The scream tore through Thrakwhisper Village like a blade through silk.
Elowen froze mid-stride, the basket of herbs slipping from her grasp as distant bells clanged in desperate warning. A gust carried the acrid sting of smoke; somewhere beyond the square, a roof crackled in sudden flame. The peaceful rhythm of dusk shattered into chaos—shouts, crashing wood, the metallic clatter of weapons never meant to echo here.
She stumbled backward, heart hammering. From the treeline beyond the fields came the first shape—massive, fur-covered, eyes glinting gold in the firelight. Then another, and another. Beastmen. Their snarls rolled across the thatched rooftops like thunder.
"Inside! Go!" Thalor's voice cut through the rising panic. He seized her arm, dragging her toward the communal hall, his grip firm but trembling. Around them, villagers scattered—children wailing, elders clutching bundles, the air thick with terror. A chain hissed through the air and snapped around a man's ankle; he fell hard, screaming as two raiders yanked him into the dirt.
Elowen's breath came in ragged bursts. This isn't real—this can't be real. The garden's serenity only hours ago seemed a dream already fading.
Thalor turned, vines in his silver hair catching the glow as he faced the advancing horde. "Stay behind me," he ordered, staff raised. His calm steadied her for a heartbeat—until the first torch struck the hall's roof and flames roared upward.
A bestial roar drowned every thought. Gruk Fangstride emerged from the smoke, towering and broad-shouldered, fur matted with soot, iron-studded gauntlets gleaming. His fanged grin split wide as he barked an order in a guttural tongue. Chains rattled like applause.
Elowen's legs locked. The beastmen surged forward—wolf, lion, boar, their scents a mix of sweat, musk, and iron. One slammed into Thalor, knocking his staff aside. Another wrenched Elowen's wrist; pain flared white as iron bit skin. She fought, twisting, but a second blow drove her to her knees. The world blurred—shouting, firelight, the cold ring of metal tightening around her arms.
"Thalor!" she cried.
He was there—struggling beneath two raiders, their weight driving him down. His eyes met hers once, steady even through pain. "Breathe, Elowen!" he shouted, but the chain between them jerked taut, dragged by different hands. His voice vanished behind the roar of Gruk's commands.
All around, the village fell. Roofs burned; livestock screamed; the air filled with the reek of smoke and singed hair. Iron circled wrists and ankles in relentless rhythm. The tranquil harmony that had once bound their lives now clanged apart link by link.
Elowen's cheek pressed into the cold earth. She tasted ash. Someone's footstep thundered beside her—then the chain hauled again, forcing her upright. Dozens of villagers huddled together under the torchlight, wrists bound, eyes wide and hollow. The beastmen moved through them with mechanical precision, barking orders, testing bonds, dragging the fallen upright when they failed to stand.
Gruk surveyed the chaos, nostrils flaring. "All taken?" he barked.
A subordinate thumped a fist to his chest. "Aye, Chief. None left to squeal."
Gruk's grin showed teeth like polished ivory. "Good. March them before dawn. The buyers like fresh fear."
Elowen's stomach turned. Her knees buckled, but the chain yanked her forward into the crowd of captives. Smoke drifted through the square, curling around the broken herbs spilled from her basket—their sweet scent smothered by ash.
They marched through the ruin before the fires died.
Elowen's wrists throbbed, skin raw under the rough iron. Each step pulled the chain taut between her and the next villager, forcing a halting rhythm. Boots and bare feet alike churned the road into mud; the only sound was the steady clink of links and the guttural commands of their captors.
Behind her, someone wept quietly. Ahead, Eldra Hearthveil stumbled, whispering fragments of prayer: "Roots hold… shadows pass…" Her voice cracked, swallowed by the night wind.
Elowen's lungs ached from smoke. Every flicker of torchlight seemed to carve the world smaller—the fields, once full of song, reduced to blackened husks stretching toward a horizon she no longer recognized. The forest beyond loomed like a wall of teeth.
She forced herself to breathe, to think. Why? The question clawed inside her skull. Why chain those who only healed and tended? What hunger needs this cruelty?
Thalor's silhouette trudged several paces ahead, shoulders bowed under his own bonds. Even in defeat, his posture remained strangely steady, each step deliberate. When he glanced back, their eyes met through the shifting torchlight—a fleeting reassurance that she wasn't lost entirely. He said nothing, but the calm in his gaze steadied the tremor in her hands.
A beastman at her flank—broad, scar-striped, indifferent—grunted as another captive faltered. "Keep the line tight," he muttered. His tone carried no hatred, only efficiency, as if her suffering were part of some routine harvest. That indifference chilled her more than the iron.
The march wound out of the valley. Behind them, Thrakwhisper's glow shrank to a smear of red against the dark sky. The wind changed, carrying brine from distant waters. Ahead, faint on the horizon, lights glimmered—unnatural, pulsing, arranged in lines too straight for stars.
"The auction," someone whispered, voice brittle as dry bark.
Elowen swallowed hard. The word clanged in her mind—auction, a marketplace for living souls. Her pulse quickened, but amid the horror, a strange thread of thought unfurled: If they trade us like goods… then this cruelty must have order. If order, it can be understood. Broken. Changed.
The realization frightened her more than the chains. Hope was dangerous—but it refused to die.
Gruk's bark shattered her reverie. "Move faster! The moon waits for no one!" His laughter rolled down the line, coarse and triumphant.
Elowen stumbled, catching herself against the pull of the chain. Her legs trembled, muscles burning, but she kept moving. Around her, the villagers' silence thickened into a single shared rhythm—breath, step, clink, breath, step, clink—an involuntary unity forged in captivity.
Smoke faded; the air grew colder. Somewhere behind, the last embers of Thrakwhisper hissed out in the wind. Ahead, the glow of the auction road brightened—pale and pitiless.
Elowen lifted her head, eyes burning but dry. Fear still ruled her heartbeat, yet beneath it stirred something quieter—a seed planted in the ashes. I will remember, she thought. Every chain, every name, every warmth they tried to steal.
And when the wind shifted again, carrying the faint echo of the beastmen's laughter through the night, she felt the smallest answering whisper from the earth underfoot—like roots murmuring back through soil scorched but not dead.