The Commander's Collar

CHAPTER 5-- MERCHANDISE

LYRA ARDEN

The worst part of being captured was not the chain. It was discovering how quickly the body got used to it.

On the first day, the iron around my ankle felt monstrous. Heavy, cold, impossible to ignore. Every step pulled at my skin, and I stared at it as if sheer hatred could open the lock.

By the third day, I simply lifted my foot a little higher to keep the chain from dragging over the stones.

That was what frightened me.

How easy it was.

How someone could get used to almost anything if there was no alternative.

There were twenty-seven humans in the wagon when we left the Neutral Lands. The next morning, twenty-five. An old man died during the night. Another tried to run when they stopped to give us water and took an arrow in the back before reaching the trees.

No one tried after him.

I almost did.

Every time the road curved, I calculated the distance to the woods, how many guards were mounted, which one seemed the least attentive. Then I remembered Elias lying at home and Rowan bleeding, and the idea changed shape.

I could not simply escape in any direction. I needed to get back south.

I needed a healer, needed to find out whether there was still anyone left to save.

The jar of herb mixture I kept hidden beneath my clothes began to run low on the second day.

I used little. I rubbed the resin on my neck, my wrists, under my arms, between my breasts compressed by the bindings. The bitter smell clung to my skin and mixed with sweat.

One of the men beside me complained once.

"That stuff stinks like horse salve," a merchant muttered.

"Thank you."

He looked at me as if I were insane.

But I would rather be insane than a woman in that place.

When we reached a fortress, I understood why no one had tried to escape during the last few miles.

The structure occupied a rise of black stone, with walls that seemed to grow out of the mountain itself. Low, broad towers, built for war, not beauty. Dark banners snapped in the wind. There were three different symbols above the main gate.

Three commands.

Three men powerful enough to share one place without killing each other—or perhaps they simply had not managed it yet.

We were taken into an inner courtyard, and there a sorting process began.

I could not find a better word for it.

Market would have been more honest, but there were no buyers walking around with purses of coins. There were scribes, soldiers, physicians, and officials evaluating people as though choosing tools.

"Age."

"Thirty-two."

"Profession."

"Blacksmith."

"Hands."

The man held out his hands. The scribe pressed his fingers, examined the calluses, and pointed left.

"Forge."

Another.

"Profession?"

"Teacher."

Laughter.

"Quarry."

The teacher went pale.

That was where I learned there were degrees to being looked at like merchandise.

Strong men had hands placed on their shoulders, teeth inspected, questions asked about age and trade. With me, the looks lingered on my face. One evaluator held my chin and turned my head from side to side.

"Too small for the quarry."

"Too pretty, too," another replied.

They said it in front of me with the ease of men choosing a horse. A chill ran through me.

For the first time, I thought the disguise might save me from one cage only to push me into another. I had spent my life trying to look like a man. I had never thought about the kind of man the world also bought.

When it was my turn, a guard shoved me forward.

The official was human. That surprised me more than it should have. He wore good clothes, a bronze ring, and a small mark on his collar indicating some administrative rank.

He did not look like a prisoner. He looked like an employee.

"Name."

"Lyr Arden."

I made my voice deliberately rough.

"Age."

"Twenty-two."

He raised his eyes. Looked at my face too long.

"Profession."

"Farmer."

"You?"

"Do I look like a prince?"

The man beside him laughed, but he did not.

"Take off your coat."

My blood went cold.

"Why?"

"To evaluate you."

"I'm perfectly fine dres—"

I did not finish. The guard behind me struck me between the shoulder blades with the shaft of his spear. Not hard enough to knock me down, but the message was clear.

My hands began to sweat.

I could take off the coat. Underneath were a loose shirt, a vest, and bindings. Even so, every layer removed increased the risk.

I took it off slowly.

The official looked at my arms.

I had muscle, just not the kind those men wanted for quarry work. Years of carrying sacks, pulling rope, and hunting had made me firm, but still small.

"Turn around."

I turned.

He felt my shoulder. I forced myself not to pull away.

"Too light," he said, and then caught my chin.

My body reacted before reason.

My hand rose to push him away, but the guard grabbed my wrist.

"Still."

The man tilted my face toward the light.

"Too pretty to send to the quarry."

My stomach turned again. I had already heard that in the city.

Pretty was not a compliment when someone was deciding where to place your chain.

"Internal service," he concluded.

The scribe wrote it down.

"Kitchen?"

"Maybe... Table. Chambers. Events. The Lords will decide."

A man on the other side commented:

"Drayke likes pretty males."

A few of them laughed.

My face heated with anger and fear.

"He likes ugly ones too," another answered. "Drayke's problem is a lack of standards."

"Shut up," the official said, though he was smiling.

I was pushed into a smaller line. To our right, women were being assessed separately.

I tried not to look, but I could not stop myself.

A young woman was naked to the waist while a female healer examined her breasts, abdomen, hips, teeth. There was no eroticism at all in the woman's expression. It was literally an inspection. That young woman's beautiful body—small breasts, a narrow waist, brown skin marked by dust—did not seem to belong to her on that table.

A scribe read information aloud.

"Human. Twenty-six. No children. Regular cycle reported. No house mark."

"Average value," someone replied.

The young woman closed her eyes.

Average value.

I felt an absurd urge to vomit.

Another woman, older, was sent to a different group because she already had two living children. That increased her value.

The birth rate of girls had fallen for generations until every female womb became a state statistic. My father had told me about it the way someone explains an ancient plague: first one girl for every five boys, then one for ten, then entire regions going years without recording a female birth. When beasts took control of much of the continent, the problem worsened because some bloodlines almost stopped producing daughters altogether.

I knew the numbers. But I had never seen the numbers breathe, cry, and be forced to open their clothing for inspection.

My name was called.

"Lyr Arden. Internal service, central wing."

A simple iron collar was brought over. I stepped back.

"No..."

The guard laughed.

"No?"

"You don't need that."

"Every slave does."

The metal closed around my neck with a small click. It was a ridiculous sound.

So small for something that changed the way I breathed. I brought a hand to the iron.

It was cold and heavy.

My father had spent twenty-two years making sure no collar ever touched my skin.

It had taken me less than a week away from home to earn one.

That night, when they shut the dormitory door, I heard a guard say the three commanders would arrive at dawn. I still did not know that one of them would change my life. I only knew I wanted to be far away before he breathed near me.