The Gate Traveler-Chapter 66B5 - : A Passage to Freedom

My flight to Zarad was miserable. I’d left under clear skies, but an hour in, the rain caught up with me. Further south, it turned to hail—not the murderous kind, just small, stinging pellets, but enough to make the trip thoroughly unpleasant. By the time I reached the city, I was battered, bruised, and in a really foul mood.

Zarad hadn’t changed. Sandstone houses with domed roofs stretched across the landscape, their warm tones contrasting with the shimmering canals that cut through the city. The afternoon sun, finally making an appearance, reflected off the water, turning the whole place golden.

This time, I was smarter. I’d already dressed in the local fashion, right down to the awkward pants with that strange pouch hanging between my legs. Uncomfortable, annoying, and doing wonders for my already “great” mood. To top it off, I glamoured myself to blend in, ensuring I looked like the locals.

I wandered through the city streets, watching the people around me. The slaves were easy to spot—their posture, their downcast eyes, the way they moved with quiet resignation. But knowing who they were didn’t help me figure out how to approach them.

Should I try talking to them here, out in the open? Or wait until they return home, when fewer eyes will be watching?

I reached the same square where the last slave auction had taken place. The stage was still there, but no auction was happening today.

Slipping into a shadowed alley, I made sure no one was watching before turning invisible. Quietly, I scanned the buildings around the square, checking for anything that might give me a lead. But the houses were just that—ordinary homes, no sign of anything connected to the auctions.

Waiting it is.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a long procession of slaves made their way toward the slums. Not all of them—many stayed behind, continuing their work in the grand homes of the wealthy.

I watched from above, noting their movements before taking off toward the slums. As I flew, I considered the problem. How was I going to approach this?

The slums of Zarad were miserable, narrow alleys and crumbling buildings forming a maze of quiet suffering. Fires flickered in makeshift braziers, casting long shadows over hunched figures warming their hands. The air smelled of damp stone, sweat, and something acrid—burnt food or cheap oil.

I landed in an alley, dropped my invisibility, and stepped into the open. No one paid me much attention at first. Just another man in the dark.

I approached a small group huddled near a fire—three men and a woman, their clothes little more than patched rags. Their faces were lean, eyes sunken, not from malnutrition but from exhaustion, the kind that settled deep in the bones.

“If you want to leave here and be free, I have a way out,” I said quietly.

They tensed. An older man with graying hair and a deep scar across his cheek gave me a wary look. “Out?”

“There’s a place. A city far from here, past the mountains. No masters or chains. You’ll be free.”

The woman scoffed. “You think we haven’t heard that before?” Her voice was rough, like a heavy smoker or from shouting.

“I don’t just talk. I can take you there. But you have to decide now.”

The younger of the men, barely more than a boy, maybe sixteen, swallowed hard. “How?”

I gestured for them to follow and led them to a quiet alleyway. With a touch to my core, the air shimmered, and the opening appeared, leading straight into my house. The woman took a step back. The older man clenched his fists. The boy’s eyes went wide, darting between me and the portal.

“That’s… not natural,” the scarred man murmured.

“It’s a safe passage. You go in, I close it, I take you far away, and when I open it again, you’ll be free,” I explained. “It’s how I’ve done it before.”

The woman shook her head, fear etched deep in her features. “No. No, this is a trick. You’re like the others. You’ll sell us somewhere worse.”

“I won’t.”

She grabbed the boy’s arm, pulling him back. “Come on.”

The scarred man hesitated. His gaze locked onto mine, searching for deception. “You swear it’s safe?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, then stepped forward. “Then I’ll go.”

The woman yanked at the boy’s sleeve. “We don’t know him.”

The boy wavered. His eyes flicked between me, the house, and the old man. “I—I can’t.” He pulled away and ran.

The scarred man sighed. “He’ll regret that.” Without another word, he stepped inside. The doorway swallowed him, and he was gone.

I exhaled. One down.

I moved through the slums all night, approaching small clusters of people where I found them—in the alleys, near fires, outside crumbling doorways. Some laughed in my face, calling me a liar. Others wanted to believe but hesitated, staring at the portal with wide, untrusting eyes.

In one corner of the slums, I found a woman with a baby, her eyes dull with exhaustion. She didn’t ask questions. She just nodded, clutching the child to her chest, and stepped inside without hesitation. Later, I spoke to a group of brothers, two men in their thirties, scarred and battered from years of labor. One agreed immediately. The other refused, gripping his brother’s arm.

“You go in there, and you’ll never come back,” he warned.

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His brother gave a bitter laugh. “That’s the point.”

By dawn, I’d rounded up small groups scattered across the slums, slipping through the dark and into my house, one by one. About a hundred people were willing to risk something better. I closed the opening for the last time just as the first streaks of sunlight crept over the horizon.

It wasn’t enough. It never would be. But it was something.

By the time I got back to New Sanctuary, the sun was already dipping toward late afternoon. No point in wasting time. I landed near the clinic, headed inside, and set my core down near the wall. With a quick pulse of intent, I opened the house.

The moment the doorway appeared, there was movement inside. A shuffle. A pause. Then, one by one, they stepped out—hesitant, blinking against the light like they weren’t sure if they were really free yet.

Rima, busy stacking supplies, turned at the first sound. Her eyes widened as a gaunt older man stepped out, blinking against the daylight, followed by a young woman clutching a child. A moment later, more spilled forth, hesitant and wary, blinking like they'd stepped into another world, which, in a way, they had.

Rima’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “What in the—”

She shot me a look that was half shock, half exasperation, but to her credit, she didn’t freeze for long. Instead, she straightened, clapped her hands together, and called out to the other healers.

“We need blankets and water! Now!”

The refugees shuffled closer, their clothes torn and stiff with dust, their faces lined with exhaustion. Some stared at Rima, not understanding her words, while others glanced around, as if expecting a trick.

The language barrier became obvious fast. They spoke something similar to the local dialect, but not quite the same. Some of them picked up a word here and there, but for the most part, communication turned into a strange mix of gestures and slow, careful speech.

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Rima crouched in front of an older woman whose hands trembled from exhaustion. “Are you hurt?” she asked, slowly enunciating each word.

The woman furrowed her brows, glancing at the others. Then, hesitantly, she tapped her own chest. “Safe?”

“Yes,” I cut in, nodding. I pointed at the clinic, then at her. “Safe.”

Relief flickered across her features. The moment she nodded, the others seemed to relax.

A teenage boy, thin and covered in scrapes, gestured at the clinic and then at me, tilting his head. “Magic?”

I sighed. “Yes, magic.”

That answer seemed to satisfy him.

Rima rolled up her sleeves. “Alright, let’s get them sorted out.”

It took hours to settle everyone. The clinic could only hold so many, so once the most urgent cases were seen, Roda and the others stepped in.

“We’ve got temporary housing ready,” she told me, her usual sharp tone softened just a fraction. “Simple, but better than what they’ve had.”

She wasn’t wrong. The houses were basic, just sturdy wooden structures built over the past few months, meant for newcomers. They weren’t much, but they were warm and dry.

The refugees followed hesitantly, their movements slow and uncertain. Some flinched at sudden noises, and others walked stiffly, as if waiting for someone to grab them.

Inside one of the houses, a young woman ran her fingers over the wooden walls, as if confirming they were real. A boy, no older than eight, sat on the floor near a cot, running his hands over the blanket’s fabric like it was some priceless treasure.

Roda and the others brought out clothes—simple tunics and pants, nothing fancy, but clean and sturdy. The reactions varied. An older man took a shirt, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white before he cautiously pressed it to his face. A middle-aged woman held a pair of boots, staring at them for a long moment before slowly putting them on.

And then there was the food.

The first bowl of stew was met with suspicion. A man in his forties, all sharp angles and sunken cheeks, stared at it as if expecting it to be taken away. He didn’t eat until he saw others doing the same. Then, once he started, he didn’t stop.

No one spoke much. Not at first. They ate in silence, some glancing at me, some at Roda, as if trying to understand why they were here and had been given these things. I leaned against the doorway of one of the houses, watching as a woman tucked a blanket around her child and sank onto the cot beside him, a look of disbelief still on her face.

Roda stepped up beside me, arms crossed. “They’ll take time,” she murmured.

I nodded. “I know.”

They had spent their whole lives being owned. It would take them more than one night to understand they were free.

It took three days to settle everyone and convince them they were actually safe. Roda found a few people who spoke their language, which made things a lot easier—no more half-gestured conversations or confused stares, or me spending my time as a translator instead of a healer.

After just a few days of real food and healing, they looked noticeably better, at least physically. The hollowness in their faces had faded, and their movements were less sluggish. But mentally? That was another story. The weight of everything they’d been through still clung to them, a quiet wariness in their eyes, in the way some of them flinched at sudden noises or hesitated before taking anything offered to them.

I knew recovery would take a lot longer than a few days. But at least they’d taken the first step.

Five days after I got back, I was in the clinic when Potar, one of the translators, walked in. He wasn’t alone. The man beside him was one of the ones I had brought out—older, maybe in his sixties, his back slightly stooped, his hands rough with years of hard labor. Despite the exhaustion still clinging to his features, his eyes were sharp, filled with something I hadn’t seen in him before. Determination.

Potar cleared his throat. “He wants to speak with you.”

I nodded. “Alright.”

The old man hesitated, glancing at Potar, then at me. He took a slow breath before speaking, his words careful. “I want to go back.”

I frowned. “Back where?”

“To Zarad,” he said, his voice steadier this time. “To tell them.”

“You want to go back on purpose?”

He nodded. “Many… do not believe. They need to see.” He tapped his chest, his gaze unwavering. “I tell them. I bring more.”

Potar crossed his arms. “He says if he’s the one who tells them, more will listen.”

I sighed. “Alright. If you’re sure, I’ll take you.”

Mountain, my new accomplice, took his mission very seriously. Over the next two weeks, we made seven runs to Zarad, pulling out as many people as possible. Each time, more waited for us—whispers had spread, and hope, however fragile, had taken root.

But it wasn’t just the refugees paying attention. With every trip, the guards in the slums increased. They weren’t just standing around anymore. They patrolled with guns, poking their noses into every alley, stopping people for questioning. The tension in the air was thick enough to taste.

Still, Mountain knew the slums like the back of his hand. He had routes and hiding spots, knew which streets the guards avoided and which were too risky. Thanks to him, we had no trouble slipping past the patrols and getting people out.

But he wasn’t just focused on those who left with us. He spread the word, whispering about New Sanctuary in dark corners, passing information from one desperate soul to another. More than that, he handed out maps—simple, hand-drawn things that marked the exact location of New Sanctuary, a clear route out for anyone willing to take the risk.

I wasn’t sure if they’d ever be used. If you’re gonna escape, why not just come with us? That was my logic. But I kept my mouth shut and printed more copies anyway. Maybe, just maybe, they’d help. It would be worth it if even a few people slipped away because of them.

Mountain and I had done everything we could. Seventeen hundred people were pulled from the slums of Zarad and given a real chance. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it was a start.

I stood outside one of the newly built houses in New Sanctuary, watching as a child chased another around the courtyard, their laughter breaking through the quiet hum of the settlement. Recently, that same boy had been afraid to speak.

Beside me, Mountain exhaled, his shoulders finally losing some of their tension. “More will come,” he murmured, watching the same scene.

I nodded. “Yeah. I think they will.”

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they knew there was a way out and had the map. That was enough.