We led the march toward the Centaur Kingdom, the once-proud assassins trailing behind us with ropes tied snugly around their torsos. The cords were tight enough to sting but not so much that they couldn't walk—though every step they took reminded them that they were no longer free warriors of the plains, but captives of those they once looked down upon. Each clop of their hooves against the dirt sounded heavy, almost resentful, like they were swallowing chunks of their pride with every stride.
Still, there was a certain tension hanging in the air, that thick, awkward kind of silence where everyone knew that one wrong move could turn into a mess. The ropes connected them together, so if one of them stumbled or tried to run, the rest would follow right after—like a herd collapsing over itself. And for a centaur, falling while bound, while seen by their enemies? That was worse than death. No warrior of their kingdom would allow themselves to be seen as that weak and that vulnerable.
