The Siege of the Iron Collar Two years passed. Kaelen and Mira built something impossible in the lawless hills of the Scarred Marches: a freehold of escaped battle slaves. They called it the Unchained Keep. Former gladiators taught farmers to fight. Former pit dogs became scouts. Mira, her arm still stiff from the arrow, became their strategist, using her scribe’s mind to decode Mandate supply routes.
Valerius had known. He’d let them plan. He wanted to break not just their bodies but their legend. Archers lined the walls. Slaves fell screaming, arrows through their backs. Mira took one in the shoulder. Kaelen caught her as she slid from the horse. battle slaves code
"Which article?"
Mira had other plans. She’d spent weeks mapping the villa’s secret passages, bribing a kitchen slave with promises, and filing a key from a rusted nail. Just before the first trumpet, she appeared at the kennel gate, the master key glinting in her trembling hand. The Siege of the Iron Collar Two years passed
Kaelen hated Valerius with a purity that felt like a religious calling. But the Code whispered otherwise. Hate is a luxury. Focus is a weapon. Former gladiators taught farmers to fight
One night, after he’d disemboweled a captured lion with a broken spear, Valerius summoned him to the marble salon. Oil lamps flickered over the Archon’s jowls. "You’re my finest blade, Kaelen," he said, offering a goblet of spiced wine. "I’m promoting you. No more pits. You’ll join my personal guard."