In the late hours of the morning, in the Marcomanni tribe's Roman-occupied large stronghold on the grassy field between a forest and a river.

Thirty thousand rag-wearing men and women, all below the age of 40, and above the age of 5, sat in a large circle on the muddy and sparsely grassed ground of their conquered camp, shackled and chained in iron cuffs that shined under the dim light that passed through the thick clouds, and surrounded by Roman soldiers armed to the teeth.

Some of them had looks of despair, others were weeping while looking at the family that abandoned them to a dark fate, and some had numb looks on their wary faces.

The majority of these people were either large and brawny green-skinned Orcs or the greyish-green Half-Orcs, with a few white-skinned and normal-sized Humans among them, and all of them were Marcomanni tribesmen.

While most of them were either from the servant or slave status, there were also a few freemen and noble families among them, all of which were half-orcs and humans, as a result of political and friendly marriages with the Quadi tribe or other tribes.

Regardless, all of these people have a thing in common now; They are all slaves of the Roman empire, cast away by their tribe as war trophies, a common practice.

Among them near the edge of the group sat an unassuming young half-orc boy, no older than twelve. Like many of his half-orc brethren, aside from his greyish-green skin, he had long raven-black straight hair, a pair of sharp ears, a slightly wide jaw with two small tusks jutting from his lower lip, and a pair of sharp yet strangely calm golden-colored eyes.

Also, unlike the children of servant or slave standing, his body was toned and lean, with some minor scars here and there, a result of years of grueling training and a healthy diet from a young age, a requirement of all males from warrior and noble families.

However, even the dirty rags he wore, the dirt covering his young face, the shackles he wore on his hands, neck, and feet, and the slight despondency on his being, couldn't hide that bit of developing and unique charm of his.

It wasn't that he was exceptionally handsome or suave, but his simple and honest square face, his normal round nose, his large forehead, and his slightly protruding chin gave out a simple feeling of natural likeability and affinity with others.

However, if one looked carefully enough, one would notice the wise and intelligent gleam in his eyes.

"I am being thrown to the wolves." - That is what the boy grimly yet unconcernedly thought as he scanned his fellow shackled Marcomanni tribesmen.

"Well, ex-tribesmen." - He mocked himself as he looked at his skin-irritating and slightly rusty chained iron shackles, and then at the distant and watching eyes of the not-shackled, clean, and well-dressed familiar faces standing a distance away, his ex-tribesmen.

Many of them were saddened by the fact that some of the slaves who would be transported and won't be seen again were close relatives or their property, but some of them had gloating or hateful looks.

"Due to our Quadi heritage, and the fact that they backstabbed us, my ex-tribesmen are taking their revenge on us by making us their scapegoats. It also doesn't help me that my dead father had a few bones to pick with some of the tribe's shamanic circle." - The boy bitterly thought, understanding the crux of the issue, the years of noble education that most didn't have were unneeded to deduce this simple fact.

"My situation could be worse, though. At least they didn't execute me like my mother and my two older sister due to my young age. Instead, they used me as a replacement for another non-Quadi-born ex-tribesman. It's not like I have high hopes of coming for revenge in this lifetime."

As a young noble of shamanic and religious birth, the intelligent and learned youngster knew of the difficulties that he would face, for the Germanic tribes also practiced slavery. His family even owned a few slaves that did housework, tilled their land, and herded the sheep. However, in the Germanic tribes, slaves were treated much more humanely than the Romans.

While the Germanic children of both slaves and nobles played together in the fields, the Roman children were strictly separated by class, and slaves were treated as nothing more than objects.

"Still, although I know it's wrong, I wish their spirits didn't pass on so quickly. I still wanted to talk with their spirits more. My father and elder brother are likely already in Valhalla, as they died in battle, while my mother and my older sister who were executed are likely in Helgafjel¹one of the possible afterlives in Norse mythology, as they chose to die honorably. Or perhaps they are with our ancestors. Or wherever spirits go when they pass on." - The boy thought aloud.

"Well, at least they are at peace in the afterlife. And I still have you. Isn't that right, Cawcaw?" - He said to his very empty shoulder. Naturally, there was no audible reply except for a small and empty gust of wind.

"Aw, I know you missed them too, Cawcaw. Don't worry, one day, we will meet them again. I'm sure of it!" - The boy spoke optimistically to his empty shoulder, ignoring his surroundings.

A few of the nearby shackled tribesmen looked at him with weird and pitiful eyes.

"The boy must have gone mad from despair." - A rather lean middle-aged orc silently thought.

"Poor child. He created an imaginary friend to cope with the stress." - Another half-orc woman in her mid-twenties thought in her mind.

"Isn't that Nurghed's and Alda's mad son, Mogshar?" - A more knowledgeable middle-aged orc woman whispered to a half-orc young man near her.

"Yes, that's him. The mad boy who talks to imaginary friends all day long. His father and brother died in the last battle, and his mother and sister were executed. The poor boy is probably going insane right now. Just avoid him." - The half-orc replied in hushed whispers.

"Mad Mog is at it again." - A 6-year-old half-orc boy who knew him said without much control.

"Sh. Be quiet, young cub. That's rude." - Chastized his young human mother, who barely looked 22, a result of marrying young to a much older husband at the young age of 15.

"But mom, it's true! He is mad! He always talks to some imaginary friends and dead people, and nobody wants to be his friend because he is such a weirdo!" - The boy insisted in a rather loud voice.

Pa* - The mother, who was on edge herself from the stress, snapped and slapped him across his face.

"I don't care if it is true or not, now shut your mouth! If you talk like this to you new Roman masters, they will beat you much more harshly than I!" - The mother said in a not-too-loud but angry tone.

"U..." - The boy had tears well in his eyes as he held his burning cheek, but didn't cry. Years of harsh teaching have taught him that crying was shameful, girly, and useless.

The young mother felt sorry for what she did but steeled her heart and didn't comfort the boy, for she knew the grim fate that was to come, both to herself and her young son. Her late husband, who widowed her four years ago at the tender age of 18, wasn't here to protect her and their only child now, and she won't be able to protect her child soon, either. Slaves seldom had the pleasure of staying with their families, especially young and still-pretty women like her.

All of this talk, however, didn't disturb the 12-year-old boy who was freely chatting with his "imaginary friend" Cawcaw.

"Hahaha! Cawcaw, stop rubbing your head against me! That tickles!" - The boy, Mogshar, also nicknamed Mog by the other children, meaning 'Mad' in their dialect, giggled as he tilted his head to the side, seemingly trying to avoid something on his shoulder.

But then, he suddenly stopped and looked to the center of the stronghold, "Hm? That Emperor Marcus²Real person guy is coming out with king Ballomar³Also a Real person, you say?"

Mog looked to the center of the tribe, behind the masses of his watching and free ex-tribesmen. There lay the largest thatched hut in the tribe, called the mead hall, which served both as the dining hall of the king and the warriors, as well as the meeting hall of the tribe's higher-ups.⁴Not sure if it is historically correct for that exact century, but it is correct two and a half centuries later.

There, he saw two men and a child coming out under the protection of Roman soldiers in a more elaborate and decorated armor, likely the royal guards of this emperor.

The first man was a large and muscular green-skinned Orc in his thirties. Like most Orcs, he was a head taller than an average human, standing at 6'6 feet⁵around 2 meters in height. On his slightly handsome and well-groomed bearded face was a pair of large tusks iconic to most Orc, with a golden ring decorating the right one. His sleek and long greying dark hair was combed back, and his long and slightly greying beard was tied into braids, a sign of being a Marcomanni warrior or noble.

He was also dressed in more luxurious and decorated clothes than others and had a crown made from special and rare ivory, carved from a dragon's horn.

This man was king Ballomar Marcomanni, the king of the Marcomanni tribe, chosen from the moment he was born. Mog knew that the king wasn't the smartest or the strongest out there, but he was a cunning ruler and commander of men, as he proved in his raid on the nearby land of the Romans, called Italia, crossing the Danube river, and raiding and pillaging the surrounding land for four years before the Romans drove them back to their motherland.

If it wasn't for the other tribes letting the Romans pass safely through the Danube river, the Romans wouldn't have been able to cross it safely, and thus the Marcomanni's defeat would have been delayed by a few months or even years.

Mog also didn't blame him for executing his family or sending him into slavery. Mog would have done the same thing in his shoes to placate the people and the upper circles.

What surprised Mog, however, was the way the proud and mighty king Ballomar treated the Human man next to him. He acted submissive and weak toward this human Emperor of normal stature.

The human was a man in his fifties, signs of his advancing age in his greying curly hair and beard. He wore elaborate armor with a skirt that all Roman soldiers strangely had, wore high sandals, and was covered with a dark-purple cloak.

The man had a sagely look on him as if he has seen much of the world, and his stoic and wise brown eyes were fatigued, either from travel or the weight of his crown and the trouble that followed it.

King Ballomar spoke with the emperor of Rome for a while and then gestured subserviently to the shackled slaves and Mog, likely presenting part of the war compensations.

Mog, who saw this, could only sigh and shake his head.

"To think I would see the day when THAT proud Ballomar would lower his head like a lackey to a foreign leader." - Mog thought derisively as he looked at the Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius, and then looked at the child, who was holding the emperor's hand and looking around curiously.

The child was a handsome boy around 11 years old. He had beautiful curly brown hair and fair blue eyes, shining with a strange mixture of curiosity, contempt, and disgust. Like the emperor, the boy wore a purple cloak laced with gold and a bronze medallion holding it, with some weird white dress that Romans so liked to wear underneath.

"Is that the emperor's son? No, he must be either a relative or adopted. The difference is too big." - Is what Mog thought upon laying his eyes on the boy.

Little did he know that he almost correctly guessed one of the darkest secrets of the Roman emperor.⁶easter egg!

Losing interest in the boy, he switched his focus back on the emperor.

He then saw the emperor nodding his head curtly to king Ballomar before signaling three of his nearby commanders. The fancily-dressed commanders bowed respectfully to the emperor, before barking orders in a loud voice to their respective lieutenants in Latin, the language of the Romans.

The meaning of their words was the same, "Men, we march back to Roman soil! Hail Emperor Marcus! Hail the Germanicus!⁷A title of one who conquered German soil. Onwards, to Raetia!"

The soldiers surrounding the slaves cheered, elated to finally head to Roman soil, "Hail the Emperor! Hail the Germanicus!" - They shouted in unison as they raised their weirdly constructed but deadly throwing spear high.

Aside from those who came from trading families, almost everyone else in the tribe didn't understand them, even the nobles, but Mog did. His mother had forced him to secretly learn the language from a young age, for reasons unknown. But Mog could guess that the seeress foresaw the defeat of the tribe at the hands of the Romans and wanted to prepare her youngest child for this day.

Her worries were proven right.

Soon after the soldiers stopped cheering, the soldiers rounded up the shackled slaves while shouting at them in rough Germanic in a weird dialect.

"Stand up! Move!"

Mog sighed and said as he stood up, the sound of chains rattling as the others also stood up, "Let's go, Cawcaw. We have a long journey ahead."

"Caw*(Yes!)" - Was the voice that only he could hear from the blueish spirit raven that only he could see. His spirit guardian, Cawcaw.