The visitor stood by the door, watching as Kain straightened from the carnage. Blood pooled across the wooden floor, but the visitor's clean boots remained untouched near the threshold.
As they walked through the doorway, the visitor glanced back at the blood-soaked room. "What your brother said about a curse," he said.
"Superstition. Nothing more," Kain replied. He pulled his bloodstained shirt closer against the cold morning air. "People need reasons for bad luck."
The visitor nodded once, and they stepped outside.
The main road stretched ahead of them, winding between the crooked houses. Word had already spread. Windows that had been open now stood shuttered. Children who had been playing in the mud were nowhere to be seen. The few villagers still outside pressed themselves against walls and doorframes as the pair walked past.
An old woman clutching a fish basket crossed herself when she saw Kain's bloodstained clothes. A fisherman mending nets looked up once, then quickly back down at his work. A mother herding two small children toward their house whispered something sharp, and they disappeared through their doorway. The wooden sign above the baker's shop creaked in the wind, but no customers waited outside.
The visitor's pace never changed. His boots clicked against the scattered stones with the same measured rhythm as before. Behind them, smoke still rose from the chimney of Ben Reikan's shack, as if nothing had happened.
They walked for an hour through scrub fields and salt flats. The road turned from packed dirt to gravel to rough stone as they moved inland. Gulls wheeled overhead, following the scent of fish from Kain's clothes. The visitor said nothing, and Kain matched his silence.
The meeting point was a weathered stone marker where two roads crossed. A man waited there beside a horse-drawn cart covered with canvas. He wore the same dark coat as the visitor, but his face was scarred along the left cheek and his hands looked like they'd seen more violence.
"This the one?" the scarred man asked, looking Kain up and down.
"Yes. The others?"
"Already loaded." The scarred man gestured toward the back of the cart. "We need to reach the facility by eight tonight. No delays."
The visitor nodded. "Get him in with the rest."
The scarred man pulled back the canvas cover. Inside the cart, twenty other children sat in two rows facing each other. They ranged from Kain's age to perhaps fifteen. Some wore the rough clothes of farm workers, others the cleaner garments of town children. A few clutched small bundles or cloth dolls. Most sat empty-handed.
"In," the scarred man said.
Kain climbed up and found a space at the end of one row. The canvas dropped back down, cutting out most of the light. The cart lurched forward, wheels grinding against stone.
The boy next to him had soft hands and clean fingernails. Town-raised. Across from him sat a girl with calluses on her palms and dirt under her nails despite the washing. Farm work. Further down the row, a thin boy with hollow cheeks picked at a scab on his wrist. Malnourished, probably for months.
None of them spoke. The cart's wheels filled the silence, rattling over stones and splashing through shallow puddles. Through gaps in the canvas, Kain caught glimpses of the landscape changing. Fields gave way to hills. Hills gave way to rocky ground covered in thorny scrub.
The sun climbed higher. The air inside the cart grew thick and stale. A girl near the front started crying quietly. The boy next to her put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off and turned toward the canvas wall.
They stopped when the sun was directly overhead. The scarred man pulled back the canvas and gestured for them to get out. "Five minutes. Drink. Eat. Piss if you need to."
The children climbed down stiffly. They were in a shallow valley between two ridges of gray stone. Scraggly trees dotted the slopes, their branches bare except for clusters of dark berries. A small stream trickled through the rocks nearby.
The visitor and the scarred man shared bread and dried meat while the children lined up at the stream. Each child got a piece of hard bread and a drink of water. No one was allowed to wander more than twenty paces from the cart.
Kain noted the efficiency of it. The scarred man kept count without seeming to. The visitor watched the ridgelines while eating, checking for movement. Both men knew their business.
A boy with farmer's clothes and sun-darkened skin finished drinking and looked toward the tree line. His eyes darted between the guards and the slope. Kain watched him calculate distances.
The boy took three steps toward the trees before breaking into a sprint.
The scarred man was already moving. He covered the distance in seconds, tackling the runner before he reached the nearest oak. They went down hard, rolling in the dead leaves and loose stones.
"No," the boy gasped. "Please, I just want to go home."
"You don't have a home," the scarred man said, hauling him upright by his shirt. "Your parents sold you to us."
The first punch caught the boy in the stomach, doubling him over. The second hit his ribs with a sharp crack. The boy dropped to his knees, clutching his side and making small, breathless sounds.
The scarred man grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the boy's head back. "Anyone else want to go 'home'?"
None of the other children moved. They stood frozen by the stream, bread forgotten in their hands.
The scarred man delivered two more punches to the boy's back, then let him collapse face-first into the dirt. "Get him up. Get him in the cart."
The visitor helped drag the beaten boy back to the cart and tossed him inside. The boy curled into a ball in the corner, whimpering with each breath. Blood trickled from his nose and stained his shirt.
"Everyone else, get in," the visitor said. His voice held no more emotion than if he were discussing the weather.
Kain stared at the scarred man in confusion. The man hadn't even been looking at the runner when the boy started his sprint. He'd been facing the stream, watching other children drink. Yet somehow he'd known. And the speed—Kain had never seen anyone move that fast. The distance had been twenty paces at least, but the scarred man had covered it in what felt like a single heartbeat. It didn't make sense. People couldn't move like that.
They climbed back into the cart in silence. The canvas dropped, and they were moving again.
The afternoon stretched longer. The beaten boy's breathing grew steadier, but he didn't try to sit up. A few children stared at him. Most looked at their hands or the cart's wooden floor.
The road grew rougher. The cart bounced and swayed over ruts and stones. Through gaps in the canvas, Kain saw the landscape growing more desolate. Fewer trees. More bare rock. The smell of salt in the air faded, replaced by something metallic and cold.
They stopped again as the sun touched the horizon. This time, no one was allowed out of the cart. The visitor passed around a waterskin and more hard bread. The beaten boy managed to sit up long enough to drink, then slumped back against the cart's side.
When they started moving again, the road began to descend. The wheels echoed differently now, as if they were entering a canyon or valley. The air grew colder. Through the canvas, Kain caught glimpses of high stone walls rising on both sides of the road.
The cart slowed, then stopped. Voices spoke outside in low tones. Papers rustled. Someone laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound.
The canvas was pulled back. The scarred man stood there with two other men Kain hadn't seen before. These wore different clothes—leather vests over dark shirts, with short clubs hanging from their belts.
"Out," one of the new men said. "Line up. No talking."
They climbed down into a wide courtyard carved from living rock. High walls rose on all sides, disappearing into darkness above. Torches burned in iron brackets, casting dancing shadows across the stone. The air smelled of smoke, old blood, and something else. Something rotten.
The children formed a ragged line. The beaten boy swayed on his feet but stayed upright. One of the leather-vested men walked along the line, counting under his breath. "Twenty-one," he announced.
"Good," said a woman's voice.
She emerged from a doorway carved into the far wall. Tall, with gray-streaked hair pulled back severely. Her clothes were finer than the guards', but practical. A ledger book was tucked under one arm.
"Fresh blood," she said, looking over the children. Her eyes lingered on the beaten boy's swollen face, then moved on without comment. "Standard processing. Get them cleaned, measured, and marked."
"Yes, Overseer Thane," one of the guards replied.
The woman turned toward the doorway, then paused. "And send word to Master Rook that the evening delivery is complete."
She disappeared into the darkness beyond the carved entrance. The guards began herding the children toward a different doorway. As they moved, Kain caught sight of words carved into the stone archway above.
Property of the Black Maw Syndicate.
Below that, in smaller letters: Abandon hope. Embrace purpose.
They were pushed through the doorway into a narrow corridor lit by guttering torches. The walls were smooth stone, worn by countless hands. Their footsteps echoed ahead of them, bouncing off the walls until the sound became a constant murmur.
The corridor ended at a large chamber. Wooden tubs filled with steaming water lined one wall. Piles of gray cloth sat on rough tables. Guards with clubs stood at each corner, watching.
"Strip," one of the guards commanded. "Everything off. Everything in the pile by the door."
The children hesitated. A guard stepped forward, club raised.
They began removing their clothes. Kain pulled off his bloodstained shirt and trousers, adding them to the growing pile of discarded garments. The beaten boy moved slowly, wincing with each motion.
"Into the tubs. Scrub with the soap. All of it off."
The water was hot enough to sting. The soap was harsh lye that left their skin red and raw. Kain scrubbed until the last traces of blood disappeared from under his fingernails. Around him, the other children did the same, washing away the last remnants of their old lives.
When they finished, they were given black clothes—long-sleeved shirts and pants that reached their ankles. The fabric was coarse and smelled of old sweat. Simple leather shoes completed the uniform. The sleeves could be rolled up and the pants cuffed if needed, but everyone looked the same in the basic black outfit.
Another corridor led deeper into the complex. This one sloped downward, following the natural contours of the rock. More carved words appeared on the walls: Discipline. Obedience. Strength.
They emerged into a circular chamber dominated by a raised platform in the center. On the platform stood a table with metal implements scattered across its surface. A brazier glowed nearby, filled with glowing coals. Several iron rods rested among the coals, their tips cherry red.
"Welcome to your new home," said a guard with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. "You are official property of the Black Maw Syndicate. You will eat, drink, train, and sleep when you are told. You will follow all instructions that are given. Disobey, and you'll beg for death before it finds you."
He gestured toward the brazier. "You'll each receive a number. That number is your name now. Your identity. Your worth."
The scarred guard lifted one of the glowing irons from the coals. The tip was shaped like a series of lines and curves—numbers, Kain realized.
"The number goes on the back of your neck," the guard continued. "So everyone knows who owns you. So you never forget what you are."
A wooden block sat beside the brazier. Leather straps hung from its sides.
"Kneel at the block. Bite the leather. Hold still." The guard's smile was cold. "Anyone who fights gets it twice."
The first child, a thin girl with hollow cheeks, was pushed forward. She knelt at the block without being told twice. A guard forced her head down and shoved a leather strap between her teeth.
The iron came down with a hiss. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The girl's scream was muffled by the leather, but her whole body went rigid. Steam rose from the back of her neck.
They poured brine over the fresh brand. The girl collapsed forward, unconscious.
"Number 2847," the guard announced, consulting a ledger. "Next."
One by one, the children were branded. Each took their number in silence or muffled screams. The beaten boy was number 2866. He passed out before the iron even touched his skin.
Finally, it was Kain's turn.
He knelt at the block without being pushed. The leather strap tasted of blood and fear. A guard's hands pressed his head down, exposing the back of his neck.
The iron hovered over his skin for a moment. Heat radiated from it, making the air shimmer.
"Number 2867," the guard said.
The iron came down.