Spoils of War

Bryton doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him when he comes to Amora, the city of the elves. He’s caged and shackled in a cart with a dozen other soldiers. They’re wheeled through the city gates from the front lines and brought, still dirty and bloody from the war – a war which they lost – to a large stone complex with walls that rise high above them. They’re pulled from the cart and lined up in the yard. Their uniforms are stripped away, cut by knives that come too close to the skin for comfort. Then they’re showered with torrential streams of cold water and herded into pens like cattle.

One by one, they’re taken away. Elves come and point and look, speaking in a language that Bryton doesn’t know. Few of them do more than glance Bryton’s way, and he’s not sure whether to be happy for it or sad. He doesn’t know what happens to the ones that are chosen. He doesn’t know if their lot is better than those left behind in the cold pens with dirt floors and bread and water for rations.

He doesn’t have long to ponder.

It’s hard to tell night from day in the pens, but he thinks it’s two weeks in when a dark-skinned elf, heavily tattooed, with silver rings running the length of his pointed ears, comes and points at Bryton. The man exchanges words with the elf who runs the pens and then Bryton is being pulled out by his shackles. He’s taken to another room where his shackles are bolted to the center of the floor with just enough give that Bryton doesn’t have to hunch over.