Slaves obey, men choose: chapter 26: fireflies I

Okay, report time. Again. Honestly, sometimes being the guy who actually cares about whether people are eating and not dying feels like signing up for an endless parade of meetings. Back home – my first home, in my past life, the one with wifi and existential dread about climate change instead of literal slavery – I’d have zoned out halfway through the first PowerPoint slide. Here? It matters. They matter. The faces staring back at me, eyes wide with this weird mix of reverence and terror I still haven’t gotten used to, or the fierce, fragile hope that’s finally starting to push the terror aside. My people. Formerly chattel. Now… citizens? Subjects? Honestly, the labels still feel sticky and weird. My responsibility? That part’s crystal clear.

I shifted on the obsidian throne. Yeah, a throne. Weird but based, right? King Aegor. Sounds like something out of a bad fantasy novel. The title still makes my skin prickle, probably a leftover reflex from the kid whose body I’m now leaving in. That kid knew kings meant masters, meant pain, meant being used up and thrown away like garbage when you broke. But the people… they wanted it. After we turned Astapor inside out, bathing in a more reddish color the sidewalks of Astapor in the blood of our former masters, they looked at me like I’d hung the moon. Crowning me felt less like ambition and more like them grabbing the only anchor they saw in the storm. So, fine. King. But if I’m stuck with the crown, I’m doing things my way. Step one: ditch the creepy kneeling and groveling. Still working on that to be honest. Step two: build a throne room that doesn’t scream ‘torture enthusiast with bad taste.’

I let my gaze wander around the space I’d sculpted from the gaudy horror-show that was Kraznys mo Nakloz’s audience chamber. That guy had a thing for blood-red lacquer, gold leaf slapped on everything like cheap glitter, and mosaics depicting slaves being flayed that made my stomach churn. Tacky doesn’t even cover it. It was a monument to cruelty in every way that mattered. So, I wiped it clean. Now, soaring black marble columns, streaked with veins of actual gold, punched upwards, meeting in sharp, graceful Gothic arches far overhead. Between the arches, the ceiling wasn’t stone, but reinforced crystal and steel – like some insane, beautiful greenhouse roof. Daylight, softened and turned almost blue-white, spilled down, catching the geometric Art Deco patterns etched into the columns and making the polished floor glow. At the far end, my throne – obsidian, trimmed in gold, not overly huge – sat on a raised platform with wide, curved steps. Behind it, a massive crystal panel shimmered, its etched lines catching the light and shifting colours subtly as the sun moved outside. Practical? Yeah. I’d made sure the acoustics were decent, and lining the sides were comfortable, high-backed chairs – like fancy auditorium seating – for anyone who needed to talk to me for longer than five minutes. No one needed to stand for hours on marble just to prove I was in charge. Lame kings needed that crutch. I had magic and, hopefully, a functioning brain that’ll stay one for longer.

Right now, the chairs were occupied by my literacy instructors. Former slave scribes, mostly, recommended by Araz, who’d somehow become akin terrifyingly efficient right hand. They looked… different. Everyone did, thanks to the Panaceas. That was another thing ticked off the ‘Basic Human Needs’ list. Maslow wasn’t exactly required reading in the hellhole that was pre-revolution Astapor, but the principle? Yeah. Pretty fundamental. You can’t worry about self-actualization when you’re starving or bleeding out in a gutter.

The treehouses came first. Necessity. Thousands of suddenly freed slaves with nowhere to go but the filthy streets they’d been beaten in. The image of kids shivering under ragged scraps of cloth in alleyways… no. Didn’t need that. Just no. So, magic. Big time magic. I’d reached into the earth, coaxed ancient, massive trees to erupt Mokuton style throughout the city, weaving their branches into intricate, sprawling structures. Not just shelters, but homes. Solar punk dreams made real. Each one unique, woven with living wood, fitted with crystal windows that caught the light, vines heavy with glowing flowers providing gentle illumination at night. Inside? Running hot water piped straight from conjured springs, comfortable beds that felt like sleeping on clouds, spaces that felt airy and warm and safe. Cheating? Absolutely. But when you’re an Archmage rebuilding, remodelling a slaver city from scratch, you cheat. A lot.

Then came the hunger. The sickness. The sheer, grinding misery of bodies broken by labour, torture, neglect. The original Aegor, the kid whose memories still sometimes feel as if they were ambushing me in the quiet dark… he knew that pain intimately. The hollow ache that never left, the festering wounds ignored, the weakness that made resistance impossible. He died from it. Used up, violated, tossed aside like trash when his master broke him, enjoyed him too much and oh, how I ducking hated thinking that. Those memory were still akin a cold knife twisting in my gut, even now. I really needed to deal with that. I hadn’t so far because I had been queasy about using magic even if it was mine on my mind but I would have to truly began the doing part instead of you know always planning but never doing.

The Panaceas were the answer I had found, I had created. Fruits, glowing softly with inner magic, hanging from trees woven into the very fabric of the city’s new green spaces. More than just food. Magic condensed. Eat one, and any wound knits shut. Any disease burns away like mist under the sun. Lost an arm? Give it a bite, maybe three or four, eating the fruit and watch it regrow. They filled you up like the richest feast, tasted like pure bliss – chocolate fudge cake one bite, perfectly ripe mango the next, whatever your soul craved most. And yeah, side effect: they made people… better. Healthier, stronger, more symmetrical. It wasn’t vanity magic; it was just the body healing to its absolute peak potential. The result? A population that looked like they’d stepped out of a fitness magazine spread. Lean muscle, clear skin, bright eyes. I saw the appreciative glances they shot each other, the shy smiles. Heard the fervent prayers of thanks whispered my way. They felt good. Whole. Maybe I should have seen the beautification coming – fix everything broken, and the package improves – but honestly? Seeing them walk tall, pain-free, alive… that was the point. The aesthetics were just a bonus. Didn’t explode in my face so far so it should be good.

But survival wasn’t enough. Not for living. The original Aegor… gods, he barely knew his letters. He’d been a commodity, a body to be used, not a mind to be educated. His scraps of knowledge came from fleeting moments of pity or shared misery with other slaves in the brothel, whispers in the dark, of the one he had considered as his older sister and his betrayer. Low Valyrian was the city’s tongue, but he’d only known fragments, curses, pleas. He couldn’t read the signs above the shops, couldn’t write his own name. Just another way they kept him powerless.

That wouldn’t fly. Not in my city. Knowledge is power. Real power. Not just sword-swinging, fireball-chucking power (though, let’s be real, that helps), but the power to understand, to communicate, to build something that lasts. To read a contract and not get screwed. To learn history and not repeat the worst bits. To read just for the fun of it. I needed literate citizens, not just fed and housed subjects.

My mind flickered back to my old world. History class. Cuba. The 1960s. This tiny island nation, fresh off a revolution, staring down a mountain of illiteracy. Twenty-three percent couldn’t read. In the countryside? Way worse. And they just… decided to fix it. Not in some slow, generational way. In one year. La Campaña Nacional de Alfabetización. They threw everything at it. Mobilized over a quarter of a million volunteers – brigadistas – mostly kids barely older than me, shipped them out to live with families in the remotest areas. Literate folks in towns taught their neighbours. They kept it simple: one textbook, Alfabeticemos, focusing on syllables, basic words, revolutionary slogans mixed in for motivation ("Fidel," "patria," "trabajo"). They gave the volunteers lanterns (no electricity), food, bikes. They made it a national mission, a point of revolutionary pride: "To be educated is to be free." And it worked. Over 700,000 people learned. Literacy rate shot up to 96%. It wasn't just reading; it was empowerment, especially for women, for rural folks. It built national unity. It was, frankly, badass.

That was the energy I wanted. That mass mobilization, that sense of shared purpose. But, you know, with added magic. Because what’s the point of being essentially a godling if you can’t streamline the boring stuff?

So, I copied the spirit. Made literacy mandatory. Put out the call for teachers. The former scribes, like the ones before me now, stepped up. People who’d taught themselves, people who’d secretly shared words in the slave barracks. But then came the cheat codes. First, the language barrier. Low Valyrian was common, but fractured into dialects. High Valyrian was the language of dead dragons and dusty scrolls. Ghiscari? Practically fossilized. And the Common Tongue of Westeros and the rest of the world? Useful for trade, for dealing with the inevitable mess that continent would spill over here eventually.

I didn’t have a year. I didn’t want people struggling with alphabets for months. So, magic. Subtle, seamless. I reached out, not just to the teachers, but to every single person in Astapor. Thousands upon thousands of minds. And I… implanted. Not thoughts, not commands. Knowledge. The structure of Low Valyrian, all its common dialects. The elegant, complex grammar of High Valyrian. The guttural clicks and history-laden roots of Ghiscari. The straightforward pragmatism of the Common Tongue. The fundamentals of reading and writing each one. Like downloading a language pack directly into the brain’s OS. No pain, just a sudden, profound understanding blooming where there was confusion. One day, the squiggles on a wall were nonsense. The next, they were words, clear as spring water.

For the instructors, I added another layer. A gentle spell woven around them, amplifying their patience, their clarity, their ability to explain. Making the complex feel simple. Making the act of teaching feel less like a chore and more like… sharing a secret joy. It smoothed the edges, made the connection between teacher and learner almost effortless. In a world without magic, Cuba’s method was lightning fast. With magic? It was instantaneous ignition.

Now, the instructors were reporting. Halen, a thin man with intense eyes that seemed to have seen too much, was finishing up. "...and the youngest, a little girl called Mera, barely four summers? She recited a High Valyrian nursery rhyme flawlessly. Old Man Vorian, who swore his eyes were too clouded for letters?  Seriously, eyes too clouded? With my panaceas? Guy needed better excuses. He wrote his full name in Ghiscari script yesterday. Without error." Halen’s voice held a wonder that hadn’t been there before. "It’s… universal, Your Grace. Complete comprehension. Reading, writing, speaking. Across all ages. Across all the languages you gifted."

A smile broke across my face, genuine and wide. Relief, pride, a fierce kind of joy. "You all did it," I said, leaning forward, my voice echoing slightly in the grand space. "More than did it. You crushed it. Absolutely perfect." I looked at each of them – men and women who’d been property, scribbling inventories of human misery, now architects of liberation through knowledge. "Seriously, thank you. All of you. I’ll make sure you get something worthy. Coin, land, whatever you want."  I’ll try to find them something because there were nothing I couldn’t give. The question was what.

Halen shifted in his chair. He was older than the others, lines etched deep around his mouth and eyes. He chuckled, but it was a dry, rasping sound. "Worthy, Your Grace?" He met my gaze directly. The implanted language skill meant he understood me perfectly, but his eyes held centuries of Astapor’s darkness. "The magic… it did the heavy lifting. We just… guided what was already there."

"Still needed guides," I countered. "Skilled ones."

He shook his head slowly. "Permission to speak plainly, Your Grace?"

"Always," I said. That was another rule. No groveling, no hidden meanings. Just talk.

He took a breath, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the armrests of the surprisingly comfortable chair. "I was a scribe. For Grazdan mo Ullhor. My duty?" His voice turned flinty. "Logistics. Human logistics. How many slaves purchased. Costs. Sales prices. Performance reports." He spat the last word. "Performance. How many bricks they moved before collapsing. How many times they were whipped before they stopped crying. How many died in the pits that week."

A cold silence settled over the throne room. The soft light filtering through the crystal ceiling felt suddenly too bright, too clean. I knew this history, intellectually. Felt the original Aegor’s terror of the scribes who recorded his 'value'. But hearing it from the scribe himself… it was different. Raw.

"I wrote it all down," Halen continued, his gaze fixed on the geometric patterns in the black marble floor. "Neat columns. Precise figures. My handwriting was always praised." He looked up, his eyes searching mine, not for forgiveness, but maybe for understanding. "I saw them, Your Grace. The ones my reports condemned. The 'underperformers'. I saw what Grazdan did to them. Made examples. The flayings in the Plaza. The starvation cages. The… other things. Things that haunt sleep." His voice cracked. "So many nights, I lay awake, my fingers itching. Wanting to change a number. Swap a name. Add a word of… of mercy. But I saw what happened to Boros. Caught altering a shipment manifest to save a friend from the fighting pits. They took his hands first. Then his tongue. Then they fed him to the beasts he’d tried to save his friend from." He shuddered. "I was scared. Terrified. So I kept my head down. I wrote the truth that meant death. Because I wanted to live." He let out a harsh, humourless scoff. "Like those who died because of my neat columns didn’t want to live too."

The throne room felt immense and hollow. The instructors beside Halen looked down, their faces tight with shared memory. Araz, standing silently near the base of the dais, was a statue, her expression unreadable but her eyes like chips of obsidian.

"I never wanted it," Halen whispered, the anger draining, leaving only a profound weariness. "Never. Before… before the slavers took me… I was eighteen. Young. Foolish. Dreamed of being a merchant in Pentos. Maybe even a magistrate." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I taught myself to read. Scraps of parchment, discarded bills. I helped others – older folk in my neighbourhood who couldn't read contracts or letters from family. Earned a bit of coin. Helped my father… he was sick. Probably dead now." He paused, swallowing hard. "I loved it. The letters. The numbers. The stories they unlocked. The power they held to help, to connect."

He looked around the transformed throne room, at the faces of his fellow instructors, then back to me. "Then they took me. Sold me. Astapor broke that love. Turned words into weapons. Numbers into death sentences. I thought… I truly believed… I would never love reading or writing again. That I could never use this," he tapped his temple, "for anything but recording suffering."

His gaze locked onto mine, fierce and bright with unshed tears. "You proved me wrong." The words were simple, heavy as mountains. "You gave me back the letters. Gave them meaning. Gave me a chance… to teach. To build. To use this skill," he gestured towards the others, "to finally help people climb out of the dark, instead of pushing them deeper. You gave me back the love I thought was ash." He stood up, a little unsteady, and bowed deeply, not the obsequious bow of a slave, but the respectful bow of a man acknowledging a debt. "You already gave me my recompense, King Aegor. More than I ever dreamed possible. More than I deserved. That… that is worth everything."

He straightened. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of his confession and gratitude. The other instructors murmured agreement, nodding, their own eyes suspiciously bright. The grand, magically crafted room, with its soaring arches and shimmering light, suddenly felt smaller, warmer, focused on this one man and his reclaimed humanity.

I looked at Halen, at the raw honesty in his face, the years of pain and the fragile new hope. My magic had built the treehouses, grown the Panaceas, implanted the languages. But this? This redemption, this rediscovery of purpose? This wasn't magic. This was human spirit, bruised and battered but finally able to breathe, to stretch towards the light. This was the foundation stronger than any magic I could conjure. This was people starting to truly live.

I leaned back on the obsidian throne, the cool stone a solid anchor. "Halen," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "Thank you for telling me." It felt inadequate, but it was all I had.

I think that maybe I got a beginning for those gifts after all.