The field had not always been a field.
The soil remembered that, even if no one else did.
It was compacted unevenly, pressed down by more weight than rain or harvest ever could have managed. Wherever the surface split open, the earth beneath was darker, thickened by fluids that had soaked in and refused to fade. Grass no longer grew here. What remained were stubble-like roots torn short and trampled flat, as if the land itself had been shaved down to something easier to walk over.
They called it a battlefield.
No one fought here anymore.
She stood in line with her hands bound in iron, staring at a body that had been placed face-up by accident rather than care.
The boy could not have been older than sixteen.
That detail registered without emotion, the way numbers did. His clothes were torn but not stripped. His boots were still on. Someone had not bothered to take them. His chest was still. A puncture wound sat cleanly beneath his ribs, dark around the edges, precise enough to suggest intent rather than panic.
She did not know him.
That meant nothing.
Recognition required names, and names were already gone.
The chain tightened as the line shifted.
Metal pulled against metal, the pressure traveling through wrists and ankles alike. Someone behind her lost balance and collided into her back. She absorbed the impact without turning, adjusting her stance so the pull did not rebound through the others. That earned her nothing. It only prevented attention.
A boot struck her between the shoulder blades.
Not hard enough to knock her down. Hard enough to remind.
She stumbled forward one step, caught by the chain before she could fall.
"Move, No. 1145."
The voice was flat, irritated rather than angry.
She straightened immediately.
The number was not shouted. It was not emphasized. It was spoken the way one might correct a tool that had stalled. Efficient. Impersonal.
She lowered her gaze and stepped forward as ordered.
The boy disappeared from her vision as the line advanced.
They were arranged in groups of fifty, each set linked by a shared iron chain threaded through collar rings and ankle shackles. The iron was old, worn smooth where skin and metal had rubbed together over time. Whoever had designed the restraints had not intended them to be flawless. They were meant to be sufficient.
Sufficiency was cheaper than perfection.
Guards walked alongside the lines rather than in front of them. Three per group. One at the head, one drifting near the rear, one pacing the side. None held their weapons tightly. Their attention was divided outward rather than inward.
She noticed all of it without lifting her head.
They were moving bodies from the center of the field toward carts stationed at the far end. The carts were low and wide, built to carry weight rather than shape. Two slaves worked each side, lifting corpses by wrists or ankles and swinging them up in practiced motions.
Some bodies were light.
Some were not.
When her group reached the carts, she stepped into position automatically. Her hands closed around the forearm of a dead woman. The skin was already cooling, stiff but not yet rigid. She adjusted her grip so her nails would not tear.
Across from her, an older woman struggled with the opposite arm. Her breathing was uneven, shallow, the sound catching in her throat.
"Iren," someone murmured nearby. "Slow."
The name passed quietly through the line, barely more than breath.
She did not repeat it.
Names drew attention.
Together, they lifted. The corpse's arm bent at an angle that no longer matched its joint. The weight shifted suddenly, and for a moment the body slipped. She compensated without looking, shifting her stance, tightening her grip until the balance returned. The body landed in the cart with a dull sound, flesh against wood.
"Again," a guard said.
They turned back.
She worked steadily, neither the fastest nor the slowest. Speed invited scrutiny. Slowness invited correction. The ideal pace was forgettable.
Between lifts, she counted.
Not the bodies.
The guards.
The one behind them favored his right leg. His stride shortened slightly every fourth step. The one on the side drank from his flask regularly, though the intervals varied depending on noise elsewhere in the field. The front guard scratched his jaw when bored.
Keys hung from their belts in clusters.
Not individual.
Shared.
Three keys per ring, identical teeth.
Shared locks saved time.
Shared systems failed together.
She stored the observation without letting her breathing change.
The sun climbed. Heat settled over the field, drawing a thicker smell from the ground. Flies gathered in dense clouds, fearless. Sweat stung her eyes, but she did not lift her hand to wipe it away.
When the carts were filled, they were rolled off and replaced with empty ones. The bodies were not counted. No one recorded where they came from or where they went.
The boy did not appear again.
That, too, meant nothing.
A commotion rose from the far edge of the field. New voices. Sharper. Less controlled. The sound of people who had not yet learned to conserve air.
New captives.
The guards' attention shifted subtly, heads turning, posture changing. Orders were shouted. Someone laughed.
She felt the timing register without conscious thought.
Distraction lengthened when it came from ignorance rather than defiance.
The line was ordered to move again, this time away from the field toward the holding area beside the wagons. It was not a camp. It was a pause—ropes strung between iron stakes, carts forming the outer boundary. The ground there was packed hard by repetition.
They were sorted again.
Chains of fifty were separated and directed to different sections. She felt the pull as her group veered left, the motion transmitted through iron and muscle alike.
They were told to sit.
The ground was cold and uneven. She lowered herself carefully, easing the chain so it would not jolt the others. Around her, people collapsed without caution, exhaustion overriding fear.
Food arrived in buckets.
Thin porridge ladled into wooden bowls, distributed quickly and unevenly. Those nearest the front received full scoops. Those at the back scraped what remained.
She accepted her portion without comment.
She did not eat immediately.
People who ate too fast often vomited. Vomiting drew attention.
She waited until the guards moved on, then drank slowly, letting the warmth spread before swallowing fully.
Across the pen, a thin boy stared at his bowl as if it might vanish. His hands shook.
"Eat," someone whispered near him.
He did.
A woman in cleaner clothes walked along the wagons, flanked by another carrying a ledger. She did not wear a weapon. She did not need to.
Mara of the Wagons.
The name passed through the pen in fragments, carried by those who had heard it before. She watched the intake with narrowed eyes, speaking in short, precise instructions.
"Count them twice," she said. "Mark the sick. I won't have spoilage on the road."
Her gaze swept over the captives.
Not faces.
Numbers.
She looked away before it lingered.
As afternoon wore on, the heat worsened. The smell thickened. People shifted restlessly, chains clinking softly.
Someone near the edge of the pen tried to stand without permission. A guard struck him with the flat of his blade and moved on.
No lecture.
No spectacle.
Efficiency.
When water came, it came late. Buckets passed down the line, each person allowed two mouthfuls before being pushed aside. The water tasted metallic, but it was wet.
She drank carefully.
Nearby, the older woman—Iren—shifted, trying to adjust her position. Her foot slipped in the dirt. The chain tightened abruptly, pulling her sideways. She cried out as iron bit into her ankle.
The sound was small.
The guard noticed anyway.
He crossed the distance and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. Her head snapped to the side. She swayed but did not fall.
"Sit," he said.
She tried. Her leg buckled.
The guard lifted his boot.
She adjusted her position without looking, shifting her weight so the chain slackened just enough to take some of the strain. It was subtle. Barely visible.
The older woman's breathing steadied.
The guard snorted and turned away, interest already lost.
She did not look at the woman.
Looking invited gratitude.
Gratitude invited attachment.
Attachment was a liability.
Night came without ceremony.
Torches were lit around the pen. Guards rotated. Keys jingled. Somewhere beyond the wagons, someone screamed—not from pain, but from panic.
She watched the guards instead of the darkness.
She counted steps.
She counted pauses.
She counted how often attention drifted.
When someone whispered about running, she did not answer.
Not yet.
She lay down when ordered, chain pulling tight as bodies pressed together. The ground beneath her was cold and damp. The smell of rot clung to everything.
Above her, the sky was empty.
She did not close her eyes.
She waited.