Rejar sat within his tent, two slave women positioned like furniture off to his right. They were clad in skimpy silk robes, designed specifically to show off their assets. Rejar was ogling them with a heavy, tired gaze when two officers and a captain walked in. The captain was Laema—his broken nose a dark, swollen bruise on his face—accompanied by two standard rank-and-file Wanderers, recently promoted and clearly nervous.

  “What is it…” Rejar growled. There was no real bite in it; he was more exhausted than anything. The two-day ride back to camp had been a long, dusty stretch, and he’d wanted nothing more than the distraction of his prizes.

  “Well, sir, you wanted a report on our new acquisition…” the younger man began, his voice wavering. He wore standard traveling clothes with only hide bracers and bronze greaves. The other two were better armored, marked for patrol or wagon duty—a nice way of saying they were the ones stuck watching the cages.

  “Ah, right. Tell me, how is this paleskin? You put him in with the Makahla, yes?” Rejar stood, towering over the younger man. Laema, however, was taller than all of them. He was the one who replied.

  “Sir, the paleskin is fine. Why should we care about him?” Laema sneered, his lip curling instinctively at the thought of the boy who had shattered his nose. Rejar’s jaw tightened, and he audibly ground his teeth.

  “Because he is a tool, you fool. He could make us a fortune in the fight pits, or we could sell him to some freak noble who likes exotic pets.” Rejar stepped into Laema's space, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You have no right to be so arrogant with a broken nose.” Rejar smirked at the insult.

  The enslaved women remained silent, standing like statues. They didn't need to speak; their scars and the heavy iron collars around their necks told their story for them. Rejar was a sadistic man, and he didn't care who knew it. He took a visible pleasure in making Laema feel small, especially since nepotism was the only reason the man held his rank.

  “Now answer my other question. You, Lakar.” Rejar looked away, dismissing Laema entirely.

  Lakar straightened, trying not to become the next target. “Yes, sir. He is with the four-armed creatures. We made sure the cages had magic warding.” He hesitated, then remembered. “Oh, and he was seen reading that grimoire. Every attempt to take it results in a shock—even when we use the dominate collar on him.”

  Rejar’s eyes narrowed. “Soul-bonded. Enchanted to his very essence, likely…” He trailed off, his mind spinning through the possibilities of such an artifact. Laema glared daggers at Rejar’s back, his hand twitching near his belt.

  “Well, keep a tight watch on him. It’s another four-day ride to Galadrosa. Once we arrive, my friend in the pits will take the paleskin, and the clan will finally see some real earnings.” Rejar turned back, his tone level now, calculating.

  “Understood, sir.” Lakar bowed his head and retreated through the tent flap. The other young officer followed, but Laema lingered.

  Rejar ignored him until Laema took a step forward. Then, Rejar snarled, “What is it, Laema? If I hear a single word of disagreement, I will cut your tongue out.”

  Laema shivered, the threat clearly landing, but his pride pushed him forward. “I don't disagree. I just want to know why you care for this foreign parasite.”

  “I do not care for him,” Rejar sighed, clearly bored of the conversation. “You are simply too stupid to see the quality of the product. If he fails as a fighter, there are many who would pay for his flesh. In a bed, or a brothel.”

  Laema’s face contorted in disgust. “How dare you risk our blood with such filth.”

  The smack was resounding. Rejar’s hand caught Laema across the face, sending him sprawling to the dirt floor. Rejar looked down at him, sneering. “How dare I? You damn fool.” He slammed his heel down onto Laema’s left hand, grinding the bones into the earth. Laema let out a strangled grunt of agony.

  “I wish I could kill you, but your father would have my head. But,” Rejar leaned down, his voice a low, terrifying whisper in Laema’s ear, “if you dare harm one of my prizes, no one will object to your execution by the right of Olounmum law. Do you understand?”

  Laema only nodded, his face pale with pain and rage. He left the tent without a word. Rejar didn't even watch him go. He turned back to the slave women, his hands reaching for their silk robes. The only sounds left in the tent were the soft, terrified whimpers of the girls and Rejar's heavy breathing.

  Lisa had been there the entire time, a silent, invisible shadow. She hovered back toward the cages, her range limited to a mile and a half from the grimoire. It was enough to spy, but the camp itself was a monster, sprawling over ten miles with thousands of nomads.

  Back in the cage, Cedric was gnawing on a strip of salted meat that felt like shoe leather. The diet was monotonous: Mukka fruit, dry bread, and jerky. But the food wasn't what was eating him. It was the hole in his chest where his creatures used to be. He had built a bond with them, and seeing them torn apart because of his own arrogance felt like having his heart ripped out.

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  He chewed aggressively, his anxiety spiking as he replayed the fight. He had been too cocky. He’d relied solely on Dragon Scales, thinking these people were primitive. He’d ignored Lisa’s warnings and got swatted down like a fly.

  His cage mates, the Makahla, watched him with predatory curiosity. The three women were striking—blackish-blue skin, platinum hair, and four powerful arms. When he’d first arrived, they had hissed, flashing forked tongues and sharp teeth. Now, they mostly just stared.

  Cedric looked down at his shackled feet. The cage smelled of dust, old hay, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies.

  “You are not a burden, Master,” Lisa’s voice rang in his head as she phased through the bars. “You simply underestimated them. We are lucky you’re still breathing.”

  Cedric didn't move, trying to hide his relief. “So what now?” he asked mentally, stretching as if he were just tired.

  “It sounds bad, but it could be worse,” Lisa replied. “If we make it to the city, they plan to use you as a pit fighter or sell you.”

  Cedric slumped. He was livestock. “Escape?”

  Lisa’s mental image was a firm shake of the head. There were forty guards near the cages alone. The magic-dampening runes carved into the bars hummed with a low, mocking vibration that made his skin crawl. The shackles on his wrists were designed to suppress him personally, though the grimoire was slowly eating away at their effect.

  A hiss cut through the air. One of the Makahla was snarling at a guard who was pulling her hair through the bars. Cedric watched, his anger simmering. He wanted to cave their faces in, but he knew he had to be smarter. He curled up in the hay, wondering if he would ever feel clean again.

  Cedric awoke to the heavy thrum of the cage door opening. He stayed perfectly still, slowing his breath as someone stepped inside. The air in the cage changed—it grew thick with the smell of stale ale and malice.

  He felt eyes boring into him.

  “Stand,” a voice commanded. Cedric didn't move. It was his first mistake.

  “I said stand.” A rough hand gripped Cedric’s shoulder, hauling him up. He opened his eyes to see the captain with the broken nose—Laema.

  “Paleskin filth,” Laema spat, the glob of saliva warm on Cedric’s cheek. He held a knife, the blade ghosting over Cedric’s clothes. He poked at the fabric of Cedric’s pants, his eyes roaming with a terrifying, drunken curiosity.

  “Remove them,” Laema ordered, his voice low and jagged. He held the tip of the knife just inches from Cedric’s crotch.

  Cedric’s heart hammered against his ribs. He moved at a snail’s pace, his hands trembling with a mixture of fear and white-hot rage.

  “Hurry!” Laema barked. The man’s breath was a cloud of alcohol. As soon as the fabric dropped, Cedric lunged.

  He didn't use his hands. He buried his teeth into Laema’s collarbone.

  There was a sickening crunch of cartilage, and then a hot, metallic spray of blood hit Cedric’s face. Laema let out a scream that could pierce the heavens. In the scramble, Laema’s knife lashed out, carving a ragged, burning furrow across Cedric’s ribs.

  Cedric recoiled, grunting as the fire spread through his side, but Laema was already on him. He slammed Cedric into the hay, pinning him. The knife was at Cedric’s throat now, drawing a thin line of red.

  “You’re immune to the collar,” Laema hissed, blood leaking from his neck and dripping onto Cedric’s chest. “A lucky find. I’m going to make you weep for that bite, but first, I’m going to see if you bleed the same as our women.”

  The sound of fabric rustling made Cedric’s blood go cold. He looked to the Makahla for aid, but they only turned away, their four arms wrapped around themselves in a silent, hollow prayer.

  Cedric growled, a deep, animalistic sound. He wasn't a victim. He was a creator of monsters.

  As Laema moved to flip him, Cedric’s head snapped back. He found Laema’s wrist and bit down with everything he had. He hit bone, grinding his teeth into the joint until the knife clattered to the floor.

  Laema wailed, but Cedric was already moving. He heaved the man off, standing tall in the moonlight—nude, blood-streaked, and predatory.

  “I’m no dog,” Cedric whispered, his blonde hair veiling his eyes. “But you certainly are.”

  He barreled forward, his shoulder slamming into Laema’s chest and pinning him against the iron bars. The metal rang out like a funeral bell. Cedric didn't stop. He rained punches into the man’s face—one, three, six—until the nomad’s features were a mask of broken pulp.

  Laema began to blubber, whispering for "mercy," but Cedric was past hearing it. Guards were shouting in the distance, torches flickering toward the cage. He had no time.

  “Damn rapist,” Cedric hissed. He grabbed the heavy iron chains of his shackles and looped them around Laema’s throat. He stepped behind the man, bracing his back against Laema’s and pulling with every ounce of his strength.

  Laema thrashed, his fingers clawing at the cold iron as his windpipe collapsed with a wet, gurgling pop. Cedric felt the man’s life flickering out against his back and only pulled harder. How many others? he thought. How many others couldn't say no to you?

  “A shame you didn't know,” Cedric growled as the body finally went limp. “You can’t ever break a Northerner.”

  He unwrapped the chains and let the body flop onto the hay. The piece of shit was dead. The Makahla women stared, their eyes wide with a shock that bordered on reverence.

  The guards rounded the corner a second later, dragging Cedric out and throwing him into the dirt. They were raising their boots to beat him when Rejar’s voice cut through the air.

  “Hold your hands!” Rejar strode forward, his night-robes loose. He looked at the corpse, then at Cedric’s blood-streaked body and the deep gouge in his ribs. He sucked air through his teeth.

  “Speak, slave,” Rejar ordered.

  Cedric looked him in the eye, his voice blunt. “He tried to rape me. I killed him. He was drunk and useless.”

  Rejar surveyed the mangled throat of his captain. He turned to his men. “Take the body. Leave it for the scavengers. Laema disobeyed my orders to keep the product pristine.” He looked back at Cedric. “Get him clothed. And take him to the healer. Now!”

  Cedric was led through the camp, the smells of woodsmoke and the sounds of the nomads' nocturnal activities filling the air. They stopped at a tent marked with a green cross.

  Inside, a woman in her late forties stepped from behind a curtain. Lady Ormari had the sharp, tired eyes of a veteran. She looked at his naked, bloodied form and the jagged wound on his ribs.

  “What is it now?” she muttered. “I can’t be expected to heal every little cut you nomads get. Get on the bed, boy. And someone find him some clothes—how troublesome.”

  She grabbed a green cloth soaking in a pungent liquid. “Now, get on the bed.” Her tone was firm and unyielding. It reminded him, painfully, of his mother.