Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 61: Thunder rumbles

The break had finally been announced. A short break, but long enough for the slaves to catch their breath and superficially heal their wounds. Mordred had dropped his pickaxe heavily, wiping the sweat dripping down his dirty forehead with the back of his hand, discreetly observing the groups beginning to form around him.

The change in mood among the slaves was palpable. Small groups were gathering, speaking in hushed tones, exchanging quick, cautious glances, regularly casting furtive glances around them. Mordred clearly sensed that something was going on, but it was obvious that he was excluded.

Determined to find out what was going on, Mordred slowly made his way towards the first group within range, pretending simply to catch his breath beside them. But no sooner had he approached than silence fell abruptly among them, as if an invisible hand had just cut them off.

They stared at him, their faces closed, their gazes filled with obvious distrust. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

Mordred frowned, annoyed but deciding not to insist immediately. He tried a second group, a little further away, but the result was exactly the same: immediate silence, suspicious and hostile glances, and tightly closed mouths.

They see me as an enemy," he realized slowly, his heart clenching in frustration. As a spy infiltrated among them...

The cold rage he now felt was painful, almost palpable. How could they think he was a traitor? After all he’d endured at their side, after every blow, every humiliation, every day spent plucking those precious stones from the merciless rock...

Finally, unable to bear this brutal exclusion any longer, Mordred decided to go and see the only person who could perhaps provide him with a clear explanation. His gaze fell on the old man, the one who had told those inspiring stories about ancient human warriors during a previous break. The old man was sitting against a rock wall, his gaze lost in the void, his features drawn by fatigue and age.

Mordred approached slowly, his presence causing the old man’s shoulders to tense slightly.

- I need to talk to you," Mordred murmured in a cold but controlled tone, slowly kneeling before him to look him straight in the eye. I want to understand why everyone here looks at me like a stranger. Like a traitor.

The old man slowly looked away, a heavy sigh escaping from his chapped lips.

- I don’t know if I should be talking to you, Mordred," he replied in a weak, hesitant voice, carefully avoiding her gaze. Times change fast here... and so do people.

Mordred clenched his fists, his jaw clenching in contained frustration.

- Don’t take me for a fool," he growled in a low voice, anger now clearly showing beneath his apparent calm. "I’ve listened to you talk about the old warriors. I’m no different from the others here, I’m a prisoner, a slave like you, like them. Why have I suddenly become suspicious?!

The old man hesitated a moment longer, but seeing the burning intensity in Mordred’s eyes, he finally sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his revelation

- You’re in the coliseum, Mordred. You’re fighting in the arena in front of them... in front of those monsters. And you return every day, alive, victorious. You think no one notices? That no one questions it? His voice trembled slightly, laden with genuine sadness. "In the eyes of many here, you’ve become too close to the dragons. Too useful for them. Perhaps even allied with them. You’ve become dangerous in their eyes.

Mordred felt his stomach knot sharply at these words. The truth was cruel, cold, almost absurd. How could they think such a thing? He, who had faced these horrors every day, who had suffered their hatred, their violence, their contempt... He, allied with the dragons? What cruel irony.

- I never had a choice... I never wanted this! he finally murmured, his voice hoarse with restrained emotion, his fist clenched against his thigh. They force me to fight. Like you, they keep me in chains. I’m not their ally, I’m their toy, their slave!

The old man nodded slowly, his face filled with sadness and sincere compassion.

- I know, son. I can see your rage, your hatred for them. But fear is powerful, Mordred. More powerful than truth itself sometimes. And right now, it rules the minds of those who share your fate. He paused, hesitating for a moment, before adding: "Be careful, Mordred. Something is rumbling in the shadows. Something dangerous, something uncontrollable. And you risk getting caught in the crossfire if you’re not careful.

Mordred squinted slowly, thinking deeply about the old man’s words. He could clearly feel the charged atmosphere around them, the almost palpable tension in the air.

The old man sighed one last time before slowly turning his weary gaze away, staring again into the dark void before him.

- Stay on your guard, Mordred," he breathed quietly. The storm is coming, and it won’t spare anyone. Not even you.

The end of the pause was heralded by a brutal roar from the dragon guard, whose squeaky voice echoed scornfully in the mine’s narrow gallery. The slaves slowly rose to their feet, their exhausted bodies struggling to obey. Mordred reluctantly got to his feet, his mind still clouded by the old man’s words and the palpable distrust that had invaded his fellow slaves.

Each blow of the pickaxe into the hard rock resounded like a painful echo of his inner anger, each stone extracted a meagre victory against his own despair. His tormented mind replayed the conversation with the old man over and over again, trying to untangle the truth from the lie, vainly trying to understand why these men he’d been working with for weeks could now perceive him as a traitor.

The steady thud of pickaxes hitting rock mingled with the heavy, panting breaths of exhausted slaves. Time seemed to stretch into an unbearable eternity, Mordred’s muscles burning intensely under the relentless effort. Yet he held firm, determined to finish his quota, focused solely on this task, willingly shutting himself off from the world around him.

When the heavy, brutal sound of the gong finally announced the end of the work, Mordred felt a wave of relief mixed with apprehension. The slaves dropped their tools with an untidy metallic clatter, catching their breath in anxious silence. The dragon-guards approached, their black scales gleaming faintly under the dim glow of the torches, a cruel sneer on their reptilian lips.

The guard in charge of counting the quota slowly stepped forward, his piercing, contemptuous gaze scanning the baskets filled with moonstones lined up in front of the slaves.

- We’ll see who decided to take the piss today," he spat, his fangs bared in an evil grin.

Mordred stiffened slightly, anxiety compressing his insides in spite of himself. The guard slowly began his inspection, grabbing each basket roughly, meticulously inspecting their contents. Mordred held his breath as the guard finally approached his own, but let out a discreet sigh of relief when the guard passed quickly by without lingering any longer.

One by one, all the baskets were checked, and each time, the guard couldn’t hide his growing irritation. All the slaves had filled their quota, which didn’t seem to please him, his reptilian face slowly twisting into an expression of brutal, palpable, dangerous frustration.

A tense silence fell as he slowly straightened up, his gaze searching the row of slaves as if looking for an imaginary culprit. His frustration became almost physical, a dull anger bubbling beneath the scaly surface of his massive body.

Suddenly, without warning, he brutally grabbed a young slave beside him, a skinny man with features hollowed out by hunger and exhaustion, whose only fault was that he was within reach.

- Did you really think it was going to be that easy?! he roared, his voice echoing violently against the rock walls, amplified by pure hatred.

The young man barely had time to open his mouth to protest before the whip came crashing down on him, immediately lacerating his skin with a sickening snap. A scream of excruciating pain immediately ripped through the air, echoing violently in the dark gallery, freezing all the slaves in place.

The guard didn’t stop there. His frustration and uncontrolled anger were unleashed on the innocent slave, each stroke of the whip striking his skin with savage brutality, each lash tearing open a new wound, a new spray of dark blood splattering the floor.

The young man’s desperate cries quickly filled the space, an unbearable howl of pure pain, unspeakable suffering, penetrating every soul present, awakening something dark and dangerous within them.

Mordred slowly clenched his fists, feeling a cold, uncontrollable rage invade every fiber of his being. Around him, the slaves reacted too, their hitherto resigned gazes suddenly burning with a brutal anger, a deep, almost animal hatred. Fists clenched, jaws clenched, breathing became jerky, rapid, panting under the effect of a shared fury.

The revolt was roaring, ready to erupt at any moment.

The dragon-guard continued, laughing louder and louder, as if galvanized by his victim’s suffering, by the palpable hatred he felt rising all around him. His provocation was clear: he wanted to provoke a response, he wanted blood, he wanted an excuse to kill.

Mordred took an instinctive step forward, ready to intervene, to pounce on this monster, to put an end to this horror immediately, even if it meant his own death.

But suddenly, a firm, powerful hand brutally grabbed his arm, holding him back just in time. He turned his head slowly, meeting the old man’s stern but deeply sad gaze.

- Not now, Mordred," he murmured urgently, his fingers gripping his arm violently, his voice barely audible. "This is exactly what he wants. If you react now, it’s a guaranteed massacre. Hold back, son. There’ll be another time. But it’s not today. Not yet.

Mordred felt every muscle in his body tremble under the almost superhuman effort of suppressing his anger, his teeth clenched until they hurt, his eyes burning with impotent rage. He watched with icy hatred as the dragon-guard finally completed his unjust punishment, leaving behind the bloody, broken body of the young slave, lying on the ground like a piece of meat discarded after use.

The guard then burst into an even louder laugh, cruel, provocative, his eyes shining with unhealthy triumph.

- Look at you all! Submissive dogs, unable to move even when I slaughter one of you! You’re all the same, weak and pathetic!

An icy silence answered his provocation, but Mordred could clearly see in the slaves’ gazes that something had changed for good.

This time, perhaps, the dragon-guard had gone too far.