A group approached from the road behind us. At the front rode… ah, come on. Tornhawk, sitting tall on his horse, with three men flanking him. Behind them, two horses pulled a reinforced wagon fitted with iron bars. Inside, six prisoners were crammed together, wrists bound, bodies bruised.
Ken and I stepped aside as they came to a stop.
"Well, well," Tornhawk said as he swung off his horse. "The prisoner lives."
I said nothing.
"Prisoner?" Ken glanced at me. "He talking about you?"
"Probably not," I replied.
"Get out," Tornhawk barked, moving toward the wagon.
He opened the cage and dragged the prisoners out one by one, shoving them into a rough line. Then he walked back to his saddle and pulled out several devices.
They were thick metal collars, heavy and cold-looking, etched with glowing blue runes that pulsed like veins. Small crystals were embedded at the front, humming faintly.
One by one, he snapped them around the prisoners' necks. Each click sounded final.
