The village of Branthollow woke early. By sunrise, the square was alive with movement. Stalls opened one after another, men shouted prices, women carried baskets of grain, and children ran barefoot, weaving between carts. The air was thick with smoke from cookfires, the sour stink of beasts, and the clatter of wooden wheels.
Draven walked down the main road with his hood pulled low. He didn't need to raise his head to know people were staring. They always did. A few whispered. Others just looked away. To them, he was the strange man who wasted food on animals, the wanderer who never fit in.
He ignored it, as he always had.
At the far end of the square, a small crowd had gathered around a scribe's canopy. The man sat behind a wooden table covered in small pots of glowing ink. His hands were steady as he dipped a thin iron needle and pressed it against the chest of a squealing Servitor pig. Two men held the beast down while the scribe carved the mark.
The pig's cries filled the square. No one moved to help it. By the time the tattoo was finished, the animal had stopped struggling. A faint glow pulsed on its chest. Its eyes were dull, no longer wild.
"One filled," the scribe said flatly. "Four left."
The farmer nodded, smiling as though proud. He tossed a pouch of coins on the table and dragged the pig away.
Draven's stomach tightened. His steps slowed, but he forced himself to keep walking. He had seen it before. He would see it again.
At a fruit stall, he paused. Behind the merchant, a pup lay tied with a rope. Thin, ribs showing, one leg bent at an angle that would never heal right. A faint tattoo glowed weakly on its chest. The creature raised its head when Draven crouched in front of it. Its eyes were tired, but they still held a spark.
Draven reached into his satchel and pulled out half a loaf of stale bread. He broke off a piece and held it out. The pup sniffed, then ate slowly, trembling with each bite. When it finished, its breathing was steadier, its eyes clearer.
The merchant saw and snorted. "Waste of food. That thing won't live a week."
Draven didn't look up. "It's alive. That's enough."
The man barked a laugh. "Alive and useless. Better to kill it and free the slot."
A few villagers nearby turned their heads, grinning. "The odd fool again." "Doesn't learn." "Better off feeding himself."
Draven ignored them. He stroked the pup's head once more before standing.
The laughter stopped when the sound of hooves rolled through the square.
A squad of riders entered, armor polished, banners of red and black snapping in the wind. People stepped back quickly, bowing their heads. At the front rode a man with silver hair tied neatly behind his head. His bearing was sharp, practiced. At his side walked a Direwolf, larger than any hound in the village.
The beast's chest burned with a tattoo brighter than any Draven had seen. It moved with silent menace, every step in sync with its master.
"Lord Kaelith Veynar," someone whispered.
The name spread quickly. Mothers pulled their children close. Farmers lowered their eyes. No one dared speak above a whisper.
Kaelith dismounted smoothly. His voice carried without effort. "By decree of the Dominion, all men of fighting age are to present themselves for service. Bring your beasts. Five marks each. The weak will be released… or culled."
No one argued. No one ever did.
A farmer dragged a boar into the square. Its skin sagged. Its tattoo glowed faintly, flickering like a dying ember. The farmer raised a knife.
Draven moved without thinking. His hand closed around the man's wrist.
"Stop."
The square went silent.
The farmer froze, wide-eyed. Kaelith turned, curiosity in his gaze. His Direwolf growled, iron caps on its fangs clinking as it shifted.
Draven's voice was calm, but it carried. "It's still alive. That should be enough."
The villagers burst into laughter. "The fool again!" "Better to waste food than let him speak!"
Kaelith stepped forward, amused. He raised his hand, and the Direwolf's tattoo blazed. The beast dropped instantly, unmoving, bound to its master's will.
"Order," Kaelith said calmly. "This is strength."
He studied Draven with mild interest. "And you… what do you offer? Pity?"
Draven's jaw tightened. His reply was simple. "Respect."
Kaelith chuckled. "Respect is weakness. Chains are order. Without them, beasts—and men—are nothing."
He turned, mounted his horse, and rode out. His men followed, banners snapping in the wind.
The villagers muttered again, some sneering, some uneasy. The boar whimpered.
Draven knelt, pulled his knife, and cut the rope.
The tattoo flickered once, then dimmed. The beast stumbled forward, no longer bound.
Draven stood, eyes fixed on the road Kaelith had taken. His voice was low but firm.
"If this is order," he said, "then I'll burn it down."