Chapter 13 — Quiet Before the Ledger

The camp never went still, but I found a kind of silence inside it.

Pots clanged, children ran between tents, the smell of meat and sweat clung to everything. I sat on the ground, wrists raw under the ropes, watching the firelight paint the smoke. Merlin lay tied close by, his chest rising too quickly even now, days later. Still tired. Still not himself.

I ran through it all in order, because order was the only thing I could make. The circle of fire. The chanting. Merlin's impossible glow. The Hollow Maw in the tunnels. The climb to a sky that wasn't our sky. A stream with silver fish. Bandits with ropes. And now this place, too large and too organized to be just a gang in the woods.

I know the shape of stories like this. I see the places where a plot would patch itself together. That should comfort me. It doesn't.

Because this isn't a story. It's a place where men and women raise children by firelight and feed them on stolen food. A place where prisoners are another kind of cargo. That thought sits in my bones like cold iron. There's not much that disgusts me quite like slavery.

I test myself the same way I always have. Balance in my legs from bouldering. Breath steady from running. A little reflex from old martial arts classes. Skills I earned, not gifts. They don't make me a warrior. They make me a man who can maybe last ten seconds longer before falling.

I do not have power.

I have Merlin, still weak. I have a body that can endure. And I have words. Words that might buy us time. Words that might convince them I'm worth more talking than tied.

All I can do is try to talk us out of a fire, even when talk is a thin reed.

Late that afternoon they hauled me into the largest tent. The air inside was thick with oil smoke. The leader sat on a crate as though it were a throne, two guards flanking him with spears planted in the dirt.

He looked me over, head tilted. "Boots like that don't come cheap. That cloth—" he jabbed a finger at my jeans "—never seen its like. And that hat. Stupid or bold to wear a crown no one knows."

He wasn't mocking. He was cataloguing.

The leader's eyes narrowed. "Where are you from? What master do you serve?"

"Avalon," I said without thinking—and cursed myself the instant it left my mouth. The word sounded silly here, out of place, like I'd named a dream.

They muttered among themselves, faces unreadable. The leader only studied me longer, as if weighing whether it was lie, code, or madness.

They pressed harder. Where was my village. What master did I serve. What coin did I hide. One woman leaned in, sniffed at my shirt like she could smell a profession in it. Another asked if I was a smith, a sailor, a mercenary.

I shook my head each time. "I'm none of those."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you? What work justifies your life? Because if you are nothing, then nothing is what you'll fetch."

Slavery again, bare and sharp.

I thought of Merlin tied outside, still too weak to rise. I thought of the way they had bound us, not killed us, not looted us—because we were cargo, not corpses.

So I smiled, because calm is a shield. "I'm useful. I can read people. I can make groups work together. Tell me what you want, and I'll find a way to make you more coin than selling me off."

They laughed. But not all of them. The leader's mouth twitched, as if he weighed the claim.

"For now we keep you," he said at last. "If your tongue buys coin, you eat. If not…" His hand flicked outward. A gesture of disposal.

The guards cut my ropes and shoved me back into the camp dust.

Tov was waiting. He leaned close, grin wide, voice low. "Told you. Bandits are greedy, not clever. Talk fast enough, maybe you'll live long enough to matter."

His grin didn't hide his eyes. They were sharp, quick, and scared.