An ominous red glare cast itself over the top of the stables, painting the wooden roof. Welsh stood outside, thinking about the sleeping slaves. In a few moments, they would be roused from slumber and mobilized for the expedition. He had gathered them in this same fashion dozens of times, but this time would be different—he would have to deal with Soralees.

  Welsh made it a point to treat the slaves decently. Unlike virtually every other Rotundran, he didn’t eat human flesh and had little reason to mistreat them. For others, even those who fed on beetles or rats, projecting power was everything. They would regularly beat slaves for any reason they could find, and more often than not, the reason was fabricated.

  He knew Soralees did not share his views. It was practically guaranteed that at least one human wouldn’t make it back. Instead, they would end up as Soralees’s dinner. Welsh disliked the idea of eating humans, but he understood it—it was simply the order of things. But the pointless torture and mutilation of perfectly good slaves for entertainment’s sake? That was what he found senseless.

  Lonnek stood at his side, barely reaching Welsh’s knee. His eyes were closed, and his tiny hands were clasped together in front of him.

  “Is he near?” Welsh asked, looking down at his small friend.

  Lonnek shook his head. “No. I can’t feel anything.”

  Welsh exhaled sharply. Of course, Soralees was late. As if this assignment wasn’t frustrating enough.

  While he waited, his thoughts drifted back to Lyssindra’s visit. Why would she need deadrot? A better question: why would she need one specific deadrot? Aren’t they all the same? The Orchard produced the most valuable timber, sure, but in no way—at least in Welsh’s opinion—was it worth the extra trouble and the threat of the Korvis.

  Just as he became lost in thought, Lonnek’s eyes shot open. He reached over, tapping Welsh on the knee. “He’s coming.”

  Welsh crossed his arms and looked toward Soralees’s quarters. It wasn’t long before he could make out the tiny elite’s frame emerging from the mist. Welsh glanced down at Lonnek, who seemed to shrink even smaller than usual, hiding behind his leg.

  Aside from his small size, Soralees had a distinctive gait that set him apart from the others in Camp Keldarn. With each step, his head dipped low to the side, almost as if he had a bad limp. He also almost always moved at the same slow, monotonous pace—a far cry from the speed he was actually capable of.

  Soralees was deceptively deadly.

  He had to be only a couple of steps away before Welsh and Lonnek could hear his soft whispers.

  “When I was sent to retrieve you, I wasn’t aware I would be going as well. What’s wrong, Welsh? Can’t handle a single deadrot by yourself?”

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  Welsh could feel his face burn. He knew Soralees would spin it as though he were the savior and that Welsh was the weak link. As usual, Welsh decided the argument was a waste of time.

  “Just gather your slaves and let’s get this over with. If we leave now, we should be able to make it back within a couple of days.”

  Soralees never smiled. He always wore that same obnoxious scowl, burned across his face. He leaned over, taking a look at Lonnek, who still cowered behind Welsh.

  “You’re taking the lesser with you? Ro’Noke won’t be happy when he hears you’ve stolen his favorite toy.”

  Welsh took a small step to the right, shielding Lonnek behind him. “Yes, Lonnek is coming along as well.”

  Soralees shook his head in disapproval. “Whatever,” he said curtly. “If nothing else, he’ll make a nice snack for the Korvis.”

  Stepping around them, Soralees made his way to the door of the barracks. He was eye level with the handle, reaching up and turning it with his small, webbed hand. Welsh looked down at Lonnek, nodded reassuringly, and followed.

  Inside, the slaves scrambled to their feet. The sounds of rustling hay and heavy breathing filled the room as nearly a dozen slaves attempted to make themselves presentable. Many had likely dealt with Soralees before and knew exactly what kind of day they were in for.

  For the most part, it only took the group a few seconds to stand at attention. A hush fell over the room as each slave waited for orders.

  It was hot inside the barracks, and the light that made its way through the cracks in the walls reflected off the domes of their bald heads. Each of them was shirtless, wearing only a thin pair of brown trousers. Their skin color and facial features were eerily similar—a deliberate breeding tactic meant to discourage individuality.

  Soralees paced methodically around the room, pausing in front of each slave before moving on. The slaves, utterly terrified of being chosen, avoided his gaze, staring at anything other than him.

  After having his fun, Soralees stopped in front of a random slave, pointed a sharp claw at him, and said, “You.”

  The slave quivered but showed no sign of resistance. Without hesitation, he turned to gather his tools—a small hatchet and a set of metal pegs used for climbing high into the branches of deadrot trees.

  Soralees repeated this process, choosing five more slaves before stopping at his final selection.

  The last slave stood with one knee slightly bent. His lips quivered, and dread was written across his face.

  He was injured.

  Soralees pointed at him. “You.”

  Defeated, the slave turned, clearly trying his best to hide his injury, and began gathering his things. He knew what was happening. Everyone did. An elite could get into trouble for eating an able-bodied slave, but an injured one? That was a perfect dinner.

  Soralees walked past Welsh, looking up at him briefly before creeping out the door.

  Welsh watched the injured slave. His jaw was tense, his face shaking with pain as he struggled to gather his tools. Welsh wondered what kind of injury it was—a fracture, a torn muscle, or worse. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that his right leg was badly damaged, and it was slowing him down.

  Welsh sighed, feeling sorry for the poor soul. But this was simply the order of things… wasn’t it? Humans were slaves—food and labor for the Rotundra. It’s just how things were.

  Lonnek still stood close, reluctant to leave the safety of Welsh’s side. As Welsh turned to leave, something caught his eye.

  One of the chosen slaves stood clutching his axe and pegs. Unlike the others, who avoided drawing attention to themselves, this one was watching his injured comrade intently.

  Welsh narrowed his eyes. That was odd. Slaves never spoke to one another. Most weren’t even capable, and to the best of his knowledge, the ones who could ignored each other.

  With a small nudge, Welsh gestured for Lonnek to move toward the door. The two of them walked out, leaving the remaining slaves in silence.

  Just as Welsh shut the door behind him, he caught one last glimpse of the strange slave, still gazing at his comrade’s injured leg.

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