Sir Wideroth stood at the edge of camp, arms folded, eyes flat with disinterest.
"Isakk."
"Sir."
"The east ridge. Something's been picking off patrols out there. I want eyes on it before nightfall. Survey the area, report back what you find. Don't get yourself killed. I don't have the paperwork for it."
"Yes sir."
"And Isakk. Don't wander. I don't pay you to think, I pay you to look."
"You don't pay me at all, sir."
Wideroth's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth, slave. Go."
Isakk turned and walked toward the tree line before the man could change his mind about the whip.
Under a bloody moon, Isakk ran. He screamed like it would save him.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I don't wanna die. Someone. Anyone. Help."
Three goblins tore after him, closing the gap with every stride. His foot caught a broken patch of earth. His ankle snapped sideways. He went down hard, breath knocked out of him.
"Please. Whoever's listening. Whatever's listening. Help me."
The goblins circled. Weapons up. Ready to finish it.
Then the world went black.
When he woke, the goblins were dead. Torn apart. Half eaten.
"What the fuc-"
His head throbbed. He pressed a hand to it and forced himself up. His leg didn't hurt anymore. It had healed clean, like it had never broken at all.
"When did... how long was I out?"
He didn't wait for an answer that wasn't coming. He turned toward camp.
"I need to get back."
The path back cut through the outer checkpoint, where two guards leaned against a post, half bored, half looking for something to do. One of them spotted him first, blood soaked into his shirt, dirt caked on his face.
"Well look at this one." The guard nudged the other. "Went out to survey a ridge and came back looking like he lost a fight with a butcher."
"Careful," the second guard said, grinning. "Might be diseased. Might have to put him down before he infects the herd."
"That true, slave? You catch something out there?"
Isakk kept walking. Didn't answer. Didn't stop.
The first guard stepped into his path, blocking him. "I asked you a question."
"No, sir." Flat. Empty. Just enough to get past.
"No, sir," the guard repeated, mocking the tone, drawing it out. "Listen to him. Polite little thing when it matters, isn't he." He shoved Isakk's shoulder, testing him. "What happened out there. Goblins get the better of you? Have to crawl home?"
The second guard laughed. "Look at his ankle. Boot's torn clean through. Something got you good."
"I'm fine," Isakk said. "Nothing happened."
"Nothing happened," the first guard echoed, stepping closer, close enough Isakk could smell the drink on him. "You hear that? Nothing happened. Funny, because Sir Wideroth's going to want to know why his scout comes back covered in someone else's blood and says nothing happened."
"It's my blood."
"Sure it is." The guard shoved him again, harder this time, enough that Isakk had to catch himself on his bad leg. Pain shot up through it, though it should have been healed clean through. He said nothing. "Go on then. Crawl back to your little dwelling. Tell your pregnant friend a story. Maybe she'll believe you."
The second guard called after him as he walked past. "Try not to die out there next time. Paperwork's a nightmare."
Isakk didn't turn around. He kept walking until their laughter faded behind him.
---
He arrived at camp and it was just as he'd left it. Miserable. Overflowing with despair. Slaves turned soldiers, and none of it fair. Children. Old men. Pregnant women. The empire didn't care who it burned through. They answered to a noble who didn't even understand the war he was supposedly fighting.
Isakk walked to the commander's tent to report he'd come back alive.
"Slave. I presume you have something worth my time and didn't come here to waste it."
"Sir, I-"
"Silence. Get to your dwellings. Or get whipped."
"Yes sir."
He turned and walked away before Wideroth could ask why he was bleeding, why his shirt was torn through, why he looked like a man who'd crawled out of his own grave. Some questions were safer left unasked. Safer left unanswered.
He walked back to the dwelling he shared with a pregnant woman, a child, and an old man. He said nothing to any of them. He sat on his bed and stared at nothing.
The woman got up slowly, one hand braced against her back, and walked over.
"Isakk, could you take off your shirt? It's covered in blood. It's making me sick."
"No."
"What?"
"People are dying out there while you sit on your ass all day because you got fucked. Don't tell me what to do."
She sat back down, jaw tight, saying nothing else. The old man in the corner didn't look up. The child pretended to be asleep.
Isakk lay back and closed his eyes. Tomorrow might be better. Tonight, he just wanted to sleep before the next calamity found him.