Fialova crouched behind the gnarled trees, her breath shallow and cold. She had found them—finally.
The stench of smoke and sweat filled the air, mingling with the low growls of men and the occasional, heart-wrenching cry of a child.
The tribe's camp sprawled ahead, its crude tents scattered like a disease over the hollowed earth. She could see them all, the captors and the enslaved, clear as day.
A sharp crack split the air, followed by a scream.
"Move your ass!" bellowed one of the Peliotus men, his whip snapping over the back of a gaunt Valtirium man.
The man stumbled but caught himself, trembling as he hauled a bundle twice his size.
"You there! What are you stopping for?" another Peliotus snarled, raising his whip to strike.
Fialova's stomach churned as she spotted children among the enslaved. Tiny, frail hands scrubbed the mud-caked ground, their eyes hollow.
