Chapter 6: The Night Camp
They walked until the sun disappeared.
Not slowly. The grey-haired man did not let them slow down. The chain never slackened.
Danny had stopped counting how many times he stumbled. His feet no longer felt like feet. Each time they sank into the snow, it felt like stepping on broken glass with numb skin.
His legs felt numb up to the knees. His lips were dry and cracked, bleeding when he licked them. Every breath hurt his chest, sharp and icy.
Snow continued falling around them, silent and endless, covering the forest in white until the world had no color except white and black.
The chains around their wrists had become heavier with every step. Iron was heavier when it was frozen. It rubbed the rope burns raw.
No one spoke anymore. Not even the mercenaries. There was nothing left to say. Only breathing and crunching snow.
Then the grey-haired man finally raised his hand without looking back.
"Stop."
One word. The group came to a halt instantly. Horses snorted, heads low.
Danny looked up, his vision blurring from exhaustion.
Through the trees, half-hidden by snow-laden branches, he could see a small clearing. The wind was weaker there. The snow was shallower.
The men began preparing the camp like they had done this a hundred times.
Two of them removed the folded tents from the back of the caravan, shaking off snow. Another gathered dry branches from beneath the trees, kicking snow away to find wood that wasn’t soaked. Someone else began taking care of the horses, rubbing their backs, feeding them from a sack.
Within minutes, a fire was burning in the center of their camp. Big, orange, alive.
The light spread through the darkness, pushing the forest back. The crackle was loud.
Danny stared at it. He couldn’t look away.
Warmth. That was all he could think about. One word filling his whole mind.
He wanted to sit beside it. He wanted to shove his frozen hands into the flames. He wanted to feel heat again.
But the chains around his wrists were still there. And the mercenaries’ fire was not for them.
One of the men walked toward them, boots crunching, face annoyed.
"Move. Over there."
The captives were yanked by the chain and taken several meters away from the main camp, to the edge of the clearing where the wind still cut through. They were given a small pile of broken, damp branches and told to make their own fire.
No tents. No blankets. No proper food. No axe to cut wood. Nothing.
Danny watched as the men returned to their own camp. They sat around the large fire, close together, shoulders touching. One of them opened a heavy container and the lid hissed with steam.
The smell reached Danny almost immediately, carried by the wind.
Stew. Meat and fat and salt.
His stomach growled so loudly he was sure they heard it. He quickly lowered his head, hair falling over his face. He didn’t want them to notice. Hunger felt shameful.
The men laughed and talked while they ate, their voices carrying through the cold night, careless.
"How much longer until we reach the city?" one asked, blowing on his bowl.
"Two days if the snow stops," another said.
"And if it doesn’t?"
The grey-haired man took a slow bite before answering. He didn’t look up from his food.
"Then three. We move anyway."
Someone laughed, too loud.
Danny stared at their fire. The flames danced, big and warm. The men held their hands over it, their faces orange.
The warmth was so close — maybe fifteen steps away — yet it felt impossibly far away, like another world.
He looked down at the small pile of branches in front of them. Thin, wet, some with ice still on them.
His fingers trembled so badly he could barely pick one up. He tried striking two cold stones together the way he had seen his father do.
Nothing. Just a dull click.
Again. Harder.
Nothing. No spark. His hands were too weak, too frozen.
A man sitting beside him — the middle-aged one from the cage — sighed. His breath was ragged.
"Give it to me. Like this."
The man took the stones. His hands were bigger, but they shook too. He struck them together, again and again. On the fifth try, a tiny spark appeared and died. On the eighth, it caught a piece of dry bark.
He quickly placed dry grass over it, shielding it with his body from the wind. He blew gently.
The spark grew, trembling. A small, thin flame appeared, barely alive.
It wasn’t much. It was the size of a fingernail. But it was enough. The captives leaned in without thinking, like moths.
Danny sat at the edge, where the wind still hit him. He held his hands toward the tiny flame. It was so small he had to get his palms inches away.
Slowly, feeling returned to his fingers. And with feeling came pain — a thousand needles stabbing his skin as the blood came back. He clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t make a sound.
Across the clearing, the mercenaries continued eating. Their fire was large enough to stand inside. Their tents were dry. They had warm, thick clothes with fur. They had food. They had water in leather skins.
Danny looked down at himself.
His clothes were torn to rags, sticking to his skin with sweat that froze. His feet were bleeding, leaving faint pink spots in the snow. His stomach was empty, caved in. And he was still wearing chains that clinked every time he shivered.
He looked toward the sky. Snowflakes landed on his face, on his eyelashes. Cold kisses. He didn’t wipe them away.
For some reason, in the quiet between gusts of wind, he remembered the little boy. The one from the march. The boy lying in the snow while they walked away. The blue lips. The stillness.
Danny closed his eyes tight. His jaw locked.
He didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t. If he kept thinking about everyone he had lost — his mother, his village, that boy — he would break right here and not get up again.
So he focused on one thing. One thought to keep him from freezing inside.
Escape.
He needed to escape.
But how?
The chains were too strong, locked with iron. The men were armed with swords and crossbows and they took turns watching. And there were too many of them. Seven, maybe eight. He was one starving child.
Danny slowly opened his eyes, his breath shaky.
His gaze moved without wanting to, toward the grey-haired man.
The man was sitting slightly apart from the others beside the fire, sharpening a long knife with a slow, steady sound. Shhh. Shhh. The blade caught the firelight.
Danny immediately looked away, heart pounding. That man was dangerous. Not just strong. Different. The kind of dangerous that made even the other mercenaries quiet.
Then something else caught his attention. Movement.
One of the mercenaries stood and walked toward the captives, carrying a small dirty sack. He wasn’t smiling.
Danny’s eyes followed him. Every captive looked up, hope stupidly flickering.
The man stopped beside their tiny fire. He looked down at them like they were stray dogs.
"Don’t expect much. You don’t work, you don’t eat much."
He tossed something onto the wet snow in front of them.
A small handful of rock salt. Dirty, grey, mixed with snow.
The captives stared at it. Danny stared too, confused at first.
His stomach twisted so hard it hurt his spine. It had been almost two days since he had eaten anything real.
He reached toward the salt, hand shaking. Then stopped. His fingers hovered.
He looked up at the man.
The man simply shrugged, already turning away.
"That’s all you’re getting tonight. Be grateful."
He walked back to the warm fire, to the stew, to the laughter.
Danny stared at the salt melting slowly into the snow. His mouth filled with saliva from sheer hunger.
For the first time that night, he realized just how hungry he really was. And how little they thought he was worth.