He tore through the snow-covered forest, driven by terror and the savage hounds that had already tasted his flesh. They would chase him to the very Rebellion of the Elements. Their hoarse barking nipped at his heels, spurring him on, promising no escape. The thunder of hooves pounded in his skull like a funeral toll, yet he could not stop. His bare feet were numb. He no longer felt the pain in his shredded soles.

  Blood streamed from his lacerated face, mixing with the tears that blurred his stinging eyes. He clamped a hand over the gash on his cheek, feeling the hot liquid soak into the sleeve of his thin shirt that was useless against the biting winter wind.

  He stumbled over a hidden pothole, and his legs gave way. He collapsed, splashing fresh blood onto the virgin snow. He sobbed, realizing he could not rise. The distance between him and his pursuers was shrinking. He could almost feel the dogs' slobbering jaws sinking into him again, tearing muscle and meat so fast he wouldn't even have time to scream.

  Shuddering, he tried to stand. He was just a boy, barely able to withstand such terror. He didn't know what he feared more: returning to Belden or facing life in freedom. Yet the sacrifice that had bought his chance to break his chains would not let him surrender. Gritting his teeth, he rose to continue the race he would remember for the rest of his life.

  When the hounds crested the horizon, followed by their masters, he howled. But he could run no faster. The frosty air scorched his lungs, choking him as he fought through nature's snares toward the long-awaited freedom, soaked in dreams and blood.

  He saw the river too late. Thin ice stretched before him. A deadly mistake. He glanced back sharply. Drops of blood flew from his mangled cheek, fanning out across the snow. He would rather die than fall into the dogs' maw or go back. So he ran. They had left him no choice.

  An arrow whistled overhead. The shouts of the hunters struck his back as he stumbled and crashed face-first onto the ice. Before the deafening crack reached his ears, he glimpsed the swift current beneath, ready to drag him straight into the Darkness, into the maw of Haderat.

  The ice shattered, and he plunged into the ruthless embrace of the freezing water.

  ***

  Three days later, Reed finally stepped onto the deck. The brig rocked on the swells, slowly approaching the docks of Bolas, a port city in Bradenmain. The harbor was a thin line on the horizon, but docking was still at least an hour away. The wind caught his hair, stinging his face with salty spray that left his shirt stiff and crusted with salt. It was only a problem if Reed gave a damn about his appearance. With a weather-beaten face, a sea tan, tangled hair, and a fresh bruise under his left eye, he was hardly the stuff of romantic pirate legends. Which was fitting, as Reed was about to leave the pirate life.

  The Cassandra was an old girl, scarred by the sea and bloodied by battle, but she had served her captain well. Reed had only just settled his debt to the man. The nature of that debt was never spoken aloud, a silence that fueled endless gossip among the crew. Reed fit in perfectly with this gang of sea cutthroats. He wasn't far removed from their trade. Truth be told, he didn't know how to do much else. His entire life revolved around the way of a rogue.

  Some of his knowledge was unexpected. But calling it useful for a peaceful life would be a stretch. He couldn't bake bread or cast a fishing net, but he knew a dozen ways to stay alive when things went sideways. In that, at least, he was a master. Those same skills had allowed him to pay his way off the Cassandra. Now, his debt clear, he was ready to vanish into Bolas.

  No one asked what he'd do next. Reed had a reputation for being a gloom-ridden man, a vault of secrets and unspoken words. In ten years on the brig, he hadn't bothered to make a single friend. No one cared what became of him, and Reed, in turn, didn't give a damn about the crew.

  The Cassandra was a closed chapter, like a discarded lover who took everything she could, gave nothing back, and then simply ceased to be interesting. Reed wouldn't think of her in a month. In a year, he'd forget her name. He wasn't the type to wallow in regrets over past flames. He had enough reasons to brood over without them.

  Somewhere to the left, the captain barked an order. The wind picked up, and the brig surged forward. Bradenmain. Reed wasn't thrilled about returning to Emeron, but he wasn't in a position to be picky. After all, this place had once been home. And if he could build a reputation across the ocean, he could do it here, even if it took time. Time was the one thing he had in abundance.

  He didn't dwell on where the years had gone. He spent his life searching for something and never finding it. Maybe he'd find it tomorrow. Maybe in a year. In any case, it was a prize worth the wait. But if you asked Reed what exactly he was waiting for, he wouldn't have an answer. Not even for himself.

  When the Cassandra finally docked, Reed knew he would never see the brig again. The captain wasn't a local. He knew nothing of the language or the geography of Emeron, and he had no desire to learn. For years, the people of Emeron had wondered what lay across the ocean, but none had the strength for the journey. Those who sailed away were never heard from again. Either life across the water was too good to leave, or the waves were too hungry.

  The captain followed a course known only to him, with no intention of sharing it with the sailors of Emeron. Knowledge was profit, and the stingy captain of the Cassandra wasn't the sharing type. If he had docked in Emeron at all during Reed's ten years aboard, it was only out of dire necessity. Most sailors from the other side of the ocean skirted the continent entirely, and Reed couldn't blame them. He had a dozen reasons for avoiding this place that required no effort to explain.

  The port greeted him with a familiar assault: the stench of rotting fish and mold, the shrill cries of gulls, and the laughter of "ladies of light," or in the common tongue, whores. Ports were always a hive for such a crowd. Sailors fresh from weeks at sea were happy to pay double what a girl in northern Bradenmain would ask. It was a fair trade, considering docking fees cost nearly triple the price of a woman's company for twenty-four hours.

  No one came south for pleasure. Bargaining was impossible. The monopolists held every pier and alley, and they didn't hide their greed. And that was the first reason sailors kept their routes secret.

  The second was the Empire. If the Striaemon Empire learned of a place it hadn't yet crushed, that peace was already on a countdown. Rumors of Striaemon traveled far, and its reputation worked against it. No one wanted to let foreign slavers into their lands when they had plenty of their own. This was, ironically, the reason for Reed's return. In thirty years abroad, he had realized that no matter where he ran, the world was the same. Only the skin color and the languages changed. In every other way, the kreyghars were the same everywhere. Reed needed no more proof.

  With his meager fortune packed into a small bag, Reed prepared to disembark. The captain had no desire to linger.

  "Good luck, long-ears!" he bellowed, already shouting orders to turn the ship. Reed didn't judge him. He'd have done the same.

  The sun beat into his eyes, forcing him to squint as he stepped onto the wooden pier. The "ladies of light" let out giggles at the sight of him. Reed's squint deepened, and not because of the sun. They didn't know who he was or why he'd come, but to the port scum, he was just another long-eared bastard. To his own kind, he was likely worse.

  He was used to the repulsion in their stares. Across the ocean, there were no elves, and Reed had been a rare spectacle. Here, his tribe bore the unofficial title of the "Cursed." There was no actual curse, of course, but nicknames were like garrey. Once they stuck, they were impossible to scrape off. He didn't know if his people still existed or if, in thirty years, they had finally bent under the Empire's whip. He didn't particularly care to find out, but he wouldn't turn away the information if it came.

  He had no plans to stay in Bolas. Lodging was more expensive than docking, and the drink was worse than the rooms. He didn't want to linger in the stench of fish guts. He would move north. Not just because it was cheaper, but because there was more work for a man of his talents. Bradenmain had recovered from the war with the Empire, and now the nobility spent their days clawing for higher ground, usually by shoving their rivals off the ladder. Never with their own hands, of course.

  Reed didn't care for their games. If the price was right, he worked. If not, there was always someone else who would be willing to pay more. Getting involved in politics was the same as laying one's own head on the block, and Reed was no fool. He simply did what he was good at.

  As he bypassed the cluster of prostitutes, a few biting slurs were tossed his way. He didn't bother to catch the meaning. His heavy boots pounded a rhythm on the planks, his mind already miles away. He was no stranger to judgment. Elves in Emeron were eternally at fault for something. Everyone had grown used to it. Even the elves themselves.

  Reed was headed for Argain, the wealthiest city in Bradenmain. That was where the gold was, concentrated in the hands of nobles ready to pay handsomely for a rival's death. Simple math. Two or three contracts in Argain would buy him the most valuable currency of all: rumors. Once the whispers started, the nobility would find him. All he had to do was remain visible to those who truly needed him.

  He never feared the guards. The right people always ensured the enforcer walked away clean, and he could deal with the rest. Moving on was never a problem. Across Emeron, those eager to profit from another's death were more numerous than the stars in the sky.

  When the roar of the docks finally faded, Reed slowed his pace. The heat was stifling, far worse than the damp chill of the brig. His leather armor chewed at his skin, and the shirt beneath was a sodden weight, the collar dark and heavy with sweat. He wiped his hair back with a grime-streaked hand, leaving a smear of dirt across his forehead.

  In this state, no one would mistake him for a man of means, and that was just fine. He looked more like a roadside drifter than a hired blade, and his steel stayed hidden. His creed was simple. The fewer people who remembered his face after a fleeting encounter, the better. Besides, he was a half-elf. Most men treated elves as incompetent livestock, and Reed didn't expect that to change. Kreyghars are all the same, he thought.

  The road to Argain was long, and he would have to walk every mile. No wagon driver in Bradenmain would sell a horse to an elf, and none would lease one, no matter the sum.

  Children swarmed the peasant yards, and kreyghar women scurried about, raining curses on their offspring as they worked. Every so often, a heavy gaze lifted his way. Teeth gritted, someone would hiss a slur. Another might spit in the dust. Reed didn't lower his eyes. He had long since stopped trying to prove his worth to any kreyghar, here or across the sea.

  The village was a drab, miserable place, still choked by the stench of rotting fish. Guts and severed heads lay strewn across the dusty path, dragged there by feral cats. Reed decided that as soon as the fish offal vanished from beneath his boots, he would officially be clear of Bolas. The port's harvest was distributed throughout Bradenmain, but only in salted, dried, or smoked forms. The smoked catch was a delicacy for the rich. The peasants choked down the salted variety. The salt hid the decay, and if the meat had turned, no one cared enough to notice.

  He wiped his face again, smearing more dust into his skin. He didn't remember the road to the capital, nor where the city limits ended, so he navigated by the cardinal directions. Shifting the bag on his shoulder, he marched on, his heavy boots kicking up plumes of dust from the parched, stinking road.

  ***

  Reed's return to Bradenmain was troubled from the start. In all his years across the ocean, he had forgotten just how deeply the kreyghars hated his kind. Especially those "lucky" enough to have broken their chains. The sideways glances and the spit hitting the dust along the road from Bolas should have been his warning. He should have cut through the deep woods and bypassed the towns entirely, but Reed had been counting on a stroke of luck he'd already exhausted.

  In Emeron, to be an elf was to be loathed. The roots of this animosity were buried in the dust-choked annals of history, with only the most "politically convenient" facts allowed to reach the public ear. Reed himself didn't fully understand the depth of the hatred. His knowledge of his own people began and ended with Belden, the place he had fled thirty years ago. He knew of other elven tribes, of course. Some were too dangerous to live alongside. Others were too proud to ever seek contact. The "Cursed" elves of Belden were caught in the middle, forced to inherit the kreyghars' wrath for the danger of the former and the arrogance of the latter.

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  The "dangerous" ones had once lived in Blood Waters. Long ago, the land was named Aras A'Belle, though the world had conspired to forget that name. The elves there lost their identity along with their essence, remaining in the kreyghars' memory only as the most lethal creatures on the continent.

  They had stood alone when the Empire first struck Bradenmain and Aras A'Belle. For three agonizing years, the Arasian elves held the line. The war would simmer, then flare with renewed savagery, spreading from the west until the whole country was ablaze. The elves begged King Tayden for aid, but the King refused them, blinded by his own ambitions and the Empire's false guarantees of peace. Even the giants of Brazanas, who roared for war, were silenced by the laws of the Union of Four, forbidden from entering the fray without the consent of their allies in Parey, Saisen, and Forfield.

  Aras A'Belle fell. Bradenmain was swallowed by the Empire, which immediately began whetting its blades for an invasion of Belden. During their desperate retreat into the Sickened Ridge, the jagged spine that splits Emeron in two, the surviving elves found something ancient. Something more demon than god. Vesifer. The entity promised them life, power, and the dark authority to reclaim their lands by crushing the Empire into the dirt.

  Meanwhile, Tayden's peace proved to be a lie. By the time the King realized he had been betrayed, southern Parey was already burning. He finally marched, recapturing his lands and pushing the Empire back toward the ruins of Aras A'Belle. In his desperation, he sent ships to Belden, seeking reinforcements from the "Cursed" elves. The Belden elves answered, sailing for Bradenmain while leaving a fraction of their strength to hold the northern borders.

  For a moment, it seemed Tayden might actually win. His armies broke the Imperial fleet and secured the coast. It was his final victory.

  Fate is mischievous, and luck is a traitor. News of the war reached the Sickened Ridge, where the Arasian elves, those Tayden had abandoned to the slaughter, were waiting. Armed with forbidden, long-forgotten knowledge, they descended to join Tayden's front.

  Their arrival forced open the "Bloody Gates," the strategic pass the Empire was desperate to reclaim. Tayden, ever the politician, welcomed the Arasians and even promised to restore their kingdom. He was too late. On the fifth night of the Month of Moons, the Arasian elves unleashed the gift Vesifer had given them.

  Remembering the King's betrayal, they shattered Tayden's defenses from within. Those who survived that night spoke of a nightmare. The elves raised the fallen, forcing dead comrades to march against the living. The ranks of the dead grew with every minute, and you cannot kill what has already been claimed by the grave.

  When Tayden's army was nothing but ash and bone, and the gates to Bradenmain stood undefended, the Arasians vanished. At dawn, the enchantment broke, the corpses fell still, and the elves' power was spent. King Tayden was found dead. His advisor would later swear that the King hadn't been killed by men, but devoured by demons.

  The elves retreated into the mountains, taking with them those willing to dedicate their lives to the service of Vesifer. Those who refused were left in Aras A'Belle to be ravaged by the Empire. The settlements of Bradenmain that lay in the elves' path were devastated. No one survived to tell what happened to them, but as the King's army restored order, rumors spread throughout Emeron that the victims had all been bled dry, without a single wound on their bodies. These rumors stirred all of Emeron. Aras A'Belle lost its name, becoming the Blood Waters, and its inhabitants were named accordingly. That same year, the Church issued a decree to control all who possessed magic and opened a hunt for the Arasian elves.

  Some believed that the Blood Elves had perished, offering their lives as payment to Vesifer for power, while others were certain they still lived in the mountains. Be that as it may, no one traveled through the Sickened Ridge.

  The war expanded, Tayden's army was crippled, and soon Parey was captured. The new king, Tayden's son, was neither skilled nor willing to fight. The King's Council was tired of the war, and so were the soldiers. Therefore, they struck a deal. The Striaemon Empire acquired the Blood Waters and Belden as colonies, along with all the inhabitants who remained there. Imprisonment in Bradenmain, Forfield, and Parey was abolished, and all criminals were redirected to forced labor in the Empire, with a portion of their slave wages going to the rulers.

  The Union of Four, which King Tayden had ruled, dissolved, but all countries except Brazanas agreed with the new king's decision. Saisen, Parey, and Brazanas became independent. Saisen established senatorial rule, Brazanas a chieftainship, and Parey elected a new king. Bradenmain fragmented into islands. Dalgaard, Kristol, and Abrey. The power was transferred to a Council consisting of representatives of the dominant families. Tayden's son, Arden, took his place in Forfield. Saisen, Parey, and Bradenmain lost the right to maintain armies, with Forfield becoming the guarantor of their security. Even if the Emperor did not gain everything he wanted, only the Empire truly won this war.

  War, the betrayal that spawned monsters, and elves who could raise the dead. The first two weakened humans, making them vulnerable, while the latter fostered fear. And as is known, the eternal companion of fear is hatred. Elves were feared and hated throughout Emeron, and many people were even glad that Belden and the Blood Waters had become colonies for slave traders. It provided assurance that they would not find another way to use their magic to harm humans. Thus, no one interfered with the Empire's capture of Belden. Not all elves possessed magic, but for centuries, it had remained their distinction and a source of pride. A rather unique one, it must be said.

  The second reason for the hatred of elves was specifically Belden. These were the elves whom those in Avarel dubbed the 'Cursed' long before the war with the Striaemon Empire. It is known that magic was the prerogative of elves, but when mages began to appear among humans, it was first seen as a gift from the gods, and later as a curse. The elves of Belden were not at all like the Arasian or High Elves. They had more human features, their ears were smaller, and their lifespan was shorter. This was their payment for miscegenation with the kreyghars. It was for this that they earned the contempt of their own race and the hatred of humans. They betrayed the former by sharing their blood and the gift of magic, and they 'enslaved' the latter with that very gift. After the Arasian elves demonstrated the full power of forbidden magic, people began to fear sorcery and hated those who had given it to them, the Belden elves, the Cursed.

  Among the Southern Elves living in Avarel, legends circulate that Belden was cursed by the Great Mother because its people gave humans something they did not deserve. Humans used magic for their own ends, but never for the benefit of the world or the Great Mother. This was the main reason why Avarel did not fight for Belden. They simply ceased to consider the Beldenites their own people. Their blood was tainted by the kreyghars, and even centuries later, their children would bear the stigma of the Cursed. So why save the Cursed?

  Avarel remained the great anomaly. It was the only state never to taste defeat (nor victory, for that matter). For centuries, the Rattlesnake River had served as its shield, a churning, icy torrent that defied every attempt to bridge or cross it. Some whispered of high elven sorcery woven into the water. Others believed the river was too savage for men to tame. To the north, the river held the world at bay. To the south, the Isle of Sirens kept its silent watch.

  Reed was born into the dirt of the Belden colony five years after the war ended. He didn't want to speak of it, yet he couldn't hide it. His face was a map of his origins, no matter how much he wished to burn the trail. He could change his name and flee into the furthest reaches of the world, but he could never outrun the past. Now, fifty years after his homeland had been forged into a stronghold of slavery, he wanted no part of it. He refused to acknowledge the blood in his veins or the land that had birthed him. Most of all, he refused to speak of the fifteen years he had spent in chains before finally escaping Emeron.

  He was no longer surprised to be treated as a creature of the lowest order, but that didn't stop him from hating the kreyghars in return. It was they who had bled his people dry before selling the survivors to other kreyghars. One could argue he had been sold long before his first breath, a debt with no expiration date. They had forced him to renounce his homeland by turning it into a living hell. They had stolen his home and his identity before he was old enough to know what they were.

  Reed often wondered what kind of man he might have been had he not been born a slave, but he could never conjure a coherent answer. His current self was a jagged thing, a persona forged by the hammers of fate. It was a necessity, not a choice. He believed it was better to have no home and no people at all than to belong to the nightmare Belden had become. Only a true slave would cherish his chains like a lover's bouquet. Reed refused to be a slave, even if, factually, he had once been one.

  He was deemed unworthy of the comforts of kreyghar life, such as warm rooms, decent food, and a saddle beneath him, but he wasn't asking for them. He didn't bother trying to prove his worth, simply because he considered the kreyghars unworthy of the effort. He lived on the streets, reconciled to a life of homelessness. He didn't complain, though the damp chill after a night of rain still had a way of tormenting his bones.

  On the fourth day of his journey, Reed stopped in a small town within Dalgaard. He had yet to realize just how much the kreyghars of western Bradenmain loathed his kind. The "island" of Dalgaard had been scorched the worst by the Blood Elves. Their path to the Sickened Ridge had been carved right through these lands. The settlements here had been the ones devastated and bled dry.

  There were still grey-beards in Dalgaard who remembered the horror of the Blood Elves. When a "Cursed" elf from Belden appeared, he was rarely tolerated for long. Such travelers either hurried to leave or remained to rot in the gutters of the slums. In Dalgaard, this was not just common, it was the norm.

  It was a warm spring morning, promising a heatwave atypical for the Month of First Herbs. Usually, spring in Bradenmain began with bone-chilling frosts and stingy sunbeams struggling through a leaden sky, but this time, nature had decided otherwise.

  By the time Reed reached Velfor, his luck had run dry. After three nights on the sodden earth, his bones were a chorus of aches. He would have collapsed onto a bed of rot-stink straw if it meant a roof over his head. The coins he'd earned on the Cassandra were bleeding away at an alarming rate. Merchants either refused to sell to him or charged double, leaving him to choke down foul, overpriced scraps.

  Once, he had paid five silver pieces, enough for a feast at a proper tavern, for a loaf of moldy bread and a handful of stinking fish. Had he been anything but an elf, he'd have been welcomed at an inn. Instead, he was forced to spend his fortune on things too wretched to sell but too precious to throw away. Reed didn't argue. He merely grimaced, staring at the gray fur on the bread and wondering how to keep his stomach from heaving.

  The crowded market filled him with a familiar, crawling anxiety. The hatred in Dalgaard bordered on physical disgust. It settled on his skin like a film of oil that no rain could scour away. Returning was pointless, but the further he ventured into the province, the more the danger prickled at his neck. He knew nothing of the Blood Elves or the ancient war, yet the depth of the local venom didn't surprise him. Every poisonous phrase and curled lip reminded him of the slave traders in Belden. The only difference was the absence of chains, yet the sensation of being hunted was identical.

  Velfor was meant to be his final stop in Dalgaard, a town of necessity. He planned to restock in Kristol and vanish, but trouble was already waiting.

  The market reeked of damp, putrefaction, and stale grain. Pushing through the throng, Reed absorbed a dozen hostile glares and twice as many shoves. He didn't respond. Pride was a luxury that wouldn't save him from a mob, and besides, he didn't feel the kreyghars were worthy of a reaction. Or perhaps he was too tired to care.

  He stopped at a stall piled with dried meat. The vendor was a typical creature of Dalgaard's gutters. With greasy hair escaping a stained cap, a face swollen with grime, and teeth as rotten as her wares, she was a sight to behold. The stench of her unwashed body was a testament to a life spent in the dirt. She was likely far younger than she looked, but Reed didn't care about her tragedy. He looked straight into her brazen face and pointed to a crate of dried poultry.

  "How much?"

  The woman let out a jagged laugh, then spat at his boots. Reed's lips thinned into a hard line, but he held his ground.

  "Get lost, mongrel. I don't sell to your kind."

  "I'm not asking for charity," Reed said, his voice level.

  "Are you deaf, long-ear?" a voice rang out from his side. A scrawny kreyghar shoved him, forcing Reed back several steps.

  "Take your hands off me," Reed hissed, turning a glare full of pent-up fury on the man.

  He had only been back in Bradenmain for four days, and the country was already sitting heavy in his gut. The anger, the resentment, the sheer exhaustion. It all coiled inside him like a rusted splinter, seeking a way out. Reed clenched his fists, praying to the Great Mother for the restraint he felt slipping away.

  "Or what?" the kreyghar chuckled, shoving Reed again. "I said there's nothing here for bastards like you."

  "To Haderat with you," Reed spat, backing away. The gray, overpriced meat wasn't worth the blood he'd have to spill to get it. He turned to leave, but a sudden blow to his back sent him stumbling. The air rushed out of his lungs as he hit the ground face-first. Mud splattered his eyes, and his clothes soaked through in seconds.

  Laughter erupted above him. Someone spat. Then, a piece of rotten fruit burst against his spine with a wet thud. The foul juice ran down his neck, and that was it. Reed could stomach the hatred. He could live with the contempt. But he refused to endure the humiliation.

  Reed spun around, his fist slamming into the kreyghar's cheekbone with a sickening crunch. A sharp pain shot through his knuckles, but he didn't stop. He drove his attacker's face into the mud, the white-hot rage burning away every rational thought. The vendor screamed as Reed hauled the man's limp body up and slammed it onto the counter. Snatching a jagged piece of the broken crate, he struck the bloody face again.

  Hands grabbed him from behind, a grip tightening around his throat. Reed roared like a cornered beast. He drove his elbow back with everything he had. Someone gasped, the wind knocked out of them, and the grip slackened.

  The woman behind the counter continued to shriek, her voice a siren for the mob. Reed fought off the closing circle of kreyghars with anything he could reach. As he raised his fist to strike an obese face, a staff cracked against his spine, followed by the dull thud of a stone hitting his shoulder. Reed spun, striking out wildly, and only realized he had hit a woman when he saw her crumpled on the ground.

  The crowd turned rabid. Reed finally unsheathed his blade. Grabbing the nearest bleeding kreyghar, he pressed the cold steel to the man's throat and hissed, "Back off, you dogs."

  He was breathing in ragged gulps, his back and palms aching. His captive choked, spitting blood from broken lips onto his own chest.

  The townspeople were bracing for another rush when a whistle and the rhythmic pounding of hooves cut through the chaos. Some froze. Others kept advancing until the first strike of a whip drove them back. The guards had arrived, dealing out lashes with practiced indifference.

  "Out of the way!" a rider thundered. "Disperse!"

  "That long-eared mongrel!" groaned one of the men Reed had floored, clutching his face. "He attacked us!"

  The guards pulled up a few paces away, their visors hiding both their faces and their intent.

  "He tried to rob me, m'lord!" the vendor wailed, gesturing to her demolished stall.

  Reed felt the heavy gaze of the lead guard fall upon him. He didn't bother justifying himself. He knew the drill. Even if he spoke the truth, he'd be flogged, or worse.

  As expected, the first lash was sturdy enough to send him sprawling. As the blows rained down, Reed didn't cry out. He didn't beg. He had learned to swallow his pain and stifle his pleas a lifetime ago. It was a habit he couldn't break, even if he wanted to.

  Finally, the lead guard raised a gloved hand. He dismounted, grabbed Reed by the collar, and jerked him upright. Reed's legs felt like jelly, but the gauntleted hand held him fast. Their eyes met, and the kreyghar sneered, "Will you come willingly, or shall I assist you?" He practically spat the last word into Reed's face.

  In response, Reed merely smiled, baring his bloodied teeth. "I'll come."