Dawn broke across the horizon.
Wind slid through the corn fields before the boots arrived. Doors were still open.
Fires still warm.
"Secure the perimeter."
The Othmir captain spoke without strain. His pale face remained still beneath a blue-and-white uniform, a feathered hat angled above blond hair.
A metal rank tag with an eagle insignia glinted on his chest as he watched the soldiers move.
White-skinned soldiers fanned outward, blond hair bright against the dust.
No horns.
No banners.
A middle-aged Argathe farmer emerged from the corn fields, copper skin glinting in the sunlight.
His gaze met the Othmirs.
Air escaped his lungs.
He froze.
Eyes wide with disbelief.
Meeting the farmer's gaze, the Captain asked "You there." Voice loud and firm, "What's the name of this village?"
More air escaped his lungs. As he trembled.
"I asked you a question." The Captain said.
Silence stretched taut.
"Seize him."
Chains snapped.
A young Argathe warrior surged his Kava blade forward.
Its curved blades twisting in the wind.
Gunpowder struck the air.
Silence.
Ravens fled the corn field.
Chaos erupted.
Villagers fled.
"Chaaaaarge!" A lieutenant ordered.
Othmir soldiers bearing firearms roared charging towards the village.
Women wailed.
Children cried.
Reality snapped, the Argathe farmer regained his senses.
He wailed, fleeing into the corn field.
"Get him!" A voice commanded.
Two Othmir soldiers with firearms gave pursuit.
The young warrior lay lifeless, crimson red eyes staring into the void.
Blood flowing from his mouth.
"What have you done!?" A woman wailed.
Tears flowing from her eyes.
"What have you done!?" Again she said, roaring this time.
Her eyes met the Captain's cold blue gaze.
Able-bodied men were subdued with firearms.
Women with chains.
Older children were separated, hands shaking, red eyes wide.
"Please," a girl said. "My mother…"
"Labor class," an officer muttered. "Move."
A man tried to run.
"Public," the captain said.
Gunshot echoed.
Silence followed.
The man fell to his knees. "Why?" He said, spitting out blood.
The captain held up parchment, wax still warm. "Transfer quotas."
A messenger read aloud, "Village extraction successful."
The elder stared at the seal as it caught the blue black insignia, unmistakable.
"The Crown?" he whispered.
The captain met his eyes. "Sanctioned."
___________________________
Sunlight spilled through tall lattice openings, washing over clay walls polished to a soft sheen, etched with fading reliefs of past kings.
The palace was grand in scale, yet earthen at its core, strength shaped from soil, not stone.
The King sat alone on dais, wearing layered Argathe robes of deep white trimmed with midnight blue. From his ears hung blue-black crescent horn earrings, curved and heavy, their tips catching the light.
Below him, all elders stood.
The Imperial Elders formed the first line, closest to the dais. Their robes were dark indigo and black, thickly woven, shoulders reinforced with stitched crests. From their ears hung crescent horn earrings tipped in red-black ochre, signaling authority earned through empire and blood. One stepped forward first, as custom demanded.
"We are not convened to sanction bloodshed," the Imperial Elder said softly. "Only a recalibration… a movement of bodies."
Besides them stood the Grand Elders, robes of deep crimson and ash, layered and ceremonial, sleeves heavy with embroidered lineage marks. Their red-ochre tipped crescents swayed as one inclined his head.
"A labor exchange," he added smoothly. "Temporary. Mutually beneficial."
Farthest from the throne stood the Local Elders, robes pale brown and sand-colored, simpler in cut, dust still clinging to hems. Their light yellow ochre crescents gleamed softly. One hesitated before speaking.
"If we resist," he said, voice tight, "there will be nothing left to govern. Compliance protects what remains."
A request for mobilization was raised, then buried beneath protocol.
Trade clerks spoke last, quietly. "Othmir shipments have increased."
No one addressed the people.
A courier entered, boots stained with dry clay. He bowed, then spoke.
"The caravans have passed through the borders."
The King's jaw tightened.
The borders had been opened.
_____________________________
Chains of Argathes moved at first light, iron biting skin as they were loaded onto carts, wagons, and forced into walking columns. An Othmir officer raised a gloved hand. "Separate by household," he said calmly. "No more than three from the same bloodline."
A woman clutched her daughter. "Please, she's all I have."
The response was procedural. "Next," the clerk said, already writing.
Families were broken with efficiency, not fury. Broken families did not organize. They endured.
The march cut across plains and passes, through dust and heat, an audacious procession that refused invisibility. Villages along the route watched in sanctioned silence.
A village elder whispered, "We are forbidden," to a boy gripping a dagger.
A clerk counted. "Two hundred twelve," he murmured, as if numbers could soften truth.
At the coast, the columns did not end, they condensed. Barges waited. Ships with low hulls and wide decks. "Load by weight," an overseer ordered. "Balance the decks."
An Argathe man stared at the water. "We cannot cross the waters our horses do not drink," he said.
"Oh! You will," an Othmir officer replied. "All of you."
The sea swallowed their footsteps. Days blurred into salt and sickness, prayers into hoarse breaths. Othmir overseers enforced order with measured punishment, cruelty calibrated to function.
From a distant seat of command, Kurt Albrecht reviewed the compiled reports.
"Compliance remains within acceptable margins," an aide informed him.
Albrecht inclined his head once. "Proceed with expansion."
The authorization for the next wave was issued.