The final farewell to our parents was a scene of pure, downcast misery, a memory heavy with the sound of choked-back sobs and the feeling of desperate, final hugs. When the time eventually came to leave, the air was thick with a grief that seemed to swallow our small village whole. We departed in the heavy, wooden carriage belonging to the slave trader who had purchased our lives, the rhythmic creak of the wheels marking the distance between us and the only home we had ever known. From the snatches of conversation we overheard among the servants, we learned that our destination was the city of Yargan.

  Yargan, as it turned out, was a major city located within the borders of the Hazaroth Union. It was a place of strategic importance, situated right on the boundary shared with the Targonia Kingdom. In this part of the world, geography dictated destiny; fortunately, the Targonia Kingdom and the Hazaroth Union maintained a relatively stable relationship, reinforced by a web of trade agreements and mutual interests. This peace was the only thing that allowed a caravan of our nature to move across the border with such clinical efficiency.

  The city of Yargan was under the absolute rule of a man named Varkos Deylan, the head of the influential Deylan family. In the Hazaroth Union, the political structure differed from the rigid hierarchies of neighboring empires or kingdoms. Lords like Varkos were feudal masters of their respective cities, but they did not carry the traditional titles like count, baron, or duke. Instead, a lord’s true power and social standing were measured by the prosperity and wealth of the city they governed. Varkos was a man who understood this better than anyone; he was known for his cold, analytical ability to manage the city’s resources, always making the most profitable choices. To his peers and his subjects, he was a merchant in his soul long before he was a lord in his title.

  However, the prosperity Varkos brought to Yargan was a selective one. While the city flourished and its coffers overflowed, the abundance was primarily enjoyed by the human population. In the Hazaroth Union, a deep-seated prejudice permeated society—all beastkin were looked down upon, viewed as lesser beings or tools to be utilized. Because Yargan sat so close to the Targonia Kingdom—where beastkin were treated with a level of equity almost identical to humans—the city’s population of our kind was much higher than in the interior regions of the Union. Yet, this proximity did not bring safety. We had grown up hearing horror stories of beastkin being enslaved and systematically exploited by human masters in Yargan. That was the primary source of our terror; we knew that by becoming slaves, we were entering a life where we would be despised, or perhaps even persecuted, simply for the shape of our ears and tails.

  On the long journey toward the city, we were bracing ourselves for the worst, but the immediate reality was surprisingly mundane. We did not face any overt cruelty or physical abuse from the slave trader or his retinue of servants. He even ensured we were fed twice a day, and though the meals were bland and barely sufficient to stave off hunger, they were consistent. Wyn and I made a silent pact to behave ourselves perfectly; we moved when told, stayed silent when ordered, and ensured we gave them no excuse to treat us with the harshness we knew they were capable of.

  It was Wyn’s change in behavior that truly broke my heart. My sister had always been a creature of pure, unbridled energy—a girl who spent every waking moment running through the village or hunting in the forest without ever showing a hint of fatigue. But now, she sat in the corner of the carriage for hours on end, her knees tucked against her chest, saying nothing. She would only speak if I initiated a conversation, and even then, her voice was a hollow shell of what it used to be. I knew exactly how she felt—the weight of our sacrifice was a leaden stone in both our hearts—but I resolved to do my best to make her feel even a little bit better, searching for any excuse to start a chat or offer a comforting word.

  The journey lasted two grueling days. As we neared the outskirts of Yargan, we stopped at a small village where our caravan was joined by several others. It seemed the slave trader had been busy, sending his agents throughout the countryside to collect "merchandise" from various locations so they could all be processed at his main shop together. When we first left our home, there were only about ten of us. By the time the massive walls of Yargan loomed on the horizon, our numbers had swelled to at least fifty slaves.

  When I finally saw the city from a distance, I was struck by its sheer, overwhelming scale. I had never seen a residence so immense. The walls were high and stretched as far as the eye could see, and the city was a hub for countless connecting roads. Most noticeably, there was a line of merchant caravans waiting to enter that was so long it defied belief. My heart sank at the sight; I wondered if we would be forced to wait in the sun for days just to enter the gates. However, I soon learned the value of citizenship. Because the slave trader was a recognized citizen of the Hazaroth Union, he steered our carriage away from the main commercial queue and toward a secondary gate reserved specifically for residents.

  We joined the citizens’ queue at noon. Even with the shorter line, the bureaucracy of the city was a slow-moving beast. The sun was already beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange, by the time we finally passed under the shadow of the stone archway and into the city proper. The guards at the gate were thorough, demanding proof of citizenship and cargo manifests. Most of them recognized our owner and didn't hold us up any longer than necessary. Once we were inside the walls, the carriage rumbled through the busy, narrow streets for a long time before finally coming to a halt at its final destination.

  “Everyone, get down! Get out of the carriage!”

  The shout was sudden and harsh. I heard the sounds of heavy wooden crates being shifted and the metallic rattle of chains nearby. A few seconds later, the heavy door of our carriage was wrenched open, letting in the cool evening air.

  “Come on! Move out already!”

  A man with a massive, bulky build and a face that looked like it had been carved from rough stone hurried us along. We climbed down, our legs stiff and trembling from the long confinement. We were led through a side entrance of a large, cold-looking building. The hallways were dimly lit by flickering torches, and the air smelled of damp stone and old hay. Eventually, the guards directed us into the small, cell-like rooms where we would be staying.

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  “This is your room from now on,” the man grunted, dropping two wooden bowls of mush onto a small table. “Here is your dinner. Eat it and sleep immediately. Your education begins first thing in the morning, which means you’ll be getting up early.”

  With that final warning, the man stepped out and slammed the door. I heard the sharp, final click of the lock being turned. I stood in the silence for a moment, then took the two portions of the meal and walked over to where Wyn was sitting. She had found a pile of hay in the corner—our designated bed—and was curled up, hugging her knees tightly. I was grateful that the trader at least separated the men and women; in this room, there were only girls, all of us sharing the same fate.

  The others in the room were in a similar state to my sister. They either stared at the walls with blank, vacant expressions or were visibly shaking with a horror they couldn't voice. I felt that same terror gnawing at the edges of my mind, but I couldn't afford to succumb to it. Not while Wyn looked so fragile.

  “Hey, sis. I brought our meals,” I said softly, sitting on the hay across from her. I placed her bowl in front of her, forcing myself to maintain a facade of calm. “Let’s eat together, just like we used to at home.”

  She stared at the food for a long time, her pointy ears twitching slightly. Finally, she lifted her face to look at me, and I saw the turmoil in her eyes.

  “...Woya, what would have happened if we hadn’t accepted Dad’s request?” she asked. She had clearly been processing this thought for the entire two-day journey.

  “...What do you mean?” I asked, though I already suspected where her mind was going.

  “What would have happened if we told him we didn’t want to be slaves? Or if we had just run away into the woods so we couldn't be sold?” Her voice was clear and steady, but the question was laced with a desperate kind of "what-if."

  I looked at her, seeing the young beastkin who should have been hunting rabbits, not calculating the cost of her own freedom. “You already know the answer to that, Wyn,” I explained as reasonably as I could. “If we had run, Mom and Dad would have been taken as slaves to pay the debt instead of us. And I doubt even that would have been enough for the collectors. They would have hunted us down to get the remainder of the money. At least this way... Mom and Dad can stay in their home. They will be okay.”

  Wyn didn't say anything in response. She just looked down, her silence more eloquent than any protest.

  “Let’s just eat,” I whispered. “Please, Wyn. Don’t leave me alone in this. I need you here with me.”

  “...Okay. Sniff...”

  She gave a tiny, jerky nod and began to eat, her tears falling silently into the bowl. I followed her lead, the food tasting like ash in my mouth. We finished the meager meal in a heavy silence and then lay down together, our bodies tangled for warmth and comfort as we hugged each other into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning, the world was still bathed in the deep indigo of pre-dawn when we were jolted awake. A female beastkin, her presence as sharp and cold as winter air, stood in the doorway. She was dressed in tight, practical clothes and carried herself with the discipline of a soldier. On the left side of her neck, a dark, intricate tattoo was visible—a mark I would soon come to know well.

  She moved through the room, waking everyone with a series of blunt commands. Once the room was cleared, she led us into a much larger, cavernous space that was almost entirely empty, save for a single chair and an armless seat positioned directly in front of it. A few minutes after we arrived, the slave merchant himself entered. He looked rested and professional as he sat in the primary chair.

  “Okay! Get in line!” the female trainer barked. “You are all going to be branded with the slave tattoo on your necks. Do not cause trouble. Do not waste the master’s time. Understand?”

  Seeing the tattoo on the trainer's own neck, I realized that she was also a slave. She was simply a higher-tier one, broken and trained to manage the newcomers. Wyn and I gripped each other’s hands, our palms slick with sweat, and joined the line. All around us, the other girls were trembling. Some began to cry in earnest, but the guards offered no comfort, only a warning glance. The girls who were next in line were paralyzed with fear, but they knew better than to disobey. They sat in the armless chair one by one, weeping as the merchant worked.

  When it was our turn, we moved forward without a word. I sat in the chair first, exposing the side of my neck. I felt the merchant’s cold, clinical fingers as he positioned my head. At first, the sensation was nothing more than a dull pressure—the feeling of a tool tracing a pattern against my skin. But then, he activated the magic within the mark.

  It started as a sharp, localized sting, but within a heartbeat, it flared into a white-hot, radiating agony. It felt as if a branding iron were being pressed into the very nerves of my neck. I clamped my jaw shut, my eyes watering as the pain pulsed for several long, suffocating seconds. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the heat receded, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache.

  I managed to stand up without making a sound, and then I watched as Wyn underwent the same ordeal. She flinched, her body tensing as the magic took hold, but she followed my example and refused to scream. Because we remained compliant, we were spared the physical corrections that the merchant dealt out to the girls who had struggled or screamed too loudly.

  Once the entire group had been branded, the trainer led us back to our room. “You have one hour,” she announced. “I will return then. Rest while you can.” She locked the door behind her once more.

  We spent that hour trying to pull ourselves back together. I focused all my energy on Wyn, rubbing her shoulders and speaking softly until she stopped shaking. Once she was calm, I moved around the room, offering small gestures of comfort to the younger girls who were still in the throes of their grief. By the time the hour had passed, the room was quiet, the initial shock having settled into a grim, hollow acceptance.

  The trainer returned exactly on time. She walked into the room and performed a slow, measuring sweep of our faces. “...It seems there are no more crying children. Good. You should get used to this reality as quickly as possible. If you want to avoid punishment, remember this: no amount of crying will ever help you again. The world you lived in before is dead. Yield, and you might survive.”

  Her voice was devoid of emotion, but I sensed a layer of hard-won advice beneath her cold exterior. She wasn't mocking us; she was teaching us the first rule of our new existence.

  “Then, let’s go,” she commanded. “Your training starts now.”

  She led us out of the building and into a wide, stone-paved courtyard behind the compound. We were lined up in neat, disciplined rows, our backs straight as we prepared for the first day of an education that was designed to strip away who we were and turn us into something else.

  [Edited]