The decision felt like a stab in the back.
Suddenly, without any warning or explanation, Jabelin Freely decided that the caravan would move to the Kingdom of Cartuga. It seemed absurd and suspicious. The decision broke the tradition that the Caravan of Dreams was known for—a strange rule known among its members as "Four here and four there." The name alone sounded ridiculous, yet it meant something special to Jabelin.
The caravan stayed in each land for four years. No more, no less. Then they moved on. That was the system everyone in the caravan had come to know and follow. But now? Four years hadn't passed yet. Still, the order to move was given—as if something had made Jabelin change his mind and break the habit he was famous for.
But the bigger surprise wasn't just breaking the rule. It was the destination itself… Cartuga.
The name of that kingdom alone stirred a storm of mixed feelings deep inside the young man. It was there, in that land, that he first met Jabelin Freely—the mad and deceitful merchant who had changed the course of his life forever. For a moment, he felt something like nostalgia… but it was poisoned nostalgia, a mix of weakness and anger, of memory and the desire to curse.
The young man didn't want to go. Inside, he was resisting, protesting, silently screaming. But did he have the right to refuse? Absolutely not. In this caravan, there was no room for choice. Orders came from above—sharp, unquestionable—and they were carried out exactly as they were, without delay.
So, the two men obeyed the orders of the strict woman—the one who never hesitated to assert her authority. They placed the young man in his private wagon, locked the door tightly, and left to complete the preparations.
Inside the carriage, the young man found himself alone, lying on his back in a space empty except for the echo of his thoughts. The carriage was spacious enough to offer some comfort—dry, free of dampness or foul smells. For a brief but rare moment, he felt like a human being… nothing less than that, nothing broken. Just a person, as he was meant to be.
The design of the carriage was simple, almost primitive, with no decorations or anything worth noting. On either side, there were two small square openings, allowing a gentle breeze to flow in and letting him watch the road slowly pass by. These openings were his only window to the world—and to his fractured freedom. At that moment, the carriage was his small world. A world carrying seeds of contradiction: isolation and calm, safety and confinement, hope and despair.
It was a rare chance to experience a simple human feeling—a limited freedom to breathe, to watch, to imagine. And yet, his body wasn't cooperative. The familiar, constant pain had returned, gnawing slowly at his limbs. He was forced to surrender once again to his physical limits, to accept his weakness, and focus only on survival—nothing more.
After some time waiting inside the locked carriage, the young man heard a voice from outside. One of the caravan men approached, and through the right-side opening of the carriage, he spoke:
"Relaxing, huh? Well, this'll be the only time you get to relax anyway."
Then he chuckled and walked away lightly.
The young man heard the words clearly, but his body couldn't respond. The pain had crept into every part of him, making even the movement of a finger a painful challenge. Still, he began to try. First by moving his limbs, then his head, and then slowly trying to lift his torso. Every movement brought more pain, as if his body were bruised and wounded from the inside too.
With a bit of determination, he finally managed to lean against the wooden wall of the carriage, making a faint thud as his body dropped onto it like someone seeking support. Then he sat there, breathless, panting in short, broken gasps—as if the air around him had grown heavy and suffocating.
بالطبع، إليك الترجمة إلى الإنجليزية، مع الالتزام بالقائمة الخاصة بالأسماء والمصطلحات:
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He drifted back into the silence of his mind, enduring the pain that refused to leave him—yet he had learned how to breathe beneath it. In the midst of his wandering thoughts, an image surfaced. It was of someone whose face he had never seen, yet who remained etched in his memory as a warm presence in the freezing cruelty of a life that offered him no mercy.
Aidi… That was all he remembered of him, just a name—for a man who left a deeper mark than any describable features.
Three years ago, when the caravan was stationed on the borders of the Kingdom of Feril—specifically in the southeast, near the Dividing River, which splits the continent of Vingard into two parts (East Vingard and West Vingard)—the young man was in a cell that felt more like a grave. There, where silence mixed with rot, he met Aidi.
The cell was nothing more than a thick stone-brick room—cold, heavy-doored, and packed with isolation. The night inside it was like an endless nightmare. Hallucinations would eat at his mind in the darkness, pushing him to move erratically, like someone trying to hold onto his sanity before it slipped away.
And on one of those nights, he heard a voice coming from the wall. It wasn't an illusion—it was someone speaking to him. That someone was Aidi, a slave in the neighboring cell. He had managed to remove a brick from the stone wall and open a small hole, just big enough for a hand to pass through. None of Jabelin's men knew about it—simply because none of them had ever bothered to look closely enough to notice.
Their conversations took place at night, after a long, draining day for both of them. Aidi wasn't just a prisoner—he was a man with a different kind of mind. He spoke with calm reason, with clear thought, with knowledge that no ordinary slave could possibly have. He was someone of standing, of quiet dignity. And over time, he began to plant small seeds of understanding in the young man's mind—teaching him how to think, how to connect ideas, how to see the world through the eyes of a free being.
What Aidi said wasn't much, but its impact endured. He lit up the young man's mind with simple words and clear ideas—ideas anyone could understand. He left him with thoughts to cling to, instead of letting the madness devour him in the dark.
And now, in this carriage, the young man returned to those memories—of the man who gave him only knowledge. They weren't friends. They didn't share bread or salt. But Aidi gave him something no one else had: He gave him the chance to feel like a human being capable of understanding. And that alone was enough to keep his name alive in the young man's mind.
But he felt sadly.
Not because the memory was painful, but because he hadn't been able to give anything in return. Back then, he had nothing—only a frail body and a soul swinging between life and an impossible death. And even that soul, he wasn't sure if it would stay with him much longer—or if he would lose it too.
As his thoughts grew crowded and his memory caught its breath again, the carriage began to move, cutting off his stream of thoughts and pulling him back into reality. His body jolted slightly, but he didn't fall. Balance was already a fragile thing for him—like a reminder that stability in this world is just a fleeting illusion, and even moments of rest come at a price.
He slowly turned his head toward the small opening on his left. He could barely move his stiff neck, but the view beyond the slit began to change before his tired eyes. Things appeared and disappeared like phantoms—until the voice returned again, this time from the right side, just like before.
"The journey has started. Try to enjoy it… while you still can," said the man in a quiet tone, followed by a chuckle as he walked away, leaving the young man alone with what remained of his awareness.
The young man couldn't turn toward him—his body no longer obeyed, and his neck felt almost frozen in place. In that moment, a single tear fell from one of his eyes, gliding quietly down his pale cheek.
He didn't know what he was feeling. His emotions were like chaos screaming into a void with no echo. And then suddenly, a strange smile appeared on his face, followed by a dry, faint laugh—devoid of any trace of reason.
"I want to die," he said it as if releasing the last bit of desire left inside him.
His words were unexpected, strange, as if they came from someone else living inside his body. Smiling and crying at the same time, he didn't look broken, yet didn't seem whole either. He was a puzzling blend of something indescribable, as though his soul was screaming from within—yet without a sound escaping outside. The pain inside him wasn't just physical... it was much deeper than that.
The carriage began to move—slowly—cutting a quiet path forward, accompanied by the sounds of horse hooves and old wooden wheels. It felt like they were transporting something of value… or perhaps someone they didn't want to draw attention to. But the strange thing was, Jabelin wasn't with them. His absence was unusual—the caravan never moved without its leader at the front. And yet, it moved.
At the head rode the stern woman, astride a black horse with striking, pure white hair—a unique and unforgettable sight. Beside her was a man of strong build, with blonde hair and handsome features full of confidence. His clothing was elegant and neat—nearly rivaling the quality of what the stern woman wore, perhaps even surpassing it. His weapon gleamed with certainty: a long sword with a black and silver hilt, strapped to his side, straight and dignified.
"You look grumpy, Mary. Did someone upset you?" the man said, his voice carrying a light warmth and a touch of teasing.
The stern woman, named Mary, sighed. She paused briefly, then replied with her usual coldness: "That's none of your concern, Erik."
Erik gave her a sly grin and said, "Is it because of that cursed one? Maybe I should rough him up a little—teach his filthy skin a simple lesson so he stops bothering a lady like you. What do you say?"
Mary's expression darkened, but she held herself together. She took a deep breath, then said : "No, it's not because of him. He hasn't said a word since we pulled him from the cell. Maybe he's lost his voice—or he simply doesn't want to speak. Either way, I don't care."
Then she urged her horse forward a step and added,
"And at least learn something from him—silence is a blessing. If you mastered silence half as well as you master annoyance, you'd live longer." She said it with a steady voice and her usual tone, but the sarcasm this time was unmistakable.
Erik didn't offer much in return. He simply said, "Very well, Miss." Then he fell silent. His smile vanished for a moment—but returned, this time carrying a hint of restrained anger.
The caravan continued its path southward, even though their true destination lay to the north—toward the Kingdom of Kartuga. On the map that Mary had opened, it was clear they were now within the borders of the Kingdom of Korentora, located in the eastern part of the continent—Eastern Vingard. From there, the so-called Caravan of Dreams moved in a direction contrary to what was expected. The southern route, as ordered by Jabelin, was intentional.
Jabelin, who hadn't appeared with the caravan, had apparently departed with his own private group, heading straight north toward Kartuga, most likely on the same day the young man had been tortured. His decision was clear—without hesitation.
"Miss, why are we heading south? Aren't we supposed to go north? I know directions, so I can tell this isn't the right way."
The one speaking was one of the caravan men—disheveled in appearance, and his words reflected his naïve nature. Mary showed no change in expression. For a moment, she considered ignoring him, but just as she was about to respond, someone else answered from behind him.
"That's a dumb question. We're taking this road to avoid the checkpoints. The southern route passes through the kingdom's borders unmonitored—this way we move the cursed one without a headache or trouble from the royal guards or knights."
The speaker was another man—his voice loud and grating, but his words were reasonable and accurate. He was one of the older members of the caravan and had been through this kind of route before.
The naïve man looked surprised, then exclaimed eagerly, "Oh! That's a smart move! We'll enjoy the journey then! No trade, no stress, right?"
He then turned to Mary, asking with the enthusiasm of a child seeking his mother's approval.
Mary appeared annoyed by the volume of his voice—as if the mere sound insulted her presence. She looked at him with contained disgust before regaining composure and taking a deep breath. Then she said, with cold finality:
"No, you fool. We'll pass through some villages along the way, and since we're a trade caravan, we'll do our job properly. This isn't a picnic—it's a move driven by profit and gain. There's no room for play. Now, keep walking—and stop bothering me."
A heavy silence followed her words. The naïve man and his companion exchanged uneasy glances, a cold shiver crawling up their spines. Her voice, though calm, carried an unmistakable threat—her words final, like a sword drawn not to be shown... but to cut.
The caravan resumed its journey in silence, and before half a day had passed, the night had already cloaked the horizon in darkness—since they had set off at noon. The caravan came to a stop and decided to make camp. The slaves were ordered out of the carriages by Erik, and they began setting up the tents and preparing dinner.
As for the young man, he remained in his carriage, as if entirely absent from everything happening around him. He had been silently staring through the left opening since the caravan set off, with exhausted eyes and a face bearing a fatigue that wasn't merely physical—it stretched into his very voice, which barely emerged as a whisper: "The darkness… it has returned again…"
He hadn't seen the sun leave, nor could he remember the last time he had. Still, the thought of the fading light painted a beautiful scene in his mind—a fleeting moment that made him forget the sense of defeat that had plagued him throughout the day.
But suddenly, the carriage door swung open with a sharp screech. The young man didn't react immediately. It took him a few seconds to process what was happening, before he slowly turned—only to be struck across the face with a whip.
A choked cry escaped him: "Aargh!" as though his body had not been ready for any more pain.
Erik stood at the door, grinning with a sick, arrogant smile, holding the whip as if it were an extension of his desires. He stormed into the carriage, grabbed the young man violently by the hair, and yanked him out with brute force, then hurled him to the ground as if he were nothing more than discarded trash. He landed on a cluster of rocks—one of which struck beneath his arm, causing it to break upon impact, as he had landed on his left side. A nearby slave heard the snap and froze in fear.
"Comfortable inside the carriage? Who gave you permission for that? Mary? Craig? Me? No one gave you permission!" Erik shouted, stepping toward the young man writhing on the ground. His face flushed with rage, but his voice carried a deeper disdain: "I couldn't stand the sight of you from the start. You're ugly, disgusting... not even worthy of a dog's pity."
The young man clutched his broken arm, feeling the fractured bone shift beneath his palm—sending waves of panic and intense, raw pain through him. Everything in him screamed, from the old wounds that reopened, to the inflamed fingertips stripped of their nails, now bleeding again. With each new blow, his senses were crushed under the weight of accumulating agony.
شكرًا للتنبيه، وتم تصحيح الاسم فورًا من "Gabelyn" إلى Jabelin، كما هو في القائمة المعتمدة.
إليك النص بعد التصحيح:
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Erik didn't stop. He lashed him several more times with the whip, then kicked his body with vengeful force, and even kicked stones toward him—though they had no real effect. He wasn't punishing him; he was unleashing all his inner turmoil in a manic frenzy, as if trying to destroy something within—not just the boy's body, but his humanity.
"Mary says I should learn from you? From you?!" His voice boiled with selfish rage and a hint of envy, and then he started striking aimlessly, as if he'd lost control of his hand, his mind, his very self.
The young man curled around his body instinctively, like a frightened hedgehog, desperately trying to shield himself from pain and danger. At the same time, one of the nearby slaves stood frozen, shocked by this brutal display of power—an embodiment of the law of "the strong devour the weak" in its ugliest form.
Then, just as the young man was about to scream and release the agony bottled up inside him, Mary appeared from seemingly nowhere and slapped Erik across the face—so hard his cheek turned red instantly.
Her slap was fierce, sharp, and sudden. Its sound sliced through the crisp night air, halting everything and drawing the rest of the caravan members to witness the scene with their own eyes.
"For the damned hell's sake… what do you think you're doing?!" she shouted, her fury blazing from her eyes, her brow twitching with visible strain.
Erik froze in panic, trying to justify himself with a weak, shaky smile: "I was… just teaching him a lesson in respect…" But he didn't finish.
"Who gave you the right to do that? Who do you think you are!? Just because master Jabelin praised you once, you think you're above everyone now? Don't make me LAUGH!" Her voice rose like a storm, and in a flash, she kicked him in the face—breaking a few of his teeth and sending him to the ground.
Mary stepped forward and mercilessly stomped his face under her boot. " master Jabelin made it crystal clear—no one lays a single damned finger on that slave unless he is present. That slave… is reserved for his pleasures. Not for filthy trash like you to exert power over while you're nothing but a worthless scum who only earned his place by sucking up to master Jabelin like A DAMN WHORE!" Her words struck him like her boot did—grinding him into the dirt with fury upon fury, disgust upon disgust.
The slaves and caravan members stood stunned. Not because she did this to Erik—Mary could be temperamental and sometimes acted out—but this time, she was angrier than ever. Her tone had grown more venomous, more brutal. It was in that moment that fear began to creep into their hearts.
That slave… they needed to stay as far away from him as possible.
Mary continued to crush Erik's head without the slightest hesitation. Her feet—deceptively delicate at first glance—dug into his face with relentless, brutal strikes, hard enough to shatter the bone beneath the skin. With every blow, the echoes of raw power hidden behind her balanced feminine appearance rang out—a deceiving shell that had long caused her enemies to underestimate her.
When she finally stopped, her chest was rising and falling with rapid breaths, and her flushed cheeks betrayed none of the wild fury behind those blazing eyes. Mary wasn't called the "She-Bear of the North" for no reason—she embodied that title in full. When enraged, she became a beast that struck without mercy, like a bear provoked from its winter slumber—one that wouldn't rest until every fool who dared awaken it was utterly crushed.
Her beauty hinted at gentleness, but anyone who had seen her in the heat of wrath knew she was no ordinary woman. She wasn't the strongest—but she was far from weak. What she had just done… was merely a fraction of what she was capable of, and everyone present knew that.
When it was over, she stood tall, her breathing still heavy, the echo of her violence still hanging in the air as though the earth itself had trembled beneath her blows. Her muscles remained tense, ready for another strike that never came. But the fire of her rage, burning just moments ago, began to cool—replaced by something colder… and more controlled.
She turned toward the young man, still curled in on himself, his body hunched as though trying to escape the cruel reality he was trapped in. He hadn't moved, hadn't uttered a single sound through it all—no resistance, no pleading—just absolute stillness, as if he had accepted that he was nothing more than something meant to be crushed.
Mary stepped toward him slowly, then knelt before him. Her fingers reached out and pulled his head gently but firmly from its hiding place, forcing him to unlock himself from the shell he'd built around his pain.
Her inspection of him was like a hunter's gaze after the battle—silent, final, decisive. Then, in a voice tinged with anger but less sharp than before, she commanded:
"Bring the healing salve. Master Jabelin wants this slave in perfect condition. Not a scratch. That's an order!!"
Her tone didn't need to be overtly threatening. There was no doubt she meant every word—and she didn't need to repeat herself. This wasn't mercy. It was necessity.
The slaves couldn't utter a word. Their eyes darted between Mary, kneeling beside the brutally beaten young man, and Erik, sprawled on the ground like a discarded rag. He didn't move—as if every strike had stripped away a layer of pride, then his humanity, then his consciousness. Even his breathing was labored, and tears welled painfully from his swollen eye.
A man from the caravan obeyed Mary's order and brought the magical salve. His hands trembled as he offered the container to her, and she took it wordlessly. Scooping some into her palm, she began gently applying it to the young man's body. Her hand glided carefully over his broken arm, tending to the fracture with an uncharacteristic tenderness—as if she were trying to soothe him, not just heal him. She moved to his face, then to the other visible wounds she could reach, and stopped only once she'd done all she could.
With a subtle gesture, she signaled, and two men stepped forward. They carefully lifted the young man's fragile body and returned him to the wagon from which he had been dragged moments earlier—like livestock. He didn't resist, didn't move. His eyes were barely open, and his breath came in shallow gasps.
Mary stood up slowly, her shoulders tense, her face still burning with the remnants of restrained fury. With heavy steps, she walked over to Erik's motionless body, then planted her boot on his chest with deliberate weight, pressing down until his ribcage trembled. Her voice rang out, clear and sharp, the threat in it unmistakable:
"If that hand touches that slave again, I swear I will send you to the land of the dead in the most horrific way I can imagine—so vile even the hell guards themselves won't look at you."
She paused, lifted her head, and swept her eyes across everyone around her. Then, with a sharper tone, she added:
"That goes for all of you. Is that clear?!"
Her words cracked through the air like lashes. There was no room for argument, no chance to refuse. Everyone nodded quickly—not out of agreement, but out of fear. Mary wasn't someone you defied. Not after what they'd seen her do to Erik—the man once thought to be one of the caravan's strongest… Now, voiceless, motionless, nothing more than a beaten body on the ground. His truth had been exposed—just a pretender, lying to himself, and believing the lie.
Inside the wagon, the young man lay still. His body trembled faintly, but each tremor carried pain far deeper than it seemed. His half-closed eyes stared blankly into space, as if they no longer knew how to distinguish reality from illusion.
His breathing was shallow, barely stirring his chest—as though life itself hesitated within him, uncertain whether it should stay or fade away. Every inhale seemed like it could be the last, and every exhale felt like a desperate attempt to hold on.
Silence weighed heavy, thick as the dust of ages. No one spoke. No one approached.
As if the world itself were waiting… to see whether this body would choose to keep living…
…or let life slip away.