THE RISING BASTARD SON-Chapter 31 - - -The March of Chains

The March of Chains

Feeling better, Sam walked slowly back toward the camp.

Around him, slaves were packing what little they had. Some were dismantling the tents with quick, practiced movements, while others tore down makeshift wooden shelters, salvaging what could be reused and discarding the rest. Anything unfit for the journey was left behind without hesitation.

The scene stirred a deep unease in Sam’s chest. He turned to Teron.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Teron, tightening the straps on his pack, replied, "The city of Pyrethorne. It’s one of the prominent cities under the Ember Nest Kingdom."

Sam’s breath caught for a moment. Pyrethorne. A proper city. That likely meant a proper slave market.

"Oh... okay," he said, feigning indifference. But inside, dread took root.

He paused before asking again, this time more cautiously. "How long will it take to get there?"

"If we don’t stop much," Teron said, "we’ll reach by late evening."

Evening. That gave Sam just a few hours — the final stretch of freedom before he was likely sold into chains. He had to think of something. Fast.

A loud horn suddenly echoed across the camp, jolting him from thought. It was the call for the morning rations — the last food before the march.

Sam’s stomach growled painfully. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday, and he knew well enough that they might not get another meal until nightfall. Maybe not even then.

Everyone rushed toward the food counter in grim silence. Slaves lined up without protest, each waiting their turn. They didn’t complain about portions. They knew what happened to those who did. Most had already tasted enough punishment to last a lifetime.

Sam took his share and trudged toward the edge of camp, where a crooked old tree cast a sliver of shade. His body was still sore, but the gnawing hunger in his stomach overpowered the pain. Sitting with a wince, he looked down at the bowl in his hands. The contents were barely recognizable as food — a sticky gray mash, lumpy and cold, with an acrid stench that clung to his nostrils like smoke. It smelled faintly of rot, like something left too long in a damp cellar.

He stared at it for a moment, his stomach twisting. This is what we get? he thought bitterly. Worse than the scraps fed to stable animals. Even dogs would turn their noses up at it. But there was no choice. Hunger didn’t care about pride. Pride didn’t keep you alive.

The first bite was the hardest. The mush hit his tongue with a sickening, sour taste, and he nearly spat it out. His body recoiled on instinct, his throat tightening in protest. He gagged, eyes watering, but forced it down. He had learned — painfully — that wasting food, even this abomination, brought punishment.

Each mouthful was a battle. Around him, other slaves sat in silence, eating the same slop with mechanical motions. No one spoke. No one complained. Their eyes were hollow, their movements robotic — a collective understanding that speaking out meant bruises or worse. They had all learned to choke it down, just like Sam now did.

He tried not to think about what it might be made of.

Finally, with a grimace of defiance, he scooped the last bit into his mouth and swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, tasting bitterness long after the bowl was empty. The food sat like a stone in his gut, but it was done.

He glanced around the camp, his stomach still twisting.

Sam froze.

Across the clearing, not far from the food line, a soldier stood giving orders to a group of younger guards.

His face was turned slightly away, but Sam didn’t need to see it. The silhouette, the build, the gait — they were burned into his memory.

It was him.

The man who had dragged him out like trash in the dead of night and beaten him senseless beneath the trees. Sam’s body tensed involuntarily, his breath caught in his throat. The food in his stomach suddenly felt heavier, like lead.

Fear crept up his spine, wrapping around his ribs like cold fingers. But beneath the fear, something else stirred — a flicker of rage. His fingers clenched around the wooden bowl until his knuckles whitened.

He leaned closer to Teron, his voice low and strained. "That man over there... the one barking orders. Do you know who he is?"

Teron followed Sam’s gaze, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t answer right away.

Then, in a calm voice, he said, "Yes. I know him."

Sam looked at him sharply. "Who is he?"

Teron’s face hardened. "His name is Varn Rask."

Sam repeated the name silently in his head, memorizing it. Varn Rask.

He wiped his mouth and asked, "What work do we have to do now?"

"Follow me," Teron said.

Meanwhile, among the soldiers, Garrik — the man tasked with tracking down last night’s intruder — was in a state of frustration.

As per Kadran’s orders, he had spent the entire night sending out search parties into the surrounding woods. He hadn’t slept. Neither had his scouting teams. Every man under his command was exhausted, but the pressure was unrelenting.

And still, they had found nothing.

No tracks. No footprints. No hint of who had breached the camp the night before.

That only made things worse.

Because Garrik knew Kadran.

He knew what happened when that man’s expectations were not met.

So when Kadran finally emerged from his private tent — freshly bathed and cloaked in quiet menace — Garrik instinctively moved toward him, heart pounding.

"Good morning, sir," Garrik greeted, standing at attention.

Kadran narrowed his eyes. "Report."

"No further incidents during the night, sir," Garrik replied quickly, though sweat beaded at his brow. "Everyone was vigilant. However... we haven’t caught the intruder. They must have fled before we could reach them."

He hesitated.

"We didn’t pursue deep into the forest. Not beyond the safe boundary."

Kadran’s eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t speak. Garrik continued, trying to justify the decision before it could be questioned.

"The Elderwyn Forest... it’s not safe, sir. The beasts in there — they’re not like anything we’ve seen. Some are feral and massive. If the scouts had gone deeper, they might’ve encountered something we couldn’t handle."

Kadran already knew all this. He had grown up hearing the stories of the Elderwyn beasts — creatures that defied nature, monsters that could wipe out entire squads. Still, he let Garrik sweat for a moment before replying.

"Fine. You did well keeping the threat away from the camp," he said finally. "But don’t let it happen again. No more surprises. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"What’s the status of the departure?"

"We’re ready to move on your order," Garrik replied promptly. "Everything is packed. The slaves are preparing. We’re only waiting for you."

Kadran gave a slight nod. "Good. Then we leave within the hour."

[ End of Chapter ]

[ Please read Author note ]

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