FROM PITS TO THRONE: A Crown Forged In Chains

Chapter 8. A new master

The estate of Lord Ermin Rein sprawled across the sun-baked hills overlooking Korthos like a crown of white marble and terracotta. Tall cypress trees lined the winding drive, their shadows dancing on the gravel as the cart jolted upward. 

Laim sat in the back with chains still present around his ankles serving as a reminder that his sale had changed hands and not status of slave. The air here smelled cleaner than that of the pits which smelled like salt from the distant sea, olive blossoms and the faint tang of herbs from hidden gardens.

The cart halted before a grand archway carved with owls baring the sigil of House Rein, a symbol of wisdom and watchful ambition. Guards in crisp green tunics flanked the entrance with their spears gleaming as the One stepped forward to inspect the papers from Jarrett’s scribe with a bored flick of his eyes.

“New slave,” he grunted. “Injured, so you'll be subjected to house duties only.”

Next, they unchained Laim’s ankles and marched him through the arch into a courtyard bustling with activity as many Servants hurried across flagstones, the women carrying baskets of laundry, the men hauling crates of wine from the cellars and children scattering chickens underfoot. In the center stood a fountain shaped like a great owl as water kept bubbling from its beak.

A stout woman in a gray overseer’s robe approached with a clipboard in her hand. Her face was lined with years of managing chaos and her eyes sharp as pins.

“Name?” she barked.

“Laim.”

She glanced at the papers. “From the pits? I can tell you were a Fighter. But you are injured in both ribs and thigh. Therefore you’ll start low in kitchens and stables. No heavy lifting till the healer clears you. These are the rules, no talking back, no wandering and more importantly no trouble. Break any of them, and it’s the whip or back to Jarrett.”

Laim nodded, hiding the flicker of resentment. He had expected lowly duties right from the time his sale was made because Ermin had bought him for potential and not pity. But starting at the bottom meant proving himself all over again.

Then his overseer, Madra, as she was called, led him to a low barracks behind the main villa. It was a long stone building with narrow windows, divided into sleeping quarters for the household slaves. His bunk was a straw pallet in the corner, shared with three others, a grizzled stablehand named Orrick, a young kitchen boy called Finn and a silent gardener from the east named Kai.

“Keep your head down,” Orrick muttered that first night, his voice sounded gravelly from years of dust and hay. “Lord Rein is fair enough if you work. But his children, Colvin and Beatrix, they’re the ones to watch for. They are spoiled as ripe fruit.”

Laim lay staring at the rafters with his ribs still aching, which was fair enough to him.

The next morning dawned with the crow of roosters and Madra’s sharp whistle. So Laim’s tasks began at once, starting with scrubbing pots in the steaming kitchens, hauling slops to the pig pens and mucking stables when his side allowed. The work was mindless and back-breaking in its tedium, but it gave him time to observe.

Lord Ermin Rein himself was a distant figure at first. Laim caught glimpses of him in the courtyard dressed in fine wool tunics embroidered with silver owls. He moved with purpose, dictating letters to scribes or conferring with visitors in silk who one could easily tell were either politicians, merchants or rivals. Ambition clung to him like perfume and even the whispers said he aimed for a seat on the king’s council, perhaps even the chancellorship.

Ermin’s wife, Lady Seline, was softer. She was a graceful woman with auburn hair who oversaw the household with quiet efficiency. She barely noticed the new slave because her days were filled with managing guests and gardens.

But the children were impossible to ignore.

Colvin Rein, the son and heir at eighteen, was a storm in human form. Tall and broad-shouldered, with his father’s sharp features softened by youth, he strode the estate like a young lord already crowned. 

Laim first encountered him in the stables, where Colvin was berating a groom for saddling his horse too slowly.

“You call this tight?” Colvin snapped, yanking the girth strap. The horse whinnied in protest. “even a child could do better. Fix it, or I’ll have you whipped.”

The groom bowed low, muttering apologies while Colvin’s eyes flicked to Laim, who was mucking a nearby stall with a pitchfork carefully, as he tried not to strain his ribs.

“And you, new one. What’s your name?”

“Laim.”

Colvin snorted. “The pit dog? Father mentioned you. He said you might be useful once. But look at you, limping like a crippled beggar. You're just useless. Get out of my sight.”

He mounted the horse and rode off in a spray of gravel, leaving Laim gripping the pitchfork until his knuckles whitened. 

That encounter alone was enough to tell that he was an arrogant pup. If it were in Miraolden, Laim would have challenged him to the yards and beaten sense into him. But here, he swallowed the insult and returned to work.

Beatrix Rein, the daughter at sixteen, was different, always acting curious but no less dismissive. She was slender and fair-haired like her mother, with wide green eyes that seemed to see everything, she appeared in the gardens where Laim was assigned to weed borders. She wandered the paths in a light blue gown with a book in her hand and was trailed by a maid.

On his third day, she paused near him, watching as he knelt to pull thistles, even though his bandaged side was pulling with the motion.

“You’re the fighter,” she said abruptly. “From the arena. Father bought you cheap because you’re broken.”

Laim kept his eyes on the soil. “I will heal, my lady.”

She tilted her head. “Will you? I heard you killed a dozen men including beasts too. Is it true?”

“True enough.”

She paused for a moment to study him before asking again. “Why didn’t you die like the others?”

Laim then glanced up, meeting her gaze. There was no malice in her eyes, only the blunt curiosity of the privileged.

“The will to live, my lady.”

She huffed a laugh. “Poetic. But slaves don’t get poetry. Back to your weeds.”

She walked on, but Laim felt her eyes on him from the terrace later which was curious because it could be useful or dangerous.

The other slaves were a mixed lot. Some welcomed him warily. Orrick shared tips on avoiding Madra’s ire and Finn slipped extra bread from the kitchens. Others saw him as a threat. The higher-ranked bondsmen, those who served the family directly, like the valet Tomas or the cook’s assistant Lira, bullied him to maintain their perch.

Tomas was a sly man in his forties with a perpetual sneer, cornered Laim in the barracks that first week.

“Pit rat,” he hissed, as two other slaves backed him. “You think you’re special because you bled for crowds? Here, you’re at bottom. So stick to fetching my water and cleaning my boots or we’ll make sure those ribs never heal.”

Laim stood slowly as the pain flared but ignored it. He was taller than Tomas and scarred where the valet was soft.

“I fetch for no one but the master,” he said quietly.

Tomas shoved him into the wall, causing the rib injury to flare the more as Laim’s vision blurred, but his instinct took over. He grabbed Tomas’s wrist and twisted just enough to make the man yelp, then he released it.

“Touch me again,” Laim said with a low voice, “and I’ll show you what the pits taught me.”

The others backed off, muttering. Tomas rubbed his wrist as his eyes filled with hate. “You’ll regret this, dog.”

The word spread and the bullying eased, but whispers followed, saying the new one’s dangerous. Watch him.

Laim used the isolation to plot his rise. He needed Ermin’s attention and could be done by proving his value is beyond scrubbing floors. But the injury was a barrel, it limited him. So he observed patterns, noting who curry favor and who faltered. He helped where he could by fixing a loose wheel on a cart with stable tools and by suggesting a better herb mix for the cook’s stew from overheard garden talk. These were small things but they were building alliances.

One evening, as dusk painted the hills gold, Ermin himself summoned him.

Laim was led to the lord’s study which was a room lined with scrolls and maps with a great oak desk piled with parchments. Ermin sat there with a quill in hand, while Colvin lounged by the window, sharpening a dagger.

“You are Laim,” Ermin said without looking up. “From Jarrett’s pits.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ermin set down the quill. His eyes were keen as they kept assessing Laim. “I bought you because I collect useful things. Fighters. Thinkers. You survived where others didn’t. Why?”

Laim chose his words carefully. “I’ll say it was due to skill, will and luck.”

Ermin nodded. “And now? Your injuries?”

“They’re healing, my lord. Soon I’ll be strong again.”

Colvin snorted from the window. “Strong enough for what? Scrubbing privies?”

Ermin silenced his son with a glance. “We’ll see. For now, serve well. Dismissed.”

It was brief, but it was contact and a start.

That night, back in the barracks, Laim lay awake despite the pain. Rising among slaves would take time and there was no doubt that there would be challenges that would require proving his worth. But he would do it. For freedom and vengeance.

Weeks passed by so far and his ribs injuries were healing, even the limp faded to a hitch. He won small victories by besting Tomas in a labor contest Madra oversaw which earned him a nod from Orrick. Beatrix watched him more often. One time, she even asked about pit beasts over a garden wall. Colvin tested him with pranks that involved salting his food and hiding his tools but Laim endured without retaliation.

Then came the first real challenge.

A visiting noble’s entourage arrived, straining the household so Madra assigned Laim to serve wine at the feast which was still low duty but it was closer to the family. In the hall that night, amid laughter and music, he poured for Ermin and guests.

Colvin, drunk on watered wine and tripping him deliberately. Laim stumbled causing the wine to splash across a guest’s fine robes.

The hall quieted.

Colvin laughed. “Clumsy oaf! Father, send him back to the pits.”

Ermin’s face darkened. But Laim rose smoothly, bowing low.

“My apologies, my lord. It won’t happen again.”

The guest waved it off, because it was amusing. But Colvin’s eyes promised more trouble.

Laim retreated to the shadows drowning in fury that the arrogant boy would soon learn.

And under stars that reminded him of Miraolden, Laim vowed he would rise above slaves. Above even Colvin.

And one day, he would leave this place a free man.

But freedom was months away, probably years. As for challenges they were right in front of him and he would have to face them head on because the Wal

ton line endured, though they were scattered, they remained unbroken.