Chapter 11: Captured

James groaned, the sound low and rough in his throat. Everything hurt—his neck, his back, even the roots of his hair. He was moving, but not by choice. The steady, jerky motion told him he was on a wagon, the wooden floor hard and unforgiving beneath him. Every bump in the road rattled his bones, making his head throb even worse. His brain felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.

He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt quite so much, but it was pointless. His head rolled to the side, the rough fabric of the sack rubbing against his cheek. He could barely breathe; it smelled like old sweat, piss, and fear. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was dry as sand, his tongue thick and useless.

Around him, he heard the low, nervous voices of other boys. None of them sounded brave—just scared or too tired to cry anymore. Someone whimpered, and James flinched, his nerves raw. The wagon creaked and groaned with every turn, the air inside so thick and sour it almost made him gag.

Then, suddenly, the sack was pulled off his head. Bright daylight slammed into his eyes, blinding him. He squeezed them shut, then blinked fast, trying to see. Shapes swam in front of him—wooden walls, thin shafts of sunlight, a group of skinny boys crammed in tight all around. Some looked as young as he was; others were teenagers with hollow eyes and set jaws. They all looked miserable, some barely dressed.

James glanced around, blinking against the harsh light. He saw the guards riding up front, rough-looking asian men with stern faces and hands never far from their clubs or knives. The world outside the wagon rolled past, a blur of brown mud and scraggly fields.

He tried to sit up straighter, but every muscle screamed in protest. One of the other boys nudged him, more out of desperation than anger. James fought down the taste of bile rising in his throat. He tried to move his feet and saw they were hobbled, tied with rough-looking rope.

That’s when it really hit him. He was just another body now—a captive, stolen from home and shipped off to who-knows-where. He looked at the boys around him and saw the same thing on all their faces: fear, confusion, and that quiet, hopeless look that said they knew no one was coming to help.

Well.

What shit luck!

He went from possibly training to learn how to use magic, growing his army of slimes, his beehives to this.

Captured.

He had no idea why he was taken. Where he was, where he was going, no idea of this world’s geography, his location, no idea of the larger world and beyond.

He had no idea how large this world was or what the distance was from here to Castletown. To make matters worse, he had no idea where Castletown was. Added to that, how could he even escape, at eight, with his slight body?

He slumped back.

Of course, his family wouldn’t bother looking. What would be the fucking point? Expend effort looking for an eight-year-old boy or looking after his mother, two brothers, their families, and his sisters?

He always thought that Rachael, as a virgin, was worth more than he was. But these raiders ignored everyone except for him. Why? At least, he’d given the Ring of Finding to Raphtalia and command of the slimes to her, which allowed her a safety net, so that the family wouldn’t abuse or throw her out.

With that one gesture, of giving her the ring, he’d made her indispensable. He couldn’t remember if he told her where the Ring of Invisibility was. But in his state, he couldn’t concentrate on anything except for the pain and hunger.

Now, the rhythm of the wagon imposed its own tyranny—a relentless, bone-jarring monotony that left no room for hope or heroics. Every lurch was a reminder of his powerlessness. Straw poked through the wooden planks and pricked his back. Even with the hood off, the air was a nauseating blend of sweat, fear, vomit, and old piss, thick enough to taste. He could barely shift his weight without bumping into someone else’s rib or elbow. He wrapped his arms around his knees, folding in on himself, trying to make his body as small as the world wanted him to be. In this position, he studied the hobble. James did not recognize the knot and knew if he played with it, the men would notice, and he shuddered at the potential consequences his mind conjured.

Outside, the world blurred past—a patchwork of brown and green glimpsed through the wagon wall’s gaps. He imagined what might wait out there: forests thick with wolves, rivers swollen from rain, hostile villages where even children vanished if they strayed too far from home. There was no hint of civilization, no signpost to orient him, no horizon line to fix his sense of self. Just the interminable roll of the wheels and the steady tramp of boots alongside.

They trundled all day, stopping every few hours. The boys—dozens of them, some just barely old enough to tie their own shoes, others already hardening into wary, hollow-eyed teenagers—were unloaded and given a cup of water and a slice of hard bread. If anyone needed to relieve themselves, they were directed to a spot by the side of the path. Each evening, when the wagons finally came to a halt, the boys were herded out into whatever patch of scrub or dirt the guards chose for the night.

These camps were always the same. Filthy, makeshift, and suffused with the stench of too many bodies packed into too little space. Piss and shit pooled in shallow holes dug at the edges of the gathering, barely covered. Hunger gnawed at them constantly. Each night, they were given a cup of water and a piece of bread. Later, bones with only the faintest trace of meat were tossed into the boys. The older boys bullied the younger for the best morsels, and the guards watched, sometimes amused, sometimes indifferent. No one ever intervened.

When the food was tossed into the group, James developed a plan to make sure he got some. Since he worked on a farm, he had more muscles than the other boys his age. So he waited until the older boys took theirs and then shoved a smaller kid into someone who had food. When the boys collided, oftentimes the food was dropped, allowing James to immediately dash in and grab it. He gnawed at the bones, ignoring any dirt as he scurried away. He crouched down and waited for retribution. To his shock, the guards seemed to approve, pointing him out and talking among themselves.

Most of the men who guarded them were Asian—Mongolian by James’s best guess, with wide, flat faces, weathered skin, and eyes sharp as a hawk’s. They spoke to each other in a language none of the children understood, and James sometimes caught himself wondering about the story behind them. Had their ancestors been brought here centuries ago—descendants of some lost army or a clan that had wandered too far from their homeland? Or had they been summoned, transported through some ancient magic, their lineage diluted but their features persistent through millennia? This world was different from his first one; it felt old, layered with stories that had long ago lost their names, and the men fit it as if they’d always belonged, a breed apart, both alien and entirely at home.

The camp itself was nothing but suffering and deprivation. The fires were only to ward off wild animals. Shelter was improvised: boys sleeping in clumps for warmth, the stronger claiming spots beneath the wagon or in the lee of a boulder. At night, the guards patrolled, boots crunching through grit, the threat of a lash or a blow keeping everyone subdued. Disease simmered under the surface—coughs, fevers, skin infections. Anyone too weak was ignored, left to shiver and moan in the dark.