THE RISING BASTARD SON-Chapter 32 - - - The March Through Elderwyn

The March Through Elderwyn

The morning air was thick with dust and dread as the final preparations for the march began.

Sam, Teron, and a group of other slaves worked side by side, dismantling the soldiers’ tents. Their hands moved with dull efficiency—untying knots, folding canvas, stacking wooden frames. Nearby, more captives did the same, their faces drawn, their eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights.

Soldiers moved among them, keeping careful watch. Some barked orders, while others tallied provisions—checking off food, medical supplies, and, most carefully of all, weapons. Each blade, each spear was counted twice over. No slave was permitted to touch them. The soldiers cleaned and packed their own weapons, paranoid that even one tool might be stolen, used for self-harm—or worse.

An hour passed like this. The air grew hotter. The last of the tents fell. The final crates were sealed.

Then came the chains.

The slaves were lined up, shackled wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle. Their lines were neat, like livestock before a sale. Around them, soldiers formed a tight square—an armed cage. No one moved without permission.

At the front stood Garrik with his officers, their eyes scanning for trouble. Ahead of him, mounted on a dark horse, was Lieutenant Kadran. His posture was regal, his expression cold. He wore authority like armor, polished and suffocating.

To gather attention, he raised his voice.

"Listen."

Silence fell.

"We move to Pyrethorne. It will be a long march. I expect no weakness."

His eyes scanned the rows of slaves.

"If you fall behind, you’ll rest permanently. I don’t care if you’re soldier or slave—if you fail me, you’ll die where you drop."

Sam stood in the second row from the left, second column back. Teron was at his side. A guard stood on Teron’s other flank, spear gripped tightly, a sword hanging at his belt.

Kadran’s words struck Sam like cold water. His legs locked. He hated how fear rooted him to the ground. Every time that man spoke, it was like the world held its breath.

Then movement stirred near the edge of the clearing.

Two soldiers approached a small cage—the only one that hadn’t been opened yet. Inside, a girl lay curled up, her body frail, her spirit cracked. Yet even in her broken state, she seemed untouchable. Her pale skin shimmered in the sun, her white hair tangled but ethereal. Her name Moon.

{ Already introduced her in the previous Chapter }

They lifted her roughly. She didn’t resist—she was too weak, too far gone into grief. Her lips trembled, tears slipping freely from her reddened eyes. Sam watched, frozen, as the girl was dragged past the lines of slaves.

Then, just for a second, her gaze met his.

Everything around Moon vanished.

Her pain, her fear, her thoughts—everything disappeared. Two souls, drowning in the same ocean of suffering.

Then the moment was gone.

The soldiers hoisted her onto Kadran’s horse, stomach down, her limbs limp. Kadran climbed up behind her, one arm securing her in place like a prized possession. His face betrayed nothing, but his intent was unmistakable.

He didn’t carry her out of kindness.

He carried her because he didn’t want her damaged.

He wanted her perfect—for himself.

Sam clenched his jaw, bile rising in his throat.

He could no longer see her. A wall of bodies blocked his view, just as she could no longer see him. But the silence between them still echoed.

Kadran gave a final command.

"If anyone tries to run, they die. Keep pace. March."

A brief pause.

Then the formation began to move.

Chains rattled. Boots thudded against dry soil. The caravan of sorrow lurched forward, bound for Pyrethorne.

Moon opened her mouth to speak. A single syllable slipped out—"S..." But the sound was drowned beneath the clamor of marching feet and creaking carts. Whatever she meant to say was lost.

No one heard the rest.

He marched with the others, each step heavier than the last, yet his mind refused to break. He carried one thought with him, buried deep, burning hot:

I won’t die in chains.

Soon they were marching in the deep Elderwyn Forest.

The canopy above swallowed most of the light, casting mottled shadows on the dirt path. Rays of sun pierced through in sharp golden beams, glinting off weapons, armor, and the sweat-drenched skin of the marching slaves. Birds called distantly, and now and then the low growl or hiss of unseen creatures echoed from the depths of the woods. The forest was alive—but uncaring.

Sam moved rhythmically with the chain-bound line of slaves. Every link tugged with each step. They had to walk in sync or risk being pulled off balance. One misstep could earn a beating or worse. The soldiers marched alongside, sharp eyes alert, fingers twitching on spear shafts.

Fear was a fog around them.

Sam could sense it—rising from the hunched shoulders of those around him, visible in the way they flinched when twigs snapped or birds cried overhead. Yet it wasn’t just fear of the soldiers. It was fear of the future.

Behind him, a young boy barely older than ten sobbed softly, his hands raw from work. Ahead, an older woman limped slightly, her pace slowing each mile. At one point, Sam noticed her glance skyward—as if begging the trees themselves for mercy.

And all around him, whispers.

"What will they do with us?"

"Do you think there will be buyers?"

"I heard Pyrethorne has mines..."

"My sister died in one."

Among them marched a young woman named Sas. Her wrists bore the same shackles, but her eyes were ablaze with something more than fear—fury. She hadn’t always been a slave. She had been on her way to visit family in the next city, riding a merchant’s cart with her closest friend when they were ambushed.

The soldiers had appeared from nowhere. Arrows rained down. The cart was overturned. Her friend—Layne—was killed trying to protect her. Sas had screamed, kicked, bitten, but it hadn’t mattered. She was dragged into the darkness, into the nightmare.

When she arrived at the camp, the stench of blood and sweat struck her like a hammer. Fires blazed. Captives cried. Men leered. The soldiers took what they wanted—especially from the women. Sas remembered watching a girl get pulled behind a tent. Her screams still haunted her.

Revulsion bloomed in Sas like a sickness. She stayed silent, tried to become invisible. But she could feel the eyes—hungry, cruel—watching her every step.

Each day was a gamble. Each night, a battle for safety.

When the fire incident erupted in the camp—Sas thought for a heartbeat that it might be salvation. But it wasn’t. It only meant more chaos, more beatings, more cruelty.

Now she walked in chains, knowing that she would soon be sold like cattle.

To whom? For what?

Her mind rebelled at the possibilities.

She wasn’t afraid to die. But the thought of being owned, of being used—it made her sick.

She swore silently: If she ever had the chance, she would slit a soldier’s throat. She would run. She would never, ever kneel again.

Sam tried to shut out his own storm of worries, but his mind drifted toward the same dark places.

What if he was sold to a cruel master who worked him to the bone? What if he was thrown into a gang or forced into labor he couldn’t even imagine? What if he was silenced forever, buried in some nameless pit?

His hands, chained before him, tightened into fists.

This wasn’t life.

It was survival—but barely.

Seeing Sam lost in thought, Teron bumped him lightly with his shoulder. The contact jolted him from his spiral.

"Hey," Teron murmured. "What’s going on in that head of yours?"

Sam blinked, then replied in a low voice, "Just wondering who’ll buy me... what kind of life I’ll have. What if it’s someone who works us to death?"

"Don’t think about that," Teron said calmly. "You can’t control it. Focus on what’s in front of you. See this place?"

He gestured around them.

Sam glanced to both sides. Towering trees rose like ancient titans, their trunks covered in moss. Vines curled along branches like veins. Flowers—deep red, bright blue—burst through the green underbrush. Birds in iridescent feathers flashed through the treetops. The forest felt untamed. Pure.

Skyscrapers were nothing compared to these trees. This wasn’t just another world. It was a wild, breathtaking one.

Different sounds rang out—unfamiliar birdsongs, rustling leaves, the occasional growl. Somewhere in the distance, a waterfall roared. This world didn’t care about chains or names. It simply was.

Sam inhaled deeply. Even shackled, something awakened within him.

"I want to see more of this world," he whispered. "No chains. No orders. I want to walk through these woods free."

"Then hold on to that," Teron said. "Whatever happens next—don’t forget it."

Even if he was sold to the cruelest master in the land, even if he was thrown into darkness, Sam promised himself one thing:

He would find a way to live. His way.

No matter what.

[ End of Chapter ]

[ Please read Author note ]

Thank you