The second night taught them what the first had not.
Pain could be anticipated.
The guards did not change. The chains did not change. The routines repeated with mechanical precision, each movement rehearsed by necessity rather than memory. When the torches were lit, they were lit in the same order. When the guards rotated, they followed the same paths. Even the shouts—short, clipped commands—came at predictable intervals.
What changed was the people.
She lay awake, as she had the night before, eyes open to the dark. Bodies pressed close on either side, heat trapped between flesh and iron. The chain ran across her wrists and ankles, its weight no longer foreign, just present.
Somewhere down the line, someone whispered.
Not words at first. Just breath shaped by fear.
Then language formed.
"We should try tonight."
The voice was male, young, unsteady. He was close enough that she could hear his teeth chatter.
Another voice answered, lower, calmer. "Not tonight."
"Why not?"
"Because everyone thinks tonight is the night."
Silence followed.
She did not turn her head. Turning drew attention. Attention drew correction.
She watched the guards instead.
They leaned against carts, lanterns hanging from hooks at their belts. One rolled his shoulders to ease stiffness. Another yawned openly, unafraid. Their ease was not arrogance. It was familiarity.
They had done this before.
Many times.
Morning came slowly.
The light crept in without ceremony, thinning the dark rather than banishing it. The field beyond the wagons reappeared in fragments—cart wheels, churned soil, the edge of the trench where waste had been thrown the night before.
The chain moved before the order came.
Someone always reacted too early.
The guards struck the iron with rods, the sound sharp enough to snap nerves awake. People rose unevenly, limbs stiff, joints protesting.
A man two places down failed to stand in time. His leg had cramped during the night, muscle locked tight. He tried to straighten, breath coming fast.
A guard noticed.
The strike was quick, economical. The flat of the blade against the man's shoulder, enough to knock him sideways. The chain pulled taut, dragging others with him. Someone cried out as iron bit skin.
The man was hauled upright and shoved into position.
No further attention was paid.
They were marched back to the sorting ground.
The soil there was darker now, damp with morning dew and fluids that had soaked in overnight. The air smelled heavier, thicker than before.
Mara of the Wagons was already present, speaking with the clerk. The ledger was open, pages fluttering slightly in the breeze.
"Two didn't make it through the night," the clerk said.
Mara nodded. "Mark it. Replace them from the east group."
No pause. No question.
The line shifted as two bodies were dragged out—one limp, one stiff. Their shackles were unlocked with practiced speed, iron removed not out of mercy but efficiency. They were pulled toward the carts and tossed onto a growing pile.
Not covered.
Not arranged.
Just placed.
She watched the way their limbs settled, the finality of gravity doing what no person bothered to finish.
Work resumed immediately.
They were set to lifting again, this time clearing the edge of the field where debris had accumulated—broken shields, splintered shafts, pieces of armor crushed beyond repair.
Among the scraps lay bodies that had been missed the day before.
Not overlooked.
Abandoned.
One man tried to avoid lifting a corpse whose face had collapsed inward, features no longer recognizable. He hesitated, breath catching.
The guard behind him did not speak.
He struck.
The man lifted.
No one intervened.
She learned then that hesitation was treated as defiance.
Defiance was corrected.
Efficiency again.
By midday, the heat returned. Sweat soaked through clothes, stinging eyes and open cuts. Flies gathered thickly, settling without fear.
Someone made a decision.
It was not announced.
She noticed it only because the pattern broke.
A man near the end of the line—older than most, shoulders slumped with exhaustion—shifted his weight differently. His breathing changed. His hands tightened on the chain.
He waited until a cart rolled past, blocking the guards' view for half a second.
Then he ran.
Not toward the open field.
Toward the trench.
He moved faster than she expected. Faster than the system had trained him to.
For a moment—only a moment—space opened.
The chain snapped tight behind him, wrenching others off balance. Someone screamed as they fell. The guards shouted, voices sharp, overlapping.
The man cleared the first few steps.
Then a spear struck the ground in front of him.
Not thrown.
Placed.
He tried to stop, slipped, went down hard. A guard was on him immediately, blade flashing once, twice.
The sound was wet and brief.
The man did not scream.
When it was over, the guard stepped back, wiped his blade on the dead man's clothing, and signaled.
"Remove."
Two slaves were ordered forward.
They lifted the body by the arms and dragged it toward the pile near the carts. Blood smeared the ground behind them in a dark line that no one bothered to erase.
The body was dropped.
No one looked at it again.
Work resumed.
No speech was given. No warning repeated.
The system had demonstrated its response.
She felt the reaction ripple through the line.
Some people stiffened, muscles tight with suppressed panic.
Others sagged, relief flickering briefly across their faces—not relief that the man was dead, but relief that it had not been them.
Near her, a woman let out a slow breath and did not inhale again for several seconds.
Later, as they were herded back toward the holding area, she overheard fragments of thought, not spoken aloud but carried in posture and movement.
A young man stared at the ground, jaw clenched, eyes bright with unshed tears. His shoulders were tense, coiled, as if preparing to spring.
He would try.
Soon.
An older woman shuffled, movements small and careful. Her eyes did not lift. She conserved energy, avoided attention.
She had already decided not to run.
Another prisoner—a boy barely older than a child—watched the guards with open hatred, fists clenched until knuckles whitened.
He would not last.
Not because he was weak.
Because anger was loud.
She watched all of them.
She did nothing.
In the pen, water was distributed again. This time, the buckets were lighter. Someone complained under their breath.
A guard kicked the bucket over.
The water soaked into the dirt.
"Next," the guard said.
No replacement was offered.
As evening approached, the wind shifted. Smoke drifted in from the east again, darker now. The guards spoke more quietly, tension creeping into their movements.
She listened.
"…said it wasn't supposed to spread."
"…mages again, I heard."
"Doesn't matter. Orders'll change by morning."
War was discussed the way weather was.
Unavoidable.
Impersonal.
Night fell.
Torches were lit. Guards rotated. Keys clinked softly.
They lay down in the same formation as before, bodies pressed together, chain taut. Someone near the far end of the pen whispered prayers until a guard shouted for silence.
The prayers stopped.
In the dark, someone else tried.
This one was faster.
Younger.
He waited until the guards' attention shifted toward the road, where a cart had overturned slightly and required adjustment. He moved quietly, slipping from his place with practiced care.
She noticed because his timing was almost perfect.
Almost.
Another prisoner panicked.
The chain jerked.
A lantern swung.
Light washed over movement.
The boy froze.
A guard's shout cut through the dark.
The boy ran.
He made it three steps before the spear took him in the back.
The sound he made was short, surprised.
His body hit the ground hard.
The guards dragged him away without comment, leaving a dark smear behind.
The chain tightened again.
Silence followed.
She felt something settle inside her.
Not fear.
Understanding.
Waiting was not passive.
It was a discipline.
Those who tried too early were removed. Those who tried together failed together. Those who acted alone acted loudly.
The system did not prevent escape.
It trained people to choose the wrong moment.
She watched the guards until their movements settled into familiar patterns again.
She counted steps.
She counted pauses.
She counted how often attention drifted—and how quickly it r
eturned.
When she finally closed her eyes, it was not to sleep.
It was to remember.