The march clawed onward through the thickening forest, the rugged path twisting like veins through wild grain fields now trampled into muddy scars. Roots snagged at ankles, and the underbrush clawed at skirts like grasping fingers reluctant to release their hold.
Elowen's wrists burned under the iron's unyielding bite, each yank from the chain ahead pulling her into a stumbling rhythm that synced with the thunder of raider boots grinding against damp soil. Her bare feet sank into cold, jagged earth that bit like accusations with every faltering step.
The air hung heavy with the acrid tang of lingering smoke from the village fires, mingling with the damp, loamy scent of churned ferns and crushed leaves. Distant howls wove through the dense thickets—faint echoes of pursuit that set her teeth on edge, her pulse hammering a frantic beat against her ribs. Torchlight flickered erratically from the raiders' grips, casting jagged shadows that danced across gnarled trunks looming like silent witnesses.
She strained to catch Thalor Rootwhisper's eye a few paces to her left, his tall elven frame moving with strained grace despite the manacles chafing his wrists, silver-vined hair matted with sweat and dirt catching fleeting glints from the sputtering flames. His deep green gaze met hers briefly, a steady anchor in the chaos, conveying a silent vow of endurance that pierced her like a hearth's fading warmth amid the group's ragged shuffle.
But the chain jerked forward again, yanking her focus to the hunched form of Eldra Hearthveil just ahead, her skirts ragged and mud-caked, lips moving in silent fragments that barely stirred the heavy air, her once-steady whispers now reduced to shuddering breaths echoing Elowen's own pounding heart.
Gruk Fangstride prowled the rear, his beastman bulk a constant shadow, paws thudding with efficient menace as he scanned the line. His growl sliced low through the din when a villager lagged, the sound vibrating like a plucked bowstring, chain links rattling in response like mocking laughter. One of the hulking raiders—fur matted with road dust, eyes glinting like polished flint under the torch's harsh glow—swung his torch butt toward the straggler, a sharp crack splitting the night as the man crumpled into thorns with a muffled grunt.
Thorns tore at his tunic, drawing a hiss of pain that rippled through the chain, yanking elbows and shoulders in a wave of shared agony. The line shuddered to a halt, sobs breaking out in choked bursts from the dozen or so villagers bound before her, their footsteps a muffled cacophony of exhaustion and stifled cries grinding to a collective hitch.
Elowen twisted instinctively, iron grinding fresh welts into her skin where the links pulled taut, but Gruk's iron grip clamped her shoulder, shoving her back into formation with a force that jolted her off-balance. Her knee slammed into a jagged rock, biting deep and drawing a hiss she swallowed against the rising bile in her throat. "Eyes ahead, or join him in the muck," he snarled, hot breath grazing her neck, his musky fur-scent invading the space like an unwelcome snare, the metallic tang of his chain mingling with the sharp fear-sweat of her companions.
Her pulse hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs, as she forced her legs to move, bare soles sinking into cold, jagged earth that bit like accusations with every step. The distant auction lights flickered into view like predatory eyes winking through the gloom—pulsing orbs under a veiled pavilion that promised worse than the march's grind, their glow piercing the treetops like accusatory stares bathing the barriers in an unnatural, brine-tinged light.
The path steepened, forcing the group into a labored crawl, breaths heaving in ragged unison as the distant auction lights flickered into view—pulsing orbs under a veiled pavilion that promised worse than the march's grind, their glow piercing the treetops like accusatory eyes.
Elowen's mind reeled, crashing back to the village hearths where embers once glowed like shared secrets, hands linking in harvest circles without a hint of this iron weight—now, those bonds dragged in clinking mockery, the raiders' prods punctuating the air like judgments, the faint, rhythmic chant of bids already murmuring from within like a gathering storm blending with the chains' relentless clink to forge an unbreakable cage of sound and shadow.
Empathy clawed at her chest, sharp as the thorns snagging tunics, as she caught Wulfric Rootstead's steady profile mid-line—the elder's posture unbowed, murmuring low to a trembling youth beside him, words lost but intent clear in the set of his jaw, his calm piercing her like sunlight through storm clouds, stirring a surge of shared resolve amid the terror: how could such quiet strength endure this, when chains turned free spirits into hobbled shadows, turning the warmth of communal fires into this cold, grinding march?
The thought fueled her steps, legs burning as the line crested a rise, the pavilion's silhouette resolving from haze into harsh reality—wooden barriers etched with faded runes whispering of ancient trades that bound flesh to fate without mercy, braziers flaring to life like hungry eyes under the starless sky, the air thickening with the oppressive brine of sea winds clashing against raid smoke, bids swelling faintly from within like predatory calls that drowned the night's chill.
Gruk halted them with a brutal yank on the lead chain, the iron links snapping like a whip's lash, sending Elowen to her knees in slick mud that sucked at her skirts. Pain flared up her legs as her body quaked, the group's collective shuffle dying into heavy silence broken only by the raiders' torches hissing in the brine-laced wind.
The cordon tightened, hulking forms closing in with low growls and prods of chain ends that forced the line straight, villagers slumping into defeated stances under the lights' merciless glare, their faces streaked with grime and defeat frozen like masks in the pulsing glow.
Elowen lifted her head, heart pounding as Wulfric stepped forward at the front, his form squared against the encroaching light, a faint nod rippling back like a shared breath—his murmured blessing cutting through the din, "Roots hold, even in salt," a fragile vow that twisted her gut with fresh horror, empathy flaring toward Eldra Hearthveil's silent tears just ahead, the woman's fractured whispers now mere shudders echoing Elowen's own frantic pulse, the group's collective flinch rippling as raiders prodded flanks with chain ends, straightening the line under the pavilion's looming weight.
How could his enduring light yield to this, bending to chains that mocked their earth's quiet embrace, turning shared hearth glows into this salt-streaked submission under the glowing veils?
The barriers groaned open with a resonant groan, admitting the first villagers into the veiled throng beyond, where echoing bids spilled out like predatory summons, faint at first but swelling into a rhythmic chant that drowned the night's chill, pulling her inexorably toward the threshold where her own horror would confront the heart of this unyielding world, the iron's bite a final reminder that the chains' cold grasp awaited no mercy.
Thalor's green eyes caught hers one last time over the bowed heads, his nod a quiet vow amid the clink of iron and ragged breaths, but the raiders' cordon shoved the line forward, severing the connection as the barriers loomed closer, their runes pulsing like veins under the unnatural glow.
Elowen's knees trembled in the mud, the slick earth clinging to her skin like reluctant chains, her body wracked by the march's toll as the first villager was yanked through the opening, a choked sob escaping into the throng's din.
The air inside hit like a wave—thick with the metallic tang of oiled irons and the sharp, fearful sweat of dozens more like them, bids rising in guttural calls that drowned her pounding heart. Gruk's paw clamped her arm, propelling her into the veiled chaos, the glow bathing her in harsh light as veiled figures turned, eyes glinting like predators scenting fresh prey.
Her stomach twisted, the horror cresting into a suffocating wave— what fates awaited in this pulsing heart of subjugation, where even the strongest roots like Wulfric's bent without breaking? The chain yanked taut, dragging her deeper, the bids swelling to a roar that swallowed her cry before it formed.