Inside, it smells like leather and metal, a good omen. As my eyes adjust, dark shapes materialize around me. The nearest shadow to me turns out to be a pile of blankets. A stack of horseshoes is next to it. I make my way carefully, gingerly feeling everything in my path. Smooth leather saddles, wood bristle brushes…I know it must be in here. The traders wouldn’t travel without something so important.

Finally, my fingers brush a thin metal rod. I follow it with my hands and feel the flat wave patterns at the end, the weight of good, smooth metal. The branding iron.

I slip the iron down the back of my tunic. The branding surface chills the skin of my back. Then I get out of the camp as quick as I can manage. Slicewing flies above my head as I trek across the hills, putting as much distance between me and the horse traders as I can. Finally, when the moon’s about to set, I find a place to rest.

I set the branding iron in front of me, and it taunts me as I gather brush for a fire, poking at memories I’ve long tried to suppress. In the dungeons, they branded the prisoners marked for slavery in the same interrogation rooms where they tortured us. I can still hear the sizzle of first contact, smell the odor of burning flesh. I’d rather stick my hand into the coals than relive these moments, but now I must bring them back, sift them for details. How hot did the slaver heat the iron? How long did he hold it against each man’s skin?

The branding iron is patterned in three curved bars that remind me of horse tails. I stick it into the heart of the fire and watch it take on a devilish glow. As the iron gets hot, I tear up some greener blades of grass and knot them around my arms. I also snap a large stick off a dwarf tree and strip off the spiny leaves.

The screams of the interrogation room echo in my head. We were so helpless in there. So utterly at their mercy.

My heart’s pounding hard against my rib cage as I remove the branding iron from the fire. What I wouldn’t do for a jug of wine right now.

I bite down on the stick.

Breathe, Dineas, breathe.

My hand shakes. I drop the iron back into the fire. I can’t do this.

But I must. For Gatha. For my mother. For my father.

I grab the iron again. Flesh sizzles. White-hot pain sears my skin. That old familiar smell drifts to my nostrils. I swallow a groan and count to three. Then I throw the thing to the ground. My arm feels like it’s being attacked by flaming bees. I lean over to the side and vomit.