John's wrist burned where the iron shackle dug into skin.
He hadn't noticed it before, too focused on the pain everywhere else, but now that the dogs were staring at him he became acutely aware of the chain attached to the back wall of the pen. Thick links, maybe three feet of length. Enough to move around the immediate area. Not enough to reach the gate.
The dogs circled.
They looked like Australian Shepherds if Australian Shepherds had been bred by someone who hated joy. Shorter, stockier, with coarser fur and faces that held zero friendliness. Working dogs. Built for function, not companionship. Their eyes tracked his every twitch with the focus of predators assessing prey.
Two hours they circled.
Sometimes close, sniffing at his bloody clothes, their hot breath on his face making him flinch. Sometimes distant, lying down but never relaxing, always watching. One of them, the largest with a scar across its muzzle, growled whenever John made eye contact. He learned quickly to keep his gaze down.
They didn't attack. Didn't bite. Just maintained this constant pressure, this presence that communicated clearly that he was in their space and they were allowing it only because the handler had locked the gate.
The light from the windows dimmed further. Evening turning to dusk.
Then voices outside. Multiple people approaching, their tones carrying that particular cadence of forced laughter and social performance.
The kennel door opened.
John's stomach dropped when he recognized the young lord's voice, louder now, projecting.
"No, no, you absolutely must see this. It's too perfect."
More laughter. Female voices, at least three of them. Footsteps, lots of them, moving down the kennel toward the back.
The dogs' ears perked up. They moved to the front of the pen, tails wagging slightly. These were familiar people.
John tried to make himself smaller in the straw.
The lord appeared at the gate with an entourage. Three girls, each beautiful in that generic aristocratic way, wearing dresses that cost more than John's entire previous existence. They hung on the lord's arms, giggling at something he'd said. Behind them, more servants filed in, at least a dozen, including Spud and the younger kid. Their faces were carefully neutral but their eyes held pity.
The lord had changed clothes. Fresh outfit, all the blood washed away, hair styled perfectly. Like the hunt had never happened.
He gestured grandly at John's pen.
"Ladies, servants, gather round. I want everyone to witness the new accommodations for our special guest."
More people filed in. The kennel was getting crowded. All eyes on John, chained in the straw among working dogs.
"This creature," the lord continued, his voice dripping with theatrical contempt, "has demonstrated a complete inability to function in civilized society. He lacks basic courtesy, basic intelligence, basic human decency. He entered my private carriage without permission. He violated protocols that even children understand. He watched his lord in a moment of vulnerability with those stupid, empty eyes."
One of the girls giggled. "Is he actually chained?"
"Indeed! Because unlike the noble hounds behind him, who understand their place instinctively, this thing requires physical restraints. The dogs have more sense. More breeding. More worth."
The lord was playing to his audience now, feeding off their reactions.
"So I've decided on a new position for him. Not a servant, because servants have utility. Not a worker, because workers have purpose. No, he's now... let's call it 'kennel decoration.' He'll sleep here, among the dogs. Eat here, when the dogs eat. Perhaps through prolonged exposure to creatures with actual instincts, he might absorb something useful."
Laughter from the crowd. Some of it genuine, some forced. The servants in the back looked uncomfortable but didn't dare leave.
John's working eye tracked the lord's movements. His brain, still fuzzy from the beating, struggled to process the humiliation. This wasn't just punishment. This was theater. The lord was making an example, entertaining his harem and reinforcing hierarchy all at once.
Something in John's damaged head clicked.
Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the absurdity. Maybe it was the fact that he'd already been beaten unconscious once today so what was a little more.
He opened his swollen mouth.
"At least the dogs get fed regularly."
The words came out slurred through split lips but clear enough.
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
Then one of the girls, the one on the lord's left, snorted. She tried to cover it, hand flying to her mouth, but the damage was done. Another girl's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
The lord's face went very still.
"What did you say?"
John knew he should stop. Every survival instinct screamed at him to shut up, apologize, grovel.
But he was chained in a dog kennel, beaten to hell, and apparently his brain's self preservation had completely given up.
"I said the dogs get fed regularly. You know. Consistent meals. Care. Basic needs met." He coughed, tasted blood. "Seems like a promotion honestly."
One of the girls lost it completely. A genuine laugh burst out before she could stop it.
The lord moved so fast John didn't see it coming.
The gate opened. The lord was inside. His fist caught John in the stomach, driving whatever air remained from his lungs. John doubled over as much as the chain allowed.
Another punch to the face. His head snapped back. The world went sparkly.
A kick to his already damaged ribs. Something cracked properly this time, a sound John felt more than heard.
The lord grabbed John's hair, yanked his head up.
"No food today." His voice was quiet now, venomous. "No food tomorrow. We'll see how funny you are when you're competing with the dogs for scraps."
He released John's hair and stood, brushing off his hands like he'd touched something contaminated.
"Come," he said to his entourage. "The air in here has gone sour."
They filed out, the girls casting backward glances, their laughter nervous now. The servants followed quickly, grateful to escape.
Spud was the last to leave. His eyes met John's for a brief second. Something passed between them. Sympathy maybe. Or just recognition of shared misery.
Then he was gone.
The kennel door slammed.
The dogs, who'd moved to the corners during the beating, slowly returned to their circling.
John lay in the straw, his new injuries layered over the old ones, and wondered if dying from the truck might have been the better option after all.
The scarred dog approached, sniffed his bloody face, then settled down three feet away.
Not friendly. But not hostile either.
John closed his one working eye and tried to pretend he was anywhere else.