The Price for freedom

In the early hours of the morning, a dull light filtered through the high stone window of James's chambers. The chill in the air clung to his skin, but it was the heaviness in his chest that kept him from rising. His eyes opened slowly, bloodshot and weary. He lay still for a long while, staring at the cracked ceiling above him as if it held the answers to the torment inside his soul.

Draven’s words echoed in his head, sharp and piercing like a blade:

"Or perhaps… you are not Garrick."

The sentence struck something deep. Something buried.

James turned his head toward the mirror across the room. He blinked slowly, then forced himself up, dragging his feet until he stood before the tall, dust-framed glass. The face that stared back at him looked tired, hollow….foreign.

His fingers clenched the edge of the table beneath the mirror, and a voice, soft but firm, rose in the silence of his mind.

“You were chosen to save the Silverfang Clan from their torment.”

It was the wizard’s voice. Steady. Calm. Unrelenting.

James’s eyes darted around the room, as if the voice had been spoken aloud. His breath trembled.

“But how?” he whispered, pressing a palm to his forehead. “How do I save anyone… when I’m not even sure who I am?”

“You are Garrick,” the voice replied. “You are not James. Be Garrick.”

His eyes returned to the mirror, and he stared hard….willing himself to see the warrior the prophecy had spoken of. Garrick, not the fragile man broken by layers of disguise and guilt. Garrick, not the traitor to his people or the coward hiding in plain sight.

The reflection seemed to shift slightly, or perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him. In his vision, Garrick stood there….battered, bloodied, unbent. His jaw clenched. His shoulders squared. A warrior born not just to fight, but to conquer.

And then another voice returned….Draven’s again, curling like venom in his ears.

"The Garrick I know would bring down anyone who dares to challenge him."

James's nostrils flared. A fire sparked in his chest. Enough of doubt. Enough of feeling torn.

He turned away from the mirror and dressed swiftly, wrapping himself in the heavy cloak of power and ruthlessness. No more hesitations. If he was going to play this role, he would play it so well, no one….not even Draven….would question it again.

Outside, the morning fog had barely lifted when James marched into the slave camp. His boots struck the dirt with force, each step filled with purpose. His eyes, now cold, swept across the camp.

Slaves were already gathering at the sound of approaching hooves and command barks. Some looked up in surprise. Others immediately lowered their gaze.

James stood tall, scanning the crowd.

"Where is that rebellious girl from yesterday?" he barked. "Where is she?"

A trembling voice spoke from the side. "She’s in her tent, my Lord..."

"Bring her here. Now."

Moments later, Sara was dragged out by two guards, still bruised but defiant in her stance. Her eyes locked with James’s, not with fear….but with fury.

"Kneel!" one of the guards shouted, forcing her to the ground.

James dismounted slowly, eyes locked on her. His voice was low but filled with authority.

"Yesterday, I witnessed rebellion with my own eyes. Imagine….a slave, raising her voice to question her master." He walked in a slow circle around the gathered slaves. "For that, there must be punishment."

He turned back to Sara. "From today onward, you shall pay triple your monthly tax. And forget about rest. You will work….even until the dead of night. All of you will."

Gasps echoed through the crowd. Faces filled with fear. Whispers broke the silence.

Then—Sara spat on the ground at his feet.

"You’re wasting your time," she said with scorn. "It can never work."

James froze mid-step. A hush fell over the camp.

He walked back toward her, slowly, deliberately. Then he knelt beside her, his voice a soft growl.

"What did you say?"

Sara lifted her chin. Her voice didn't tremble.

"You heard me. It can never work. Maybe the others will bend to your madness—but not me. Never."

And then it happened.

James's hand lashed across her face, fast, brutal, and shocking. The sound of the slap echoed like a thunderclap. Sara's body collapsed in a heap. She didn’t move.

Gasps turned into stunned silence. Every slave stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief.

James's chest heaved. His hands trembled.

He turned to the guards. “Take her to the deepest cell in the courtyard. And beat her. She’s to learn what rebellion costs.”

He mounted his horse and rode off without another word.

Not far from the courtyard, behind a veil of garden vines, Draven stood silently beside Varek. They had watched everything.

Draven's lips curled into a grin. "Finally," he said, almost with pride. "That’s the man I want by my side. He doesn’t tolerate weakness. He doesn’t flinch."

Varek, however, stood rigid, his eyes narrowed, his fists clenched at his side. He didn't speak.

Jealousy burned in his chest. James had just regained Draven’s trust. Again.

Varek’s jaw tightened as he turned and walked away without a word.

James returned to his chambers, face still cold, but something inside him had shattered. As soon as the door shut behind him, he collapsed onto the floor.

A scream tore from his throat….raw and animalistic. He slammed his fist into the wall, then scratched at his skin as if trying to tear away the mask he wore. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat that soaked his body.

His chest heaved violently. He bit down on his hand to stifle another scream.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the silence. “I’m so sorry, Sara…”

His knuckles bled from punching the wall. His breath came in gasps.

He had done what was necessary to keep the charade alive. But at what cost?

In the dim reflection of the polished silver beside his bed, he saw Garrick again. But this time, Garrick's eyes weren’t strong—they were haunted.