The decision did not arrive suddenly.
It settled.
She recognized it by the way her breathing changed—not faster, not shallow, but deliberate. The kind of breath taken before lifting something heavy, knowing the strain would be unavoidable.
The chain rested across her wrists, cool against skin that had already grown accustomed to its weight. The night was quieter than the one before. Fewer screams. Fewer attempts.
The system was working.
She waited until the guards completed their rotation and returned to their idle patterns. Lanterns swayed gently. Boots scuffed dirt. Keys clinked in familiar rhythms.
She did not look at the guards.
She looked at the chain.
Leather tags were tied near the collar rings, thick strips stamped with numbers and crude symbols. They were not structural. They did not bear weight. They were identifiers—quick references for counting and sorting.
Red tags for delay. No tag for immediate transport.
Her tag was unmarked.
It would not stay that way if she waited.
She shifted her wrist slightly, testing the give in the leather. It was stiff but worn, edges softened by sweat and friction. It would not tear cleanly.
That was expected.
She needed something sharp.
Not metal.
Metal reflected light.
Her fingers brushed the ground carefully, feeling rather than searching. Pebbles. Dirt. Splinters of wood from broken crates.
Her hand closed around a shard of pottery, half-buried. The edge was uneven, jagged from a break that had not been clean.
Good.
She kept it hidden against her palm, fingers curling naturally to conceal it. No sudden movements. No tension in her shoulders.
Around her, others slept or pretended to. Someone nearby muttered in their dreams. Another coughed, the sound wet and deep.
A guard shifted position, lantern lifting briefly.
She froze.
The light passed.
She waited.
Time stretched. Not long enough to grow impatient. Long enough to confirm.
When she moved again, it was slow.
She angled the shard carefully, pressing it against the leather tag rather than skin. The pottery scraped softly, fibers resisting. She applied more pressure, adjusting the angle until the edge bit.
The sound was barely audible.
The leather gave slightly, not enough.
She pressed harder.
The shard slipped.
Pain flared briefly as the edge caught skin instead.
She did not gasp.
She did not pull away.
She adjusted.
The cut was shallow, just enough to draw warmth. Blood welled slowly, dark in the low light. She watched it for a moment—not with fear, but assessment.
Bleeding was a problem.
Uncontrolled bleeding was a bigger one.
She pressed her wrist against the ground, dirt and grit filling the cut. It stung sharply, but the flow slowed. Not stopped. Slowed.
She returned to the leather.
This time, she worked patiently, sawing with minimal motion. The fibers began to fray. One by one, they parted.
The tag loosened.
She did not remove it completely.
That would be noticed.
Instead, she cut halfway through, weakening it enough that it would tear under strain.
A risk.
But all options were.
She slid the shard back into the dirt, burying it where her fingers could find it again if needed. Then she wiped her wrist against her clothes, smearing the blood into existing grime.
She lowered her arm carefully, returning to stillness.
Her heart did not race.
That surprised her.
The pain remained, a dull throb beneath the skin, but it was manageable. She had learned already that pain was not the enemy.
Attention was.
Morning came.
The chain moved. Orders were given. People rose.
When she stood, the leather tag pulled.
It did not tear.
Not yet.
Good.
She kept her movements small, controlled. No sudden tugs. No strain.
At the sorting ground, Mara of the Wagons watched again, eyes sharp as ever. The clerk stood beside her, ledger open.
"Mark the delayed," Mara said.
A guard moved down the line, checking tags.
When he reached her, he tugged at the leather.
It held.
Barely.
He frowned, pulling again.
The tag tore partway, fibers snapping with a soft sound.
The guard cursed under his breath.
"Defective," he muttered.
He reached for a red strip.
Her breathing remained steady.
He tied the red cloth loosely around her arm and moved on.
She lowered her gaze.
Marked.
Not chosen.
The consequence arrived immediately.
She was redirected with others bearing red tags toward a separate section of the holding area. Fewer guards. Less movement. More waiting.
Delay.
This was where people went to be forgotten.
Work assignments changed. They were given lighter tasks—sorting debris, carrying supplies short distances, cleaning equipment.
The bodies they handled here were older.
Heavier.
More difficult to move.
No one expected speed from them.
That was the point.
As the day wore on, she felt the strain on the weakened leather increase. Every movement tugged slightly. Each step risked tearing it completely.
She adjusted constantly, compensating with posture and pace.
Around her, the delayed group shifted in quiet despair.
One man stared at his red tag as if it might vanish. Another laughed softly, a sound without humor.
"They don't even kill you here," he said to no one. "They just forget."
Nearby, a woman sat down suddenly, refusing to rise when ordered. A guard struck her once, twice. She still did not stand.
They dragged her away.
She did not return.
The pile near the carts grew.
That evening, as they were herded back to the pen, she noticed something else.
Guards spent less time watching the delayed group.
Their attention lingered elsewhere—on the main road, on the carts being prepared for departure.
Delay meant less priority.
Less priority meant thinner attention.
Not safe.
But thinner.
She lay down that night with her wrist aching, blood crusted beneath dirt. The cut had sealed enough to stop bleeding, but it throbbed steadily.
She welcomed the sensation.
It reminded her that the decision had been made.
Around her, whispers rose and fell. Some spoke of running again. Some spoke of giving up. Some said nothing at all.
She did not speak.
She replayed the day in her mind, examining each moment where attention had shifted, where guards had grown lax, where systems overlapped imperfectly.
The leather tag pressed against her wrist, weakened but intact.
Not yet.
She closed her eyes.