The Testament of Lukar

Chapter Three

Branded and marked as commodities, Lukar's journey had taken him to Paras, a city nestled in the Kingdom of Niemoah. There was a large house near the docks, where he and the other slaves were taken, which bore an eerie resemblance to his own village's elders' hall. Yet, the purpose of this building couldn't have been more different. It was a place of captivity, where the air was thick with despair.

As Lukar surveyed his surroundings, he couldn't spot anyone close to his age. He felt isolated and vulnerable, his solitude deepening as he caught the sympathetic glances from other slaves, their eyes filled with shared suffering. He was but a young boy in a sea of unfamiliar faces, and the weight of his isolation bore down on him heavily.

Chains clinked and echoed as Lukar, along with the other captives, was ushered into a room. It was a grim space, devoid of warmth or comfort. There, they were instructed to disrobe, their uniforms falling to the floor in a pile of plain white cloth shirts and brown pants. The women, dressed in similarly modest white dresses, bore the same sense of resignation.

Soldiers with unfeeling expressions carried out a perfunctory routine. They filled a bucket with cold water and proceeded to wash each slave with soap, their hands working mechanically. As the soldiers reached Lukar, they hesitated briefly, exchanging a mysterious glance that the young boy couldn't decipher. Then, the icy water cascaded over him, and he braced himself for what he knew was coming.

The soldiers' actions were cold and unfeeling, much like the shadows that seemed to envelop Lukar in this new and daunting chapter of his life.

In the small, dimly lit room, Lukar and three other men were herded like cattle, each bed representing a bleak promise of an uncertain future. The soldiers had separated the men from the women, leaving them to linger in this confined space. The instruction was clear: remain inside until summoned.

As soon as the door was shut and the sound of the soldiers' boots faded away, two of the three men sprang into action. They rushed to the door, banging on it with a sense of desperation, their shouts echoing in the small room. Their voices carried a mix of fear and anger, pleading for salvation or release from this grim place.

"We can't just stay here! We've got to do something!" One of the men's voices cracked, his frustration manifesting as anger.

"Someone's got to help the boy," another chimed in, his voice trembling.

Lukar, however, remained silently in the corner, observing the turmoil but unwilling to join in their chaotic scene.

The rampant banging of their hands against the wooden door didn't go unnoticed, and after a few moments, a soldier returned to investigate the commotion. He swung the door open, causing the three men to stumble backward. His stern glare swept from them to Lukar, suspicion etched on his face.

"What in the Prophet's name is going on in here?" The soldier's voice was laced with an icy fury.

"We were just worried about the boy, you see," one of the men stammered, his words faltering.

Lukar's gaze shifted between the soldier and the men, uncertainty etched on his face. The soldier, harboring little patience for their disorder, advanced toward Lukar. A malevolent grin tugged at the corner of the soldier's lips, revealing a cruel delight at their turmoil. Without hesitation, he gripped the boy's shirt and hoisted him off the ground, disregarding Lukar's feeble struggles. A sense of dread hung in the air as the soldier addressed the others, holding Lukar aloft as an ominous warning.

"It's this kind of compassion that will get you nowhere," the soldier hissed. With Lukar hanging helplessly in the soldier's grasp, the room fell silent, each man struck with fear and guilt.