Each year the Kingdom of Khearia throws a festival in remembrance of one of their most beloved kings who had tragically perished along with his wife and second son. His first son, Prince Fabian, was the only one to survive. Witnesses claimed his cro...
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The kingdom considered them insects, disgusting worker ants who lived solely to sweat blood and slowly kill themselves through unquestioning labour. Their bodies were kept broken and their minds were kept so dull that no one even considered the possibility of running away. On the outside, they were both the same.
ㅤThough, the kingdom was only partially right.
ㅤHe stared down at the small trail of black ants, aimlessly following each other in a line across the soil, completely unaware of the world around them. They were simply following directives, soullessly looking for food to feed their cruel queen. The thought of appreciation never occurred to them; they were born to do that job and it was as simple as that.
ㅤLifting his sandalled foot in the air, he observed the shoe-shaped shadow that overcast them. They remained unaware of the danger, continuing. He stomped down on them, kicking his foot in hard, killing them. After stepping away, the ants continued along the same path, stepping over their dead comrades in disinterest.
ㅤUnlike the bugs, they were aware of the boot that lingered above them. Ants died because they were unaware, whilst the Ashadi slaves died because they were cowards; treading over their fallen kindred to save themselves and he was no different. He thought that was worse.
ㅤBefore the boy had been called Alex, he had been kept without a name.
ㅤWhat was a boot to ants, was the Helou week to slaves. Because they bred too much, the kingdom was allowed a single week to cull their population annually; four days of murder followed by three days of apology. The kingdom was scared of them.
ㅤAlex had been born during the Helou week, his birth had slowed his mother down as she had fled and she had been murdered as a result. Not him though, he had lived.
ㅤThe other slaves insisted he was cursed, that he'd killed his mother, so a name was something he'd never been granted. Even though they believed that, he was still treated kindly. They had fed him, raised him and protected him with a detached caution. Even if he hated them, he loved them; those brave cowards.
ㅤThe sun baked his body like the soil, his bare skin darkening and his palms cracking as the summer heightened. His birthday was soon and some of the younger children had grown weak to disease, likely to die soon anyway. No one would protect them this time because they didn't see the point. They'd be forgotten, just like the dead ants who'd been trampled over by their kin.
ㅤBefore he could think too hard about it, he got to his knees and began digging the watered soil, his fingers stinging from invisible cuts and splinters. More than the slaves, he hated the kingdom that treated him like this. The injustice was painfully enraging. It didn't matter if he was one boy, he wouldn't be a filthy coward like the rest of them, not this year. He was cursed anyway, if he died, it would be a favour.
ㅤGlancing around the fields, making sure he wasn't being watched, he buried his mattock— a sharp tool that could easily split open a skull. They wouldn't know.
