The weak ones would let it destroy them.
A worthwhile sacrifice.
It was the strong ones we wanted. Those were the ones whose screams resonated day in and day out. The sound of their suffering turned into power, turned into something we could use.
The agonizing bellows increased as the large field of burlap tents drifted into view, wavering in the cold like a mirage. Broken and stained canvas, surrounded by a sea of brown and red snow, slowly came into focus. The dirty city was nestled between the wall and the forest, the forgotten farmland the perfect hiding place. A hidden army, shielded from the mortals who flew overhead, from Ilyan who couldn’t see beyond the barrier even if he tried.
The crisp snow crunched under foot as I continued on, the guards who had surrounded Sain and me dropping their shields as we approached the first tent, a large, broken mess of fabric housing the weakest of the filth the Vil?s had infected. If they survived the first few weeks there, then they would be moved to another tent, one with marginally better conditions. First, they had to get through week one on their own. Sympathy was not a treasured trait. No one was going to help them. If they couldn’t make it, we didn’t want them, and having the tent on the outskirts made for easier clean up in those cases.
“Someone needs to take a hose to that,” I growled as we passed, the smell of blood and human excrement overwhelming as the tent walls rippled in the violent wind.
One of the guards laughed from behind me, the sound deep and callous as the men planned a spectacle of much-needed entertainment.
The vile smell grew heavier the farther into the camp we moved, but this time, it did not come from the tents. It came from the people who had begun to flow out of them. Their dirty faces were eager as they sped through the broken city toward me, their eyes wide, bright, desperate.
“My lady,” an old woman—or rather, what looked like an old woman—mumbled as she bowed beside me, the tattered sheets she used as a coat slipping off her bare and bloodied shoulders.
I looked away in disgust, fully aware they were coming faster now, drawn to me like a moth to a flame. Mumbled greetings, pleas, and tears of desperation were repeated as the guards closed ranks, their massive, burly figures serving as a protective barrier as they kicked and shoved the slowly intruding garbage.
I kept my eyes diverted ahead as I glowered, my heart thundering proudly at the beautiful mass of serfs my father had created.
“Please, my lady. I have fought twice. Food … It’s all I ask.” One voice rose above the rest as a muscular man attempted to break through the guards, only to be shoved backward into an already collapsing tent, the burlap folding around him like paper.
I watched him fall, laughing at his foolery, at them all. It was always the same: food, safety, loyalty. All those things must be earned, and they knew it. It was why they bowed, why they cowered. It was why they threw tattered coats down for me to walk on, muttering long forgotten Czech prayers.
“My lady,” a blonde girl mumbled as she pressed against a guard, her hand stretched toward me in a frantic need to touch me, worship me.
Lips snarling in disgust, I pressed one finger against her palm before she backed away, tears streaming down her face in a revered look that smothered me.
I had trained them well, it seemed. Ingrained in them a love of who I was and what I meant to them. Fear of what I could easily do to them.
My usual wicked grin broke over my face in a toothy smile that made them cower more.
Voices called and begged in one final plea as I reached the tent my father would be holed up in. The massive structure loomed over us, screams emanating from somewhere inside so loudly I could barely hear the pleas of the refuse I was surrounded by.
“My lady,” my guards echoed in unison as they flanked the doors, lifting the tent flaps and allowing me to duck into the wide open warmth of the reception room, the wails of the masses muted by the heavy canvas I was now enclosed in.
“Ovailia,” a short, darkly colored man greeted me the moment the flaps had closed, his voice a hollow reverberation as he moved toward me.
He was obviously happy to see me, and judging by his body language, he expected some sort of embrace or handshake. Staring at him, I raised my eyebrows in a questioning disgust as I checked my designer heels for any unwanted filth that might have followed me in here, silently wishing to find some to throw at him.
“Damek,” I practically growled, my distaste from seeing him leaking through, not that I tried to conceal it.