Ditlev lied on his mat smiling widely. He could barely keep from squirming. His bruises hurt! And his arms felt like jelly. But his spirits were still quite high.
Laying there, he ran through the day's events in his head over and over again. He was learning to fight! And to really fight, not the play fighting he and his friends had done with farming tools. But actual fighting, like Diaz!
Ditlev had been in awe of Diaz ever since the minotaur had died. And the other slaves spoke of him as if he could ride the winds, and slay dragons single handedly.
And Diaz had called him one of his men! Ditlev had never felt such exhilaration! He was learning from a living legend. And one day maybe he would be one too.
He was so consumed with the idea of becoming the next legend that the fact he was in an entire city that could fly barely crossed his mind. Compared to the amazing story he somehow found himself living, the fact seemed nothing to him.
And so Ditlev lay there, imagining his future heroics. He saw himself fighting mighty creature street fearsome beast. And none survived his sword.
And if Diaz would not lead the humans to their freedom, perhaps his student could. Ditlev told himself it was a foolish thought, but deep in his heart that dream took hold. And dreams never die easily.
Diaz drifted in and out of full awareness. He couldn't tell if he had actually fallen asleep at any point. But he sometimes lost control of his thoughts in the way of dreams.
His thoughts swirled around three topics. The ground, the men willing to follow him, and the certain death of defying the winglies.
Diaz thought back to the time Zieg had fought a wingly in the arena. The wingly had been quite drunk, and still he had tossed Zieg about as if he had been nothing. He had hurled Zieg through the air, dozens of feet across the ground, all as if it were nothing to him. Zieg had only killed him because he show boated much too long, and brought Zieg too close to himself.
One on one, or even two or three on one, humans stood no chance against that. His only hope of ever seeing the ground was...He couldn't think of one.
Stealth wouldn't work. He might make it to one of the conveyances, at the city's walls. But they were worked and guarded by winglies. Diaz didn't even know if they would operate without active magic.
The only other way was subterfuge. When Bearnard left the city he did take a personal valet. But he would never take one of his fighters as a valet.
He thoughts went from strategizing, to imagining these scenarios. In the thoughts he was sure were the beginnings of dreams he would fall into the shadows. The winglies had caught him and sucked him through the shadows, and into the arena, where he was chopped apart by minotaurs with giant axes.
Or sometimes in these dream like moments he would suddenly be surrounded by winglies, who would then casually toss fireballs at him.
But in one dream they threw him into a dark pit, where he landed on something soft enough to cushion his fall. Before he could wonder what it had been, he shot up out of the pit and over the city. It was at this point he would realize he was riding a dragon.
Diaz would snap back to full awareness whenever that dream let him to the clouds where his closest comrades also rode dragons to freedom. It was the most ridiculous dream he had ever had. A child's wild fancy.
Diaz turned over, dismissing the thoughts. Instead he turned his attention to a modified version of a technique he used before a fight.
Diaz closed his eyes, then slowly clenched and relaxed his muscles, one by one, starting at his neck and working down. As he did so he also mentally listed every opponent that had scarred him in the arena. He had done so many times, he never let himself forget a mistake, and knew the list by rote.
Thus, did Diaz fall into a nearly thoughtless trance. And from there lulled himself into a dreamless sleep.
Rose sat on a balcony overlooking the city. The balcony was illuminated by the city lights below, and the light of the full moon above.
She often wondered how much the Moon's light would show were it unaided by the cities lights. It was her fondest wish to be in a place with no light but the moon and stars, at least once before she died.
Rose sat on the floor of the balcony, with her back to the wall. She ignored the exotic plants, and lavish chairs and tables available, all of which were distinguishable, even easily visible in the light.
Rose laid her head back against the wall. She had spent so many nights out here. Many of them standing, or sitting, on the balcony railing. She had thought so many times of jumping that sometimes she even dreamed of it.
But buried deep in her mind was a hope she couldn't smother. The idea that it could all get better. That insane, impossible idea.
Rose thought back to her mother. Rose hadn't seen her since she had been bought by Melbu Frahma several years ago. But her mother had told her how miserable her life had been before Aindreas bought her.
Rose began to cry silently. There was no Aindreas in her future. No being, be they merciful or evil, could take her away from the wingly king.
Like so many nights before this one, Rose fell asleep on the stone balcony, with nothing but the silken robe she wore for comfort. Though to Rose the fine silk felt like iron chains.
But in her dreams Rose was free of her chains, free of her horrid life. In her dream Rose had the courage, the strength, to leap from the balcony.
But she didn't leap down. She jumped up, and flew into the heavens. And there she danced in the darkness between the stars, illuminated only by the stars that she passed.
Zieg's chest heaved, and he leaned heavily on his wooden sword. He had worked himself until his wooden weapon felt heavier than one made from steel.
He looked at the practice dummies surrounding him. The one which had been knocked over had already righted itself, the imbued magic forcing it to be ready. For now though, they all say motionless, waiting for Zieg's raised sword to begin moving again.
But Zieg's energy was spent. Every time he came down here to practice he fought harder, longer, desperately trying to scratch the itch inside him. But this wasn't enough. It never would be. He understood that now.
He walked to one wall and set his wooden sword on its rack. The several weapon racks in this room were obviously out of place. The expensive wood paneling had been damaged by their installation.
It struck Zieg again how out of place he was. How he found himself here, in a place where even the basements were finely decorated.
"Dinner will be starting soon." Zieg wasn't surprised by the male voice coming from the staircase. See it heard the man coming. But he had hoped not to hear from him.
"I don't care." Zieg informed him.
"The mistress would like you to dine with us." Clyde insisted.
"Saying mistress instead of master makes you no less a slave." Zieg sneered.
"Here you are only a slave in your own mind." Clyde retorted. This place was enough for Clyde. But Zieg was different. He could never be happy here.
"The mistress has done you a great favor in animating those...things." Clyde glanced disdainfully at the training mannequins. "You should show some respect, and gratitude, before she undoes that favor."
"Then it would be unwise of you to come down here." Zieg retorted coldly. "Unless you wish to take their place in my training. Because she promised me this space for just that, and we both know she doesn't go back on her word."
Clyde huffed, then turned and left. Doubtless he had come, not at his master's bidding, but on his own to bring her what she wished; Zieg's presence, as well as some sign of his contentment here. Zieg had none to show.
But Zieg knew he would attend their dinner tonight. He did owe her that much. Though she wouldn't undo the magic she had done for him. For some unknowable reason, that insane wingly valued Zieg's happiness.
Zieg scoffed mentally. Happiness. He could never feel that here. The closest he had come to that feeling since childhood was in the arena. And even then he just lost himself in the thrill of battle, just felt the temporary joy of proving himself superior to his foes.
He looked at a different wall, where he real weapon hung. True happiness or not, he dreamed of nothing so much as one day returning to battle. It was where he belonged.