The rejected crown

Blood and dust

~ezra

Ezra's lungs burned as he stumbled forward, dragged by a coarse rope biting into his wrists. The sun blazed overhead, scorching the dusty road beneath his bare feet. The fabric draped over his body—ragged and torn—itched like sandpaper against his skin. His mind raced, disoriented by the jumble of events that had landed him here. Just an hour ago, he'd been sitting in detention, reading a history book to pass the time. Now? Now he was marching through a street surrounded by slaves and guards, heading toward a castle straight out of the Middle Ages.

What the hell is going on?! Ezra's thoughts spun in panic, trying to piece together the impossibility of it all.

He shook his head, hoping to wake up, but the overwhelming smell of sweat, dirt, and animal dung made it clear: this was no dream.

The line of slaves moved slowly down a wide road, everyone looked big and strong. Ezra felt small and pathetic next to them even though he was taller than most. their heads bowed in submission. The others wore expressions of numb resignation, like they had long accepted their fate. But not Ezra. His heart raced, panic and confusion bubbling just beneath the surface. He craned his neck to take in the world around him: dirt streets, crowded markets, people dressed in tunics, robes, and armor.

Where am I? He tried to swallow the rising fear. When am I?

A sharp tug on the rope jerked him forward, nearly knocking him off balance. The brute leading the line—a massive man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his jaw wearing a coat—turned and glared at him.
"Keep moving, slave." His voice was a growl.

Ezra stumbled, catching himself just in time. His bare feet ached against the sharp stones scattered across the road. I need to think. I need to figure this out before I get myself killed.

Ahead of them loomed a massive castle with stone walls rising high into the sky. Ezra's stomach twisted. He didn't need to be a history expert to know what castles meant—power, rulers, and a lot of dead bodies if you ended up on the wrong side. And right now, he was definitely on the wrong side.

As they passed through the towering gates, the group was herded into a holding area—a damp chamber lit by flickering torches. The slaves slumped to the ground, exhausted, but Ezra couldn't sit. His nerves were stretched thin, and his mind whirled with questions. How do I explain this? How do I survive this?

A guard wearing a battered helmet strolled over, eyeing the new arrivals with a sneer. His gaze landed on Ezra, and his expression twisted into one of confusion. "What kind of slave is this?" he muttered, looking at Ezra's smaller frame "Looks like he crawled out of a sewer."

Ezra was considered tall and normal built in his time. But here people were much taller and much more muscular.

The scar-faced brute laughed. "Picked him up with the others. Thought maybe the lord could use a whipping boy."

Ezra's heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last. He knew what would happen if they decided he was useless. He'd read enough in that cursed history book—slaves who couldn't work didn't live long.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand straighter. If they thought he was weak, he was done for. He had to think fast. Come on, Ezra. You've talked your way out of trouble before. You can do this.

"Wait!" Ezra called out, his voice cracking slightly. "I can fight."

The guard raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "You? Fight?"

Ezra nodded, trying to ignore the fear gnawing at him. "Yes. I can fight. Sell me as a soldier—or a gladiator." He swallowed hard. "I'm worth more alive than dead."

The guards exchanged skeptical glances. One of them snorted. "This twig thinks he can fight."

Ezra squared his shoulders, clinging desperately to the one thing he knew: these people respected strength. "Give me a chance. You need warriors, right? I've fought before." Well, not exactly true, he admitted silently, but dodgeball in gym class had to count for something.

The scar-faced brute grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "All right, kid. Let's see what you've got. Take him to the pit."

"The pit?" Ezra echoed, his voice faltering.

But before he could protest, the brute grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down a narrow corridor. The walls dripped with moisture, and the smell of old blood clung to the air. Ezra's pulse hammered in his ears. This was a terrible idea.

They stopped at a heavy wooden gate, and the brute shoved him inside. Ezra stumbled forward, landing on the hard dirt floor.

The "pit" was a small circular arena, surrounded by stone walls too high to climb. On the other side stood a man—a hulking figure with a scarred chest and a wooden sword in hand. His expression was cold, predatory.

"Fight," a guard barked from above, his voice echoing off the walls. "Show us what you're made of."

Ezra's heart plummeted. Oh God. Oh no. I don't know how to fight.

The scarred man advanced, twirling his wooden sword with practiced ease. Ezra backed up, his bare feet slipping slightly on the dirt. His mind screamed at him to do something—anything—but all he could think about was how stupid this plan had been.

The man lunged. Ezra yelped and ducked, the wooden sword whistling just inches from his head. He stumbled, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The crowd above jeered and laughed, enjoying the show. Ezra's opponent grinned, sensing his fear. He swung again, aiming low. This time, Ezra managed to jump back just in time.

I can't win. But maybe... I can survive.

The next time the man swung, Ezra didn't dodge—he dove straight toward him, grabbing a handful of dirt as he rolled. As the scarred man turned to strike again, Ezra threw the dirt directly into his eyes.

The man cursed, stumbling back and rubbing at his face.

The crowd erupted with laughter and cheers. "Clever rat!" one of the guards shouted.

Ezra scrambled to his feet, panting but alive. He stood there, heart pounding, as the scarred man blinked through the dust, glaring at him with rage.

Above the pit, the guard who had doubted him leaned forward with a grin. "Not bad," he muttered. "We might just have a use for this one."

Ezra wiped the sweat from his brow, breathing hard. Okay. I didn't die. That's a start.

But deep down, he knew this was only the beginning. If he wanted to survive in this brutal new world, he'd have to learn how to fight—and fast. Because the next time, luck might not be enough.