FROM PITS TO THRONE: A Crown Forged In Chains

Chapter 10. Life in Preliand (part 1)

Far to the north of Etoibard, across stormy seas and along trade routes choked with merchant caravans, lay the Kingdom of Preliand, a land of rolling vineyards, olive groves and fortified estates ruled by proud, quarrelsome lords. It was here that Tamira Walton and her young son Silas had been sold to like livestock, separated before the ship’s anchors had even settled in the muddy harbor of Port Varyn.

Tamira remembered the day of their separation with a clarity that burned.

The slavers had marched the captives through crowded streets reeking of wine presses and horse dung and buyers in fine wool inspected teeth and muscles. When they reached Lord Varyn’s agent, a thin man with a ledger and cold eyes, he pointed first at Tamira.

“Strong. Young. Suitable for household work. As for the boy, keep them apart from each. Children fetch more in the training yards.”

Tamira had screamed then, clutching Silas so tight that the boy whimpered from both physical pain and that which was caused by his separation from his mother. The Guards pried her fingers away one by one and Silas’s small face which was streaked with tears, was the last thing she saw before they dragged him toward a cart bound for the child compounds in the hills.

She had not seen her son since then.

Lord Varyn’s estate sprawled across fertile valleys south of the capital, having whitewashed walls, red-tiled roofs and vineyards marching in perfect rows. Slaves toiled from dawn to dusk, pruning vines, pressing grapes and cleaning endless flagstone floors. Tamira was assigned to the main house as a domestic worker charged with scrubbing, laundering and serving at table. Her hands, once soft from palace life, blistered and cracked within weeks.

She learned quickly to hide her grief behind a mask of dull obedience. Any sign of spirit was rewarded with the whip and the overseer, a brute man named Goran with a scarred face and heavy keys at his belt, took special pleasure in breaking pretty new slaves.

On her third night, he cornered her in the laundry sheds.

“They say you are of royal blood,” he sneered and his breath was sour with cheap wine. “Not so royal now?”

Tamira fought back, clawing and biting, but he was twice her size. He struck her across the face, splitting her lip, and forced her down among the wet linens. When it was over, she lay in the dark, tasting blood and hating with a purity she had never known.

The next morning she rose up, washed herself in cold water and went to work as if nothing had happened. But deep down, something had hardened. Yet she would endure, she would watch and one day, she would find Silas and escape or die trying.

Her only ally came unexpectedly.

Elara has been a slave for fifteen years, she was thin with gray hair though she could not have been more than thirty-five and knew every secret path, every loose stone in the walls. She was assigned to the kitchens therefore she moved freely through the house and often slipped Tamira extra bread or a healing salve.

“You’ve got fire in you,” Elara said one evening, as they folded linens in the dim lamplight. “Most people break quickly but you don’t.”

Tamira glanced around to ensure no one listened. “I have a son. Somewhere on this estate or near it. I won’t break until I hold him again.”

Elara’s eyes softened, she knew she was the first kindness Tamira had seen in months.

“Then we’ll find him,” she whispered. “But we'll do it carefully. Goran watches you close. And Lord Varyn, he likes pretty things. So it's best you stay invisible till we know more.”

Tamira nodded, swallowing her rage. If staying invisible was all she needed to do to get back with Silas, then she could do that.

Days passed, weeks and even the seasons turned.

Spring brought pruning and planting. Summer, the back-breaking harvest. Autumn, the press and ferment. Winter, repairs and mending in the cold stone halls.

Tamira worked without complaint, earning a reputation for her reliability. She was moved from scrubbing floors to serving in the upper house, carrying trays to Lady Varyn’s solar, cleaning guest chambers and standing silent in corners during feasts.

With proximity came knowledge.

She learned the estate’s rhythms, how the guard rotated shifts, the delivery days and when Goran drank himself stupid. She overheard gossip of Lord Varyn’s debts, his rivalry with a neighboring House Drayce and also rumors of war in the south.

But most of all, she learned about the children.

Preliand’s lords trained some slave children of young age for house service, others for harder fates like the mines, quarries or the illegal fighting rings that flourished despite royal edicts. Silas, at six when taken, would have been sorted into the training yards, a compound in the northern hills where boys learned obedience through labor and beatings.

Elara confirmed it one night through a risky walk to the slave barracks under cover of rain.

“I bribed a carter,” she whispered through the cracked door. “Your boy’s alive and he is in the Drayce yards now. He was sold on when Varyn’s trainer said he was too small for the vines but he is growing, they say. He is clever like his mother and hides food, he has even learnt how to avoid the worst beatings.”

Tamira’s heart twisted with relief and agony together.

“How far?”

“Three days’ walk north. Through Drayce lands. It is impossible to go alone.”

Tamira gripped the doorframe until splinters bit her palms. “Then we will find a way to go together ”

Elara hesitated. “There’s talk of escape. A few of us, me, old Jorin the blacksmith, Marta from the kitchens. We’ve hoarded coins and mapped routes. But with a child… the risk is double.”

“I’ll take any risk.”

Elara nodded slowly. “Then you’re in. But we will wait for the right moment. Spring is better, when the guards drink and the gates are open for traders.”

Months of planning followed afterwards in stolen moments in the laundry or behind the stables.

Tamira learned to pick simple locks with a bent nail Elara provided her with. She practiced tying knots and hiding blades in her sleeves. She memorized the estate’s weak points which were a crumbling section of wall behind the pigsty and a drainage grate large enough for a slim body.

She also learned how to fight in secret because it might come in handy.

As for Old Jorin, the blacksmith, he was once a soldier. So in the forge’s glow, he taught her dirty tricks like how to break a nose with a palm strike, where to kick to drop a man and how to use a kitchen knife like a dagger. Her hands which were once blistered from scrubbing now grew callused and quick.

Through it all Goran noticed the change though he couldn't quite figure where that change was leading towards until One autumn evening when he caught her alone in the wine cellar, fetching barrels for a feast.

“You’ve got bold eyes now,” he growled, backing her against the racks. “But it's time to remind you what you are.”

This time, Tamira was ready.

When he lunged, she sidestepped and drove her knee into his groin. As he doubled over, gasping, she grabbed a broken bottle neck from the floor and slashed across his forearm and his blood sprayed across the stone.

Goran roared as he swung wildly. His fist clipped her jaw but she ducked by the next swing and stabbed the bottle into his thigh.

He went down howling. While Tamira stood over him, her chest was rising and falling very as she raised the bottle for the kill.

But the footsteps of other slaves echoed around the corner. So she fled, her heart pounding heavily against her ribcage, she hid in the rafters until the hue and cry died down.

Yet her actions drew punishment and Lord Varyn ordered it himself, twenty lashes in the courtyard, before all slaves as an example.

They stripped her to the waist and tied her to the post. Even though Goran was bandaged and furious, he wielded the whip himself.

The first lash stole her breath. The tenth drew blood. By the fifteenth, she sagged against the ropes as her vision was growing dim.

But she did not cry out loud, just muffled groaning and physical tears rolling down her cheeks.

When it ended, Elara and Marta carried her to the infirmary which was a dank room smelling of mold and old herbs. They cleaned the wounds with wine and packed them with honey.

“You’re a fool,” Elara whispered with tears in her eyes. “But a brave one.”

Tamira’s voice was a croak. “He’ll think twice now.”

Word spread among the slaves about the new woman who fought back. Some feared her, others admired while a few more joined the escape circle.

Winter passed in pain and plotting.

Tamira’s back has healed but it was scarred into ridged lines she traced in the dark where were constant reminders of what she endured for Silas, for vengeance and for the day she would see her brother and sister again.

She dreamed of Liam often, his fierce gray eyes and his promise to return. She dreamed of Calista, small and brave. And of their mother who was forced into the tyrant’s bed.

The dreams fueled her rage. And when Spring came at last, with it came The fair approached circumstances for their long escape plan which was in three days of markets, games and drinking. The Guards would be lax. And Traders would come and go unchecked.

Elara’s plan was crystallized during the chaos of the final night, as Tamira would slip out through the drainage grate, steal a horse from the outer stables and ride north to the Drayce yards. And in Drayce yard, with Jorin’s forged key made from wax impressions, she would free Silas. Then they would flee west to the free towns beyond the border, where no lord held sway.

The risk was very high but that was the only chance they'd ever get.

On the night before the fair, Tamira lay awake with her heart hammering.

She touched the small knife hidden in her pallet, it was Jorin’s gift and was sharpened to a razor.

On the mor

row, she would begin the long road to freedom. Or die trying.