Risla huddled in the dark, knees to her chest. The wagon rolled and rocked, threatening to sway her from side to side, even as she held tight to herself.

Chains jingled in the shrouded shadows about her. Sharp little shafts of light cut through the tiny gaps in the boards on one wall of the cabin, illuminating nothing except for bright drifts of filtering dust and occasionally shining into Risla's eyes.

In the far corner, somewhere she couldn't see, someone had started to cry. A boy. Someone young, like her. Trying to stifle his moans and sobs.

It should have been discouraging, but instead, Risla felt a renewed sense of resolution. This was why she was here. If all went as planned, her efforts here would be instrumental in putting a stop to the war, and freeing her people. For this, she would have to suffer, as so many of her brothers and sisters had suffered. But only for a time. As long as everything went according to plan.

She could do this. Of course she could. And she would keep telling herself until she believed it.

There had never been any real choice. And not just because of her orders. To sit back, safe in Ogridan, and watch these things continue to happen for generations on end, as so many Darovenians did—even now, the thought made her face hot with rage.

Of course, here she was, fraternizing with the enemy. Why had she waved to that boy?

Because he isn't just a boy. He's Wix himself. Worldbreaker. The Blind Death.

Well, he didn't know that. No one would. Not for a long time. And he certainly didn't know Risla.

Sometimes Risla forgot that not everyone could see the world the way she did. When Wix had looked over at the train station, he had just seen some girl. But to Risla—because of what she knew, what she'd experienced—Wix meant a great deal. Or at least, he would.

A path unseen. A future yet to unfold. And Risla longed for it. For herself, for Wix, and for the world.

The wagon came to a shuddering stop. The crying boy sniffed, and there was a chatter of chains as he moved to wipe his face. After that, for a long moment, all was quiet and still.

A latch at the back of the wagon clicked loud, and the door wagon swung wide, causing painfully bright sunlight to pour. A squat man with messy, gray tufts of receding hair peered in. He wore bib overalls, and held a coiled whip in his hand.

"Well," he said, gruffly. "What are you all waiting for? Let's get a move on, while there's daylight."

There was only silence in response to this. Even Risla was hesitant. While she knew many things that were to come, having so much knowledge made the blind spots all the scarier. It was a window into the way that other people percieved life, and the passage of time. And to them, leaving the wagon behind was a facet of that experience. To leave behind what you knew to face what you did not. Uncertainty.

"I said, get," the man said, uncoiling the long, scary-looking whip. "I know you all know Garloderan. You can understand me. And if you don't..."

That got them moving. Like a long, many-legged creature, they stood together, chains clanging and banging, and began to disembark.

Risla had half-expected to be handed mining tools and immediately set to work. But apparently this was some kind of stop on the way to that inevitable end.

Yanked along by chains attached to the other Darovenians around her, she tottered with bare feet on the graveled drive. Spread out before her were vast and well-maintained grounds, with stretches of lush green grass, bordered by a low stone wall.

In the middle of the property was a massive manor, which could have had dozens of rooms, by Risla's estimation. Directly next to this big house—possibly connected to it—was a similarly-sized industrial-looking building. Strange and eerie metallic and rumbling sounds could be heard from inside. Long smoke stacks issued from the top of it, spitting crystal fumes.

So this was one of the places where they did it. Where they took sacred crystals—microcosms of the mind of the god Risla worshipped—and turned them into cheap energy and money.

Without this ruthless Alveranderan enterprise, and without the strategic incursions into Daroven territory for crystal seizure, Risla's people would have been able to revive Varcovith a long time ago.

But there was no point in dwelling on the past, or what could have been. Nor did Risla have much of a taste for it. The future was her domain. The world of what could still be.

Neighboring the mansion itself was a large and elaborate garden, with many colorful flowers, and trees, and artistically trimmed bushes, intercut with crisscrossing stone walkways, so that every angle and minutia could be looked at and marveled upon.

What a beautiful mask for such a wicked enterprise.

Risla and the rest of the Darovenians were led past the garden and toward what appeared to be some kind of horse barn. It was bright green in color, with dark, almost black trim. Horses milled beyond it, on the other side of a white fence. Greyish-white smoke coiled out from a tall, iron chimney, which was the strangest part of it. Perhaps there was stove inside, where workers could prepare food without having to return from the field.

The man with a whip held up his hand, bringing them to a stop in front of the barn. Until that moment, Risla had been too distracted to notice the four men with rifles escorting them. The same men who had marched them off the train.

Seemed a bit excessive. How far were dozens of people chained together supposed to get? In Alveranderan country, no less. The idea of escape was preposterous.

Yet. Yet.

So what was the holdup, anyway? What were they waiting for?

Whatever it was, the squat, gruff man wanted them presentable for it. He lined the Darovenians up in two neat rows, had them all face the same direction, and walked down the front line, instructing slaves to adjust their stances so as to keep the row straight. And they listened.

People broke so easy. It truly was heartbreaking to see. No fight left in them at all. They were tired and hungry from the long trip. Some of them had been beaten multiple times. And enough time had passed for their predicament to truly solidify. Their hopes of escape during transit smashed. Their sense of inherent justice and good in the world shattered in front of them. What was, was not what should be. A discrepancy that would not be reconciled simply by wishing it weren't so. It simply was.

The man with the whip straightened suddenly. Risla followed his line of sight, to where a young woman was approaching, crossing a span of grassy field to reach them. She tramped across the grass with knee-high boots, white laces criss-crossing in front.

This was the only practical aspect of her outfit.

Perhaps it was her Ogridanian upbringing, but in any other setting—a more northeasterly section of Alverand—Risla might have mistaken her for some kind of high-class prostitute.

Her hair was red, tied back in a pony-tail, and parted to the one side, with bangs that cascaded down over one half of her face. A black blouse with a descending, exploratory neckline. A skirt the same color that only barely touched her knees. A strange look to go for, but Risla knew so little about Alveranderan culture. Especially the far northern part, from which members of the Kaine family hailed.

"Miss Kaine," the squat man said, bowing a little as she came close.

"Just Kalana," the Kaine girl said. "And I told you not to do that. I really don't care if you respect me. Just do as I say."

The squat man blanched briefly, then nodded, seeming to fight the urge to bow again.

"Let's have a look then," Kalana said.

She couldn't be older than sixteen, could she? The same age as Risla herself. Age and a similar height being perhaps the only similarity between them. Risla, with her fervent desire right wrongs and help others. This rich girl, using her power to prolong the suffering of others for her own ends.

Kalana faced the group and began walking down the line, examining them. She had a stern, determined expression as she scanned with sharp, intelligent eyes. Ripples of lean muscle visible through the fabric of her blouse and along her bare thighs.

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So maybe Risla's initial impression wasn't entirely true. Kalana wasn't just some rich, spoiled child. She had taken hold of the reins of her inheritance, power, and wealth, and was vigilant in maintaining control of it. If she didn't, others would eventually wrest that power from her. It was the type of world she lived in. Such a truth must have been hammered into the Kaine girl at a young age.

How unfortunate that she would be indoctrinated into such a horrible cause. For everyone else. And perhaps for her, at the end, when Varcovith returned. In the New World.

The Kaine's eyes flitted from person to person, scrutinizing. She came to a stop at the end of the line, next to a male Darovenian with dark hair, broad limbs, and a perpetual scowl. He was a good head taller than Kalana. Though that went for every man present, really. 'Tall' was not a word Risla would use to describe the girl, or herself.

"Something on my face?" The Kaine said, the upper parts of her face pinching together.

"It's the face itself I don't like," the Darovenian said, with a surprising amount of snark.

Truly unexpected compared to the rest of what Risla had seen here. She was less surprised by the way that the others shrank back at his words, wanting to dissociate from him.

"You really don't understand your position, do you?" Kalana said. "Willen?"

The man with the whip used his free hand to produce a slip of paper from the pocket of his overalls and handed it to Kalana. She held it up in front the man.

"You see this?" She said.

"I see it," the man said.

"It's the deed and title for this wagonload's transaction. It means I own you."

"It's just a piece of paper."

"Not in this country," Kalana said, folding the paper and handing it back to Willen. "It's law. And part of that law, is I can do anything I have to in order to maintain control of my property. In fact, I'm obligated to. If your eyes keep offending me, I just might have to take them out."

Though it made Risla's guts roil inside her, she understood the logic behind why this was happening. Kalana needed to quell any dissension in the ranks as soon as it started. Before it started. That was why she wasn't letting this go. She needed this man to be just as broken and defeated as everyone else. She needed to show the Darovenians there were consequences for defiance.

"I belong to no one," the man said. "Except my country, and my god."

"Varcovith is dead," Kalana said. "I don't know if you got the memo. I'm alive, though. And look what I can do."

She whistled, and two of the riflemen jogged over.

"Take him," she said, and one of the guards began to unlock the slave's cuffs. The other held a smaller set of cuffs that would be used for transferring the prisoner. Except that as soon as the Darovenian's ankles and wrists were free, he pivoted, slamming an elbow into the nearest one's face with a sick crunch.

He grabbed the barrel of the other one's rifle, pulling, when Kalana reached under skirt, toward her outer thigh, and drew a six-gun that had been holstered there. It was bright silver in color, the gunmetal appearing slick and shiny in the light. There were three sharp clicks as she drew the hammer back, and then it shot forward, sparking, fire flashing in the dark bore.

A hole appeared in the Darovenian man's foreleg. Blood slapped on the grass like a fish dropped on a deck. Blood, and a bit of gristle, and a chunk of the fabric of the man's pants.

He fell, grip loosening on the guard's gun, fingers still grasping faintly at the barrel up until the moment the ground caught him. He sprawled on his back on the dirt path, wincing.

"As I was saying," Kalana said, undisturbed, a slender trail of smoke still issuing from the barrel of her gun. "Put him in the hold. I'll deal with him later."

The guard with the broken nose stared at her, hand over his face, blood dribbling between his fingers. He muttered something, but it was muffled and blubbery.

"Oh, don't be such a little bitch," Kalana said, putting the six-gun back underneath her skirt. "It's your own damn fault." Then, quieter, "Can't even get good help around here. Father sends me the leftovers..."

She faced the rest of the caravan in chains. Smiled brightly. It was a quick and deliberate transformation. "Anyone else interested in voicing their independence?"

It seemed that nobody was. Some bowed their heads, either out of deference or defeat. But nobody spoke.

"Good," Kalana said. She straightened and ran some fingers through her bangs, putting the mishap behind her. At that moment, the two guards had lifted up the injured slave and were in the process of taking him away, holding him by the shoulders as he limped across the grass.

"I know this is hard," she said clasping her hands, walking down the line. "I realize that you've been taken away from everything you ever knew. It's a new world now, with new rules. A new life. But trust me, it's not as bad as you think. Or at least, it doesn't have to be. Do as you're told, put the work in, and you have nothing to fear. You may even be rewarded."

She came to a stop, folding her arms as she addressed them. "The woman and girls among you might even be sold off as wives or luxury slaves, eventually. That should go to show that it doesn't always pay to be a man."

As if forced marriage or sexual slavery was some kind of consolation prize.

"You may be wondering," she went on, "Why I don't sell you to men or a brothel straight off. The answer is that everyone I own yields some measure of crystal for me. Even the servants in household, my personal favorites, have tasted mine dust for a time. It's just how I do things. So if you find this life hard, just know that with work and time, things may still get better for you. There are still things to look forward to, and to live for."

Risla's eyes were drawn, briefly, to the gardens just outside the mansions, where Darovenians sweated in the sun as they trimmed and treated the flowers and trees. The entire purpose of their lives was to make the Kaine girl's backyward 'look nice'. To make her feel rich and important. Was that what she meant when she said 'things to live for'? It wasn't mining, but it still ultimately amounted to the same thing—existing merely to benefit and convenience Kalana. This was her world. And she was the god of it.

"Well," Kalana said, pulling a watch out of some pocket on her skirt and squinting down at it. "Looks like that's about all the time I have. I will say one more thing, though. Because it's important to be consistent, and give fair warning." She slipped the watch back into her pocket, the long silver chain falling and dangling down past her knee. She gathered up the chain with her palm and pocketed it as well.

She looked up at them. "I say this once and now. And I'll never say it again. Anyone who tries to take or destroy my crystal loses something. The first time, it'll be a finger." She held up a bare ring finger. "This one. Do it again, after that, and I take the whole hand. There are plenty of duties you can see to with only one hand. It will be frustrating, but possible. And see to them, you will. For the rest of your sorry life."

She gave another nod. "Welcome to Tantern."

And then she was gone, plodding across the grass, hip swaying with every stamp of her boots.

Risla's jaw locked and her teeth ground together as she watched Kalana go, but then her attention was drawn back to Willen, who motioned for the group to follow him into the barn. The other two riflemen came alongside, waited next to the wide sliding door as they filtered.

It was musty inside. Smelled of hay and smoke and hot metal. Bright orange light rode in waves along the walls, emanating from a stove in the corner. Shadows from the support beams, various hanging or leaning tools, and the fieldworkers themselves, shuddered in the firelight.

The riflebearing guards came in after them, shutting the door behind.

One of the fieldhands, crouched next to the flickering grill of the stove, turned and stood, his hat pushed back on his head. His stubbled face and worn clothes were smudged with dirt and mud.

"'Nother batch, huh?" He said.

"Ayuh," Willen said.

"Looks like you're missing one."

"He was too feisty for his own good," Willen said. "Miss Kaine's gonna teach him a lesson."

The fieldhand's teeth flashed white in the dusty gloom, backlit as he was by the glowing grill.

"Wish I could be there for that," he said.

"Not me," Willen said. "I only rough em' up when I hafta. Don't go lookin' for it."

"That's no way to do it," the fieldhand said. "Gotta manhandle them often enough that they remember their place."

He crouched again and swung open the stove's grill. The end of a long, wooden-handled poker was resting in there in the coals.

This time, the men with rifles stood back, at the door. It was two of the other fieldhands who approached. After taking keys from the guards, they unlocked the ankle and wrist cuffs of a woman at the head of the line and dragged her, screaming and pulling and struggling.

The fieldhand crouching next to the stove smiled over his shoulder. He grabbed the handle of the poker and pulled the end out of the coals. There was a large brand, there. A circular symbol with the letter K inside.

The woman grew quiet at the sight of it. She pleaded in hushed tones, almost whispering. But the fieldhand's smile only grew, and the woman's words went shrill and loud again, turning into shrieks. They turned her, unclasping part of her uniform so her back was bare, and held her, while the smiling one carefully lined up the glowing red brand and pressed it into the middle of her back.

Though some looked away and covered their ears, Risla did not. She would allow this moment to be seared into her mind, as surely as the brand sizzled against the woman's skin.

The Darovenian yelled. She yelled like a woman in the throes of childbirth. She yelled not just out of pain, but out of mourning, and the shock of true and final understanding. She yelled for all that she had lost, and for all the horrors that were yet to come.

Risla told herself that she would not do the same. She would not give them the satisfaction.

She watched with distant resignation, but determination as well. She'd known what this would be, hadn't she? She'd agreed to this, knowing the cost. Knowing and accepting. It was now time to begin paying the price.

How was she to achieve her mission if she faltered now? She had not yet run the race. This was merely the starting line.

The fieldhands continued to brand one Darovenian after another, until it was Risla's own cuffs that were being removed, the weight of chains lifting from her joints, and her own shoulders and arms held tight with rough, callused hands as she was pulled along.

Her legs locked. Her heels dug into the floor of the barn, as if having minds of their own. Her breath quickened, and she could feel the impulse rising in her to fight. To struggle. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right-

What, that she should suffer the same brand as her kin? That she should feel what her ancestors had felt for hundreds of years? Was she alone to be spared? Did she expect to bear some of that load without experiencing the scars?

They were holding her up, literally lifting her off the ground so her feet dangled, toes barely brushing the floor. She took a deep breath, and held it, even as her back was turned, and parts of her clothes shed, and she felt the heat of the stoves fire warming her skin. And then something touched her back, and there was a sensation so sharp and intense that for a brief second, it felt like ice pressed against her skin. But the physical shock was only temporary, followed by the sizzle of sections of her skin melting and sticking to the branding iron, and a sweet cooking smell, like fatty meat on a spit, and a pain so stark and overwhelming that she couldn't feel or think of anything else.

And she did scream.