The square of Branthollow stayed crowded long after Kaelith and his riders left. The villagers knew the Dominion's recruiters would pass through again. That meant the contract scribes would work from dawn to dusk, and everyone wanted their beasts marked before the soldiers returned.
Three scribes sat at their tables in the center of the square. Each had the same tools: iron needles, pots of glowing ink, and a wooden mallet for stubborn cases. Their hands were steady, their faces bored. They had done this too many times to care.
A farmer brought forward a goat. Two men forced it down while the scribe pressed the needle into its chest. The goat screamed, hooves scraping against the dirt, until the glowing mark took shape. When the scribe lifted his hand, the creature fell limp. Its chest pulsed faintly.
"One filled," the scribe said. "Four left."
The farmer grinned and tossed him coins. "Now it'll plow the fields without complaint."
The villagers around him clapped his shoulder in congratulations.
Draven stood at the edge of the square, watching. His hands were in his cloak pockets, but his jaw was tight. Every scream, every whimper, was like a stone added to his chest.
Behind him, two villagers whispered.
"Five slots is plenty for any man," one said."Unless he's rich," the other replied. "Then he kills the weak ones and binds new."
Draven turned. "Kills the weak?"
They looked at him like the answer was obvious.
"Of course," the first said. "Why waste a slot? If a beast gets too weak, you cut it down. Free the mark, bind something stronger."
"And if it recovers?" Draven asked.
The man laughed. "Why wait? Beasts are tools. When a plow breaks, you don't fix it—you replace it."
Draven said nothing. His fists were tight in his pockets.
Ahead, another villager stepped forward with a Servitor hound. Its tattoo glowed faintly, flickering.
The scribe frowned. "This one's already bound."
"Its master died last winter," the villager said.
The scribe leaned close, inspecting the faint glow. "Strange. Should've stayed strong. Unless it resisted."
"Then kill it," the villager said. "I'll need the slot open."
He drew a knife and cut the hound's throat before anyone could speak. The beast gave one short cry, then fell limp. The glow vanished.
"Slot freed," the scribe said. "Next."
The villagers nodded. Some even smiled.
Draven turned away, his teeth grinding.
Later, as the line thinned, Draven noticed a boy near the edge of the square. The child clutched a bird no bigger than his hand, its feathers bright, its chest still raw from a fresh tattoo.
The boy stroked it, smiling. "Look, Mama. It sings for me."
The mother nodded proudly. "Treat it well, son."
Draven crouched beside them. The bird chirped faintly, but its eyes were dull. Each time the boy's grip tightened, the tattoo pulsed.
"Do you know what that mark means?" Draven asked softly.
The boy tilted his head. "It means it's mine. The scribe said so."
Draven met his eyes. "A chain is still a chain. Doesn't matter if it's iron or ink."
The boy blinked, confused. His mother frowned and pulled him away. "Don't listen to him. He doesn't understand."
Draven straightened, watching them leave. Around him, the scribes kept working. Beasts screamed, villagers cheered, and the square filled with marks and chains.
Draven turned toward the road. The laughter and chatter behind him followed like a shadow.
"They don't see it," he muttered. "But I will make them see."