built makeshift training grounds using broken wood and stone.
The boys were weak at first, their movements clumsy and uncertain. They were orphans, not warriors. But Voltaro saw potential-not in their strength, but in their will.
Under the gray dawn, the sound of wooden swords echoed across the valley.
"Strike again!" Voltaro's voice cut through the air as he parried a swing from Lio, who stumbled but did not fall. "Keep your stance. Control your fear. Fear is what your enemies want."
Lio gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his chin. "I'm not afraid."
Voltaro's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "Good. Then prove it."
Raven trained alongside them, showing them how to dodge, how to strike, how to survive. Though the boys were small, their determination burned bright. Voltaro watched as they began to move with rhythm, their fear melting into resolve.
By the third week, the orphans could hold a line. They could fight, defend, and think as one. Voltaro named them The Ashen Blades-the new guardians of their fallen home.
One night, under the pale light of the moon, Voltaro gathered them around the fire. The flames reflected in their eyes as he spoke.
"Listen to me, all of you," Voltaro said quietly. "We cannot charge blindly into the capital. We need truth. We need proof of what happened to your people. Only then can justice be delivered."
The boys nodded solemnly.
Voltaro turned to one of them-a sharp-eyed youth, older than the rest, perhaps sixteen. His gaze was calm, calculating.
"What's your name?" Voltaro asked.
The boy stood, placing a hand on his chest. "Eran," he said.
Voltaro studied him for a moment. "You're not afraid to walk among snakes, are you, Eran?"
Eran shook his head. "No, sir. Not if it means saving them."
Voltaro nodded approvingly. "Good. I have a task for you. You will go to Eldrath. Enter the slave markets. Find out where they took the women and children. Who's buying them, who's selling them, and under whose protection this trade exists."
The boys gasped, but Eran's expression didn't waver.
Raven frowned. "It's dangerous, Voltaro. That market's run by nobles and assassins. If they discover him-"
"They won't," Voltaro interrupted. "Because he'll go as one of them. A beggar boy. A shadow in the alleys." He looked at Eran again. "Do you understand your mission?"
Eran nodded. "Find the truth. Bring it back."
Voltaro placed a hand on his shoulder. "Exactly. Take this."
He handed Eran a small dagger-its blade engraved with a faint crimson mark. "This isn't for killing," Voltaro said. "It's for surviving. And remember-your eyes are your greatest weapon."
Eran bowed his head. "I won't fail you."
---
Two nights later, under a shroud of fog, Eran left Ashenveil. Voltaro and the Ashen Blades watched as his silhouette disappeared into the forest, carrying the weight of their hopes.
Raven stood beside Voltaro, arms crossed. "You really think one boy can find the truth in that cesspit?"
Voltaro didn't look away from the forest. "Sometimes, one shadow is enough to expose the light."
Raven sighed. "You sound like an old sage."
Voltaro smirked faintly. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I've just seen too many kingdoms fall because no one dared to question the crown."
They stood in silence for a while, listening to the crackle of fire and the distant howl of wolves. The moonlight painted the ruins of Ashenveil silver, and for the first time, the air carried a sense of purpose instead of despair.
Voltaro's eyes glowed faintly in the dark. "Eran's mission will tell us everything," he said. "If what I suspect is true... then Eldrath's corruption runs deeper than even the king knows."
Raven looked at him sharply. "You think the king's not aware?"
Voltaro shook his head. "Maybe he is. Maybe he isn't. But someone powerful enough to command the Elite Knights is pulling the strings."
Raven's voice dropped. "And when we find out who?"
Voltaro's gaze hardened. "Then we cut the strings."
---
Days turned into weeks. Eran's absence was felt by all, but Voltaro continued training the Ashen Blades. They learned to scout, to move silently through forests, to track footprints, to fight with precision instead of strength.
Each boy became more than just a survivor-they became soldiers of purpose.
Then, one stormy night, as rain lashed against the roofs of Ashenveil, a figure appeared at the gate-soaked, limping, but alive.
It was Eran.
Voltaro and Raven rushed to him as he collapsed into their arms, clutching a torn satchel. His breath came in shallow bursts.
"They... they're in the slave pits under Eldrath," he gasped. "The women... the children... sold to nobles. The Elite Knight-Sir Darius-is running the trade with the king's adviser. They're calling it... The Purity Program-a lie to cover their crimes."
Voltaro's eyes burned with fury. "Those bastards."
Eran's trembling hand reached into his satchel, pulling out a broken insignia-a golden crest with a serpent coiled around a crown.
"The mark of Eldrath's High Council," Raven said darkly.
Voltaro stood, rain dripping from his armor, his aura pulsing faintly with restrained rage. The boys looked up at him, waiting for his command.
He turned to them slowly, his voice low but filled with fire.
"Then it's decided. We'll tear the rot from its roots. Ashenveil's vengeance begins now."
Too be continue...