The seven half naked witchkin men stood in a file, their hands tied by the same rope.

The twin suns shone in a cloudless sky above stretching fields. The slavemaker stood near the slaves, apprehensively glancing at the nobleman scrutinizing them, a permanent smile plastered on his wrinkled face.

Warlan strode before the witchkin, hands clasped behind his back, the buttons on his ornate shirt struggling to hold it together. He towered over them, frowning at each one. His yellow eyes moved critically over their frail, short bodies until he arrived at the last one.

The seventh man stood tall, taller than Warlan. A long, wild, brown beard clung to full, pale cheeks that rose over high cheekbones. He seemed remarkably healthy, rare for a witchkin, rarer for a slave. His deep- set, dark eyes bore into his as a smile crept up his face, disappearing quick as it appeared.

Warlan shot a look at the slavemaker. The man bowed deep and struck the slave behind the knees, buckling him onto the dirt. Warlan’s nod was kurt.

“For what stands before me, your price seems….excessive, Trudan.”

“I knew you would think so, master,” the slavemaker spoke in practiced tones. “ But I brought you something more. No charge”.

Trudan bent behind his wagon’s cage, pulling at a pale thin wrist. A young girl followed him down, half dragging her feet, clutching the rope that tied her hands together.

“A southerner. Almost ripe for the taking,” Trudan smiled in an almost toothless grin.

Warlan pretended to frown, straightening his shirt.

He signaled his slavekeeper, Farran, who ran over, nodding to his commands. The six witchkin were to be put to work immediately, and the girl was to be kept in the barracks. The seventh needed to be taught.

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Two men tried pulling the seventh man towards the manor to be kept in the dungeon. He smiled and let them. Farran screamed orders to the new slaves as he grabbed the girl, dragging her to the wooden barracks looming in the distance.

Rast watched with distaste.

The other slaves around him worked the field in silence, avoiding to even glance at the whimpering girl. Rast’s fist tightened till his knuckles turned white.

Farran’s shout rang across the field as the two suns sank behind distant mountains. Rast shuffled through the muck, each step harder than the last. 

A dirt- soaked hand fell on his shoulder.

“It is fate for witchkin to be beneath noblefolk, Rast,” the old man croaked. “ The sooner you understand, the quicker you’ll sleep at nights”.

Rast blinked, staring at the freckled old witchkin, his spine arched from a lifetime of bending. 

He gripped his thin wrist in a vice- like hold, tuned out his whimpers and hissed, “It’s traitorous bastards like you who did this to our kin.” He gripped harder. Farran was making his way to him now. He didn’t care.

“And I know what will help me sleep at nights, old man,” Rast felt a sharp pain behind his head, feeling his hand slipping as his vision darkened to black.

Rast woke to the clanging of chains. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Darkness.

“Boy? Aye!” a deep voice echoed in the darkness. “Boy! You awake yet?”

Rast grunted in response.

“Good. Hold your head straight. Looked like they hit you there. I won’t lie, I was glad they brought someone else in here, not that they haven’t been hospitable, mind you, but it was getting quite lonely.”

Rast struggled to breathe.

“So how long do you think they’ll keep us in here? Until morning I suppose, then they’d want their fields tended to, aye?”

Chains rattled as Rast tugged at his hands.

“Not much of a talker, huh?”

“Shut up,” Rast whispered.

The man fell silent. Rast felt him frown through the dark.

“It’s likely beyond suppertime by now, aye?” the man shuffled and stood, feeling the stone wall at his side.

“You tell me. I wasn’t the one awake.”

Rast was about to say something when a blaze of bright yellow light tore through the dark, blinding him. White spots danced in front of his eyes as his hands, heavy from the chains, came up to shield them. He squinted and finally saw where he was.

The dungeon under the manor.

Standing straight near a wall was the bearded slave from earlier, holding his right hand palm up, a bright yellow flame dancing on it. His beard seemed golden before the fire as he smiled at Rast.

“Y- You’re- You’re a-”

“The worst kind of witchkin,” the man’s smile cracked open into a grin. “A proper witch”.