Aerax began to observe.That was the first thing he learned after the strange conversation with the old woman. Gone were the vacant eyes of a prisoner—Aerax had learned to see. He watched the guards' routines, the shift changes, the way the doors opened, and above all, he noticed the cracks—both in the stone and in the paths that might lead out of the citadel.
The old woman hadn't lied.On damp, endless nights, Aerax lay still as a corpse, but his mind ran like a wild horse. Memories began to return—blurred fragments: a field, the sound of hooves, his father's hand clutching his mane when he was young, his mother's voice whispering that he wasn't like the others. Then came the fire. Fire and chains.
Two days after meeting the old woman, he noticed the young guard named Dyros sneak a flask of wine to another soldier. Both then abandoned their post to drink in the stables. Aerax etched the moment into memory. A vulnerability.
He also noticed the blacksmith passing the prison hallway every fifth day. The man carried tools—lock picks, grease, spare iron bolts. One day, Aerax deliberately smashed his head against the bars, blood pouring down, and pretended to convulse. The panicked blacksmith unlocked the cage, but before he could flee, Aerax managed to snatch a small piece of metal from his pouch. A sliver of steel, no bigger than a fingernail—but it was hope.
And then there was the trash.
Each afternoon, the dung collectors gathered waste and hauled it through a small southern gate—a gate that opened into a foul alleyway leading to a vacant lot behind the arena. An old yellow-furred ferret with one blind eye pulled the cart. Aerax approached him, offering help in exchange for a turn with the black equine shaft. The ferret refused at first, but on the third try, he sighed,"You just want to get out of here sooner, don't you?"
Aerax nodded.
The ferret asked nothing more.That day, Aerax was wheeled out with the trash, hidden beneath a mound of straw and dried dung. No one checked. The guards were drunk. The sky was dark.
He looked back, raised a hand.The ferret nodded. Didn't smile.
Aerax remembered—this was the only way out he knew would open.
The next night, he tried the steel sliver. Slipped it into the neck shackle's lock, twisted. Nothing. Tried again. Click. A soft snap. He held his breath. But the lock didn't open—only loosened. He knew: he'd need more force, and time.
He needed a night when no one would notice.
The chance came during the Harvest Sacrifice Festival, a blood-soaked ritual to plead for the gods' favor in the coming season. The entire arena would be turned into a killing ground for more than thirty slaves. Blood would flood the stone steps; drums would thunder from the palace to the gallows square. Guards would be doubled to control the crowds.
Aerax was selected as one of the slaves to be executed.He didn't react. But when he returned to his cage, his eyes gleamed. He had exactly two nights.
The next night, he dreamed of the old woman.
"What will you do with freedom, young horse?""Go south. Find the temple.""You've thought this through.""Better to die running than die in a place like this."
The old woman nodded, then pointed behind a crumbling wall:
"An old tunnel. Beneath the waste path. Once buried, but sand's uncovered it again. You only need wait until every eye is fixed on the grandstand."
Aerax spent his final day like a dying man.Silent. Fasting. But his mind burned like fire.He removed his loincloth string, hid the steel shard between his thigh and groin. The leather collar around his neck was loosened with urine to make it easier to slip off. Every motion was a preparation to run.
And then the final night came.The festival began with bronze drums and skies lit red with flame.
Aerax was dragged away—but suddenly, a small riot broke out at the city gates. Someone had freed the donkeys from the stables, unleashing them into the streets. Guards scrambled in chaos. The prison yard was left briefly, utterly unguarded.
He didn't think. He moved.
The sliver. The lock. Click.The collar fell.He crawled toward the waste route. The ferret wasn't there. Damn it.But the gate was ajar.
He slipped through, sliding in mud and sewage.Below, an old passage—just as the old woman said. Dust and bones crunched beneath him. No light. Only his own breathing.
Suddenly, a shout rang out behind him.Someone had seen.Someone was chasing.
Aerax dove downward.The tunnel was steep. He slid. Fell. Hit stone.But he didn't stop. He screamed like a beast, crawling over rocks, through blood, through rot.
Ahead... moonlight.
The tunnel opened to an empty field.Beyond that, the forest.Farther still, the sea.
Aerax gasped like a dying man.But he stood.And he ran—for the first time in his life, unchained.
Behind him, the horns of pursuit howled through the dark.
He did not look back.