Kaelen moved.
His body was heavy. The sickness pressed on his chest. His limbs felt like stone. Each step required effort. Each breath came short. But he moved anyway. His hand closed around the whip. The leather was warm. Wet. Blood soaked into his palm. Fresh blood. Not dried. Not old. This blood had just been spilled. This blood was still hot.
He looked at the woman on the ground. Her back was a ruin. The skin hung in strips. The muscle underneath was torn. Red. Wet. The blood pooled beneath her. Dark. Thick. It soaked into the stones. Into the cracks. Into the dirt between the cobblestones.
Her eyes were open. They watched him. No hope. No fear. Just the flat acceptance of someone who had been beaten many times and expected to be beaten again.
The slave master stood frozen. His hand was empty where the whip had been. His eyes were wide. He did not understand. He had never been challenged. Never been stopped. Never had his weapon taken from him.
