Niklas opened his eyes, finally waking from his fitful and feverish turmoil. He groaned and rolled over. The unfamiliar stiff shirt he wore was slick with cold sweat. His head pounded, his knee was inflamed, his back ached, and this faceless brand itched uncomfortably.

He was in Relgar, and he was faceless—two things he never thought would apply to him at the same time. He had to be careful. The clan's existence in Pit Forest was a secret the clan worked hard to protect. He had told the strange unit of Sharderins that Pit was full of demons, a lie the clan worked hard to promote. If he revealed the clan's existence and rumors spread, a reaper like Edgar could find him and silence him and anyone who knew the truth. If he kept his mouth shut, clan intelligence would unlikely even care about a faceless in Relgar.

Niklas grunted as he scanned the dark room, looking for any sign of the mother who was clearly in charge of the strange detachment that saved him.

He didn’t see her. There was a light under the door. Niklas heard muted voices from the other side, though he couldn’t distinguish the words. Among the voices, he couldn’t hear the mother's voice. Mother Lill. Her’s was an unmistakably loud and commanding voice.

He waited for a minute, getting dangerously close to falling asleep again. He shook the weariness from his head, causing a wave of dull pain to rebound between his temples.

He didn’t have time to sleep. He was in Relgar. The home of the pink skins. The mother killers.

He sat up, and a few stripes on his back stung as they strained their scabs. He saw his reaper's blade on the ground beside him, and he grabbed it.

How long had he been asleep? Niklas looked out the window. It was dark outside. The room he was in was small. It housed a few wooden boxes and sacks of what he would have guessed were provisions. There was hardly room to move as he silently tried to get off the painfully squeaky cot.

Niklas froze and listened. The muttering in the main room continued, and he relaxed a little.

He stood in the closet of a room and looked out the small glass window.

He saw hundreds of large shapes in the darkness.

Cows. Niklas realized after a moment. He took a moment to gawk. They didn’t have cows in Pit Forest. Niklas had grown up on a diet of goat and turkey meat. Of course, he had heard of cows. Even Edgar remembered them. The cows were herded together in a large corral built into the back of the compound that housed him.

Niklas tore himself from the window. He could try and sneak out.

He shook his head. The beasts out back easily outweighed him by a thousand and a half pounds, and he had no idea how aggressive the beasts were.

He turned to the door. The floorboards squeaked, and he winced. He saw a hole in the door where a rotted knot in the wood let in light, and he peeked through.

The old man was speaking to the tall and gangly one. The old man, Frode was his name, was rocking in a chair with a smoking pipe sticking out from his lips. The other one, Ivar, if Niklas Recalled correctly, sat on a chair that was missing several rods from the back. They both had their hair cut short, and Ivar was clearly attempting to grow a beard.

Niklas could also see the two boys playing a game with chalk on the floor under the table.

The Mother, Lill, was no longer present.

Niklas pushed the door open, and the room fell silent. All eyes turned to him.

“Um. Hello,” Niklas said. He spoke in Relric. He hadn’t needed to use the dialect since he learned it in linguistics training. All Sharderin boys learned Relric. The Elders understood that being able to speak to the conquered was necessary for invasion.

“Pit, man, you can keep the shirt,” Ivar said, his face wrinkling in disgust.

Niklas only realized that sweat droplets accumulated by his fever were dripping off his shirt and pattering onto the floor.

Niklas looked around in case he had missed the mother by some chance. She wasn’t there.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“This is one of Paramount Alred’s Cattle compounds. Do you like it?” Ivar swept his hands to either side as if presenting the newest strike bike model.

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The main room, already small, was cluttered. There were barrels, bags, and boxes clustered together, as well as broken stools and chairs. Pots hung from the ceiling, forcing Niklas to duck his head as he entered the room. A metal washtub filled with dishes sat on the floor, but no spout. Something else was off about the room.

Niklas narrowed his eyes. The room was wood but also lit by candles and lanterns.

“Where's the light plate?” Niklas asked, looking for the medal tab that should have been on the wall.

“Pardon?” Frode asked as he leaned forward.

“You have open flames here. This place is a wood structure. That’s dangerous. Is your power out?” Niklas said. He held his reaper's blade behind his back. He knew close to nothing about these people. If they wanted to kill him, they could have, and he wasn’t confident he could fight them even in his current state. But they were Sharderins. Or they looked like them anyway.

“Power?” Frode asked. “I don’t get you. What do you mean by power?”

Niklas looked at Frode in surprise. Frode sounded genuinely ignorant. So they didn’t have power here.

Niklas didn’t grace Frode with an answer. “Where’s the Mother?” he asked instead, looking to a window by the door.

“Are you asking for Lill?” Ivar asked. “She’s out with Tord. Should be back any moment now.”

“What was it you called her just now?” Frode asked. “The Mother?”

“I knew it! He’s mad,” a young boy snickered from under the table.

Niklas looked down at the boy in surprise. He was young. He should know better than to speak to a merited soldier that way.

“I’d watch your tone, boy,” Niklas growled. “You’re speaking to a third mark, Drone.”

The boy's eyes widened, not at the words but edge in Niklas’ voice. He shrunk under the shadow of the table ever so slightly.

“So this…cattle compound,” Niklas said, “is it some sort of supply depot?” He scanned it. “It’s messy and poorly taken care of. It’s a wonder your detachment leader doesn’t discipline you.”

“This is our home,” Frode said, sounding slightly offended.

“Well, be advised. If I were your superior, I would have you on sanitation detail for a year if I saw your barracks in this condition.”

“Wow,” Ivar marveled. “You’re kind of an ass.”

Niklas shrugged off the comment. “I wouldn’t report you or anything; I’m just saying I wouldn’t get caught dead with my station looking this far out of regs.”

Niklas didn’t like lazy Drones. They complained loudly, dragged down their detachment’s scores, and shamed the Sharderin name. There was no valor in disorder. The whole room could be reorganized, and half of the stuff should have been thrown out.

“When do you go to training?” Niklas asked Ivar. “What’s your mark?”

“Mark?” Ivar asked. “What are you saying? Speak sense.”

Niklas sighed. Were these people totally stupid? “What’s your rank?”

“Debtbonded?” Ivar said, pulling down his collar to reveal an age-old brand.

Niklas looked at the brand and softened a little.

“Slaves are noncombative then? I can only imagine the abuse they put on you. Forcing you to live in a dirty supply depot like this.”

“Once again, you’re talking about our home. Kind of a scum move to keep slamming it like that.”

Niklas stopped. It seemed that these men struggled to understand him, and he sure as pit was having difficulty understanding their situation.

“I apologize,” he said, only partially meaning it. He kept his reaper’s knife out of sight but remained vigilant for the first signs of treachery. “I’m...lost and confused.”

“Clearly.”

“I need to get out of here.”

Niklas limped to the window by the door. His head spun as he moved, making him walk like a drunk man. He relaxed his grip on the blade concealed against his out-turned side but kept it ready.

He moved the curtain away from the window. The compound was built in a square. Over twelve apartments faced an enclosed courtyard. A large metal gate was on the far side.

A large fire blazed in the courtyard. Niklas saw over twenty people sitting around the fire in the flickering light. Several were pink-skinned, dark-haired Relrin men, and many had pistols on their belts. Niklas noted them. He visually counted at least eight.

Visibility was poor in the firelight, but some of the people were shaped differently and wore strange clothing that functioned more like robes than the shirts and trousers the others wore. Relrin Mothers. Some of them cleared dishes from what seemed to be a communal meal in the courtyard. Others held children, and one ran a pipe to a man.

Niklas looked away, feeling dirty for seeing the Mothers.

“There are Relrin Mothers outside,” Niklas said.

“As you said the last time you looked,” Frode said.

“Why are their holy ones here? This is a cow compound, not a sanctuary. Some of them were working. Where are there caretakers?”

“I didn’t understand half the things you just said.”

Niklas bit his tongue. Getting simple answers was painfully difficult. He was finally starting to understand that Relgar was more than the home of his enemy. It was a new world, and he was a stranger. He was revealing more than he was learning with his questions. If he wanted to understand, it might be a better tactic to keep his mouth shut and his ears and eyes opened.

“My last question,” Niklas said. “There were armed men out there. Are they Relrin soldiers?”

Ivar shook his head. “Those guys are just herdsmen. So are we, technically. They carry guns for wolves and bandits. Prime Paramount Alred has charged us with the care of this herd of his cattle. We can’t have guns, though. It’s better that way; there’s less expected of us, you see.”

Niklas nodded and tightened his grip on his knife. What was he going to do? He had to get home and find a way to get his scar removed. Ivar had said something about an Esthetic Operator.

Niklas opened his mouth to ask about the Esthetic operator, and the door opened.

Niklas jumped and set himself into a fighting stance, facing the newcomer. He had been so distracted he didn’t notice their approach through the window.

He found himself looking at a startled Lill. The Mother.

Niklas gasped and fell away from her, throwing his hands up as if it would ward her off, inadvertently exposing his palmed reaper’s blade.

He looked away but instinctually glanced at the threat to see the rage in her eyes.

“Back. To. Bed. Now!”