Welsh took note of the other slaves, including those in the trees. The climbers focused on cutting enough limbs to get the deadrot on the ground, while those who had remained on the ground watched them work while trying to ignore the injured man.

  Welsh did notice, however, that the same curious slave as before was the exception. Instead of watching the climbers, his eyes were fixed on the man who lay on the ground. He had an eagerness in his eyes, as if he were contemplating something.

  It wasn’t long before Welsh’s attention was brought back to Soralees, who was now thoroughly enjoying himself. A broken slave was the best kind of fun: it was permission to project power and be as brutal and demented as one wanted.

  Soralees placed his small webbed feet on the slave’s injured leg and slowly, deliberately pressed down. The slave wailed in pain, inaudibly making noises as if he were pleading but just didn’t know the words.

  Lonnek looked up to Welsh expectantly, and Welsh could feel instant anger building within him. Of course, part of it was due to Soralees’s treatment of the slave—Welsh didn’t understand the need for torturing his food—but also the threatening amount of noise that echoed throughout the area. If Soralees continued this, he would undoubtedly summon the Korvis.

  “Soralees,” Welsh said, “be done with it.”

  Soralees turned his attention to Welsh. His face was scrunched up and his eyes were thin and wild. “Remember what I told you, Welsh.”

  The slave continued to groan.

  Welsh hadn’t forgotten. He wanted to avoid a confrontation with the Elite if possible. It wasn’t that he feared Soralees; rather, a fight between the two would cause quite the commotion, and commotion was exactly what Welsh was trying to avoid.

  “I couldn’t care less about your stomach, Soralees. That screaming slave will alert every Korvis within a mile. You know I’m right.”

  Soralees kept his foot planted firmly on the slave’s leg, clearly pondering what Welsh had said. Finally, he lifted his foot to the relief of the writhing slave.

  “Fine,” he said, walking in Welsh’s direction.

  “Do things your way, then. I’ll be just over there.” He pointed off into the distance at a small gathering of trees that surrounded a small clearing. “That looks like a pleasant place to enjoy my meal. Have the others bring him over once you’ve finished.”

  He then moseyed off, sauntering slowly to his makeshift dining room.

  The slave had now risen up, watching Soralees. His face was flush, bright red from the pain.

  Welsh sighed. This was the part of the job he hated.

  Lonnek looked up to Welsh as if questioning what he would do. He only grimaced before walking in the direction of the injured slave.

  The extent of the slave’s injuries became even more clear as Welsh drew closer. The slave’s eyes were widened in fear and his chest began to rise and fall faster as he noticed Welsh. While he wasn’t as loud as he had been during Soralees’s torture, he was still moaning and groaning from the pain.

  And it was easy to see why.

  He lay on his back, and his right leg was bent at an acute angle, stretching outward unnaturally. His left leg was even worse. A few inches below the knee, his trousers were darkened with crimson blood, and a knot could clearly be seen beneath his trousers from where his tibia had snapped and popped through the skin.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Welsh kneeled down beside him. The slave began panting and making more noise.

  “Shhh,” Welsh said, holding out his hand as if to comfort the slave. The slave tried to quiet himself, but it was fruitless, as the pain was simply unbearable.

  Welsh thought for a moment before extending his claws, hiding his outstretched fingers behind his bent knee. He didn’t want the slave to see and move at the last moment. This needed to be over quick.

  Before making his move, he looked around to the other slaves, who, for the most part, continued to watch the climbers do their work. They still cut, broke, and untwisted limbs high up in the deadrot.

  One slave, however, continued to keep his eyes on his fallen comrade. It was the same one as before. The same slave who had taken such interest in the first injured human. The same slave who seemingly had trouble minding his own business. Welsh had had enough. He had to know why this slave was so interested in the misery of others.

  Unfortunately, that would have to wait. The time had come.

  In an instant, Welsh drew back his arm and effortlessly thrust the entirety of his hand through the chest of the doomed slave. A small gasp, followed by a spat of blood, made its way through the slave’s lips, but for the most part, he was silent. In only a few seconds, his entire body went limp and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  “Well done,” Lonnek said from behind Welsh.

  Welsh drew in a deep breath. It certainly wasn’t the first human he had killed, but for him, it never got any easier. He pulled his hand from the slave’s chest and snapped his fingers loudly. The other slaves read the signal and now turned their attention to him. He pointed to the dead slave, then to the clearing where Soralees waited for his meal. Several slaves gathered around their deceased comrade and lifted him from the ground.

  As they walked away, Welsh stepped forward, placing his blood-covered hand on the chest of the slave he had been watching.

  “Not you,” he said.

  The slave’s eyes widened, and his eyes began darting back and forth, unsure what to do.

  “I’ve been watching you. Can you speak?”

  The slave looked at him cluelessly. Slaves weren’t created equally. In some camps, such as camp Jhin-Jhin, where slaves worked closely with one another, slaves were more intelligent and could communicate moderately well. Keldarn was different. The buildings of the camp were strewn across the forest of deadrot and were completely isolated.

  It definitely wasn’t a camp where a slave would want to be.

  The slave, still surprised he was being singled out, shook his head vehemently.

  “I figured as much,” Welsh said, before grabbing the slave’s hand and turning it to reveal his forearm. There, tattooed in black ink, was the number 14754A.

  The slave jumped, startled.

  Welsh took note of the number. He was confused. Every slave had an ID number that was used to catalog and track them across the camps, but this one was different. He had never seen one with a letter in it before.

  “Lonnek,” he said, “come here.”

  Lonnek stepped close. Welsh nodded to the number on the slave’s arm, and Lonnek took pause.

  “This... What is this?” Lonnek asked.

  Welsh shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  While the two of them pondered the slave’s identity, the body of the dead slave had been delivered to Soralees, and the slaves were returning. In the distance, Welsh could make out the sound of tearing flesh and the unmistakable cracking of bone between reptilian teeth.

  Welsh could feel 14754A’s arm trembling in his grasp. Welsh made a mental note that he would ask about the slave’s number when he returned to camp and released the slave’s arm.

  “Go,” he said, pointing. 14754A scurried back to the others, clearly eager to leave the situation.

  “What does it mean?” Lonnek asked.

  Welsh didn’t answer.

  Welsh went through all the options in his head, and none of them made sense as to why this slave had a letter. Welsh kept his eyes on him, watching him as he stood silently amongst the others. Unlike the others, however, his gaze consistently wandered in the direction of his devoured comrade.

  Why was he so interested in the others? He seemed infatuated by the lame and obsessed with the injured and the dead.

  Welsh sighed. It was unfortunate. His actions brought too much attention to himself and would surely get him killed.

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