Chapter 3
It took eight hours driving from the city all the way to Shadowmire Village, then another four hours trudging through the mountains.
Grandmaster Raven was in the passenger seat, eyes shut the whole ride, like she was just napping or resting her eyes.
The two brutes sat on either side of me in the back seat—their body odor was so strong, it could wipe out a whole colony of termites.
After about two hours on the road, I tried to make small talk with the brute next to me.
"Hey man, do you work out? Your shoulders are seriously jacked—"
He turned and gave me a look that could kill.
I clammed up immediately.
Well, that was a fail. Silence really is golden.
When we finally reached the foot of the mountain, we got out of the car and started the climb.
The mountain path up to Shadowmire Village was so narrow only one person could squeeze through at a time, and the jungle was so thick it felt like the trees were closing in on you. The air was so muggy, it was like being stuck inside a washing machine on rinse cycle.
After about two hours, I was panting like a lost husky.
Grandmaster Raven was striding ahead, her steps steady and unhurried, her shoes so clean it was like she was just strolling through a park instead of trekking up a mountain.
Suddenly, she broke the silence.
"Do you even know what it means to be a male slave in Shadowmire Village?"
I doubled over, hands on my hips, panting. "Not really but just from the name, I'm guessing it's not exactly a cushy gig?"
She shot me a look over her shoulder, and the curve of her lips made my skin crawl.
"Shadowmire Village has four tiers," she said.
"At the very top are Grandmaster and the elders—which is basically just me. I run the whole show.
"Next are the witches. They practice hexes and are held in high regard.
"Then there are the regular villagers, both men and women, who handle the day-to-day stuff.
"And at the very bottom—" She stopped and turned to face me.
"That's where the guys end up. The male slaves.
"So, what do they actually do?" Grandmaster Raven said, as if she was talking about the weather. "Feed Hex-Bugs, sweep the place, haul water, chop wood, get bitten by Hex-Bugs for training, act as guinea pigs for witch poison tests, and—"
She paused.
"Basically, anything the witches can't be bothered to do themselves."
I swallowed hard.
"So, do I get any perks? Like a 401k, dental, maybe paid vacation?"
Grandmaster Raven looked at me like I was totally nuts.
"And you," she continued, "are the absolute bottom rung. Even the other male slaves can order you around."
"So I'm basically the temp's temp," I nodded. "Got it. The final boss of corporate exploitation."
Grandmaster Raven just stopped talking to me, like she'd finally run out of patience.
After another two hours of hiking, we finally passed through a stone gate overgrown with vines.
The scenery suddenly opened up before me.
Shadowmire Village was way bigger than I imagined.
Over a hundred wooden houses on stilts were layered up the mountainside, the tallest one reaching all the way into the clouds.
About halfway up, there was a spacious stone plaza, and right in the center stood a massive totem pole—so big two people couldn't even hug it—etched with mysterious symbols I couldn't read.
The place was crawling with people.
Women in dark robes, hulking guys with strange tribal markings on their faces, and a bunch of men in rough-spun clothes, heads down, hustling along like they were trying not to get noticed.
Those were the male slaves.
They walked with their backs hunched, eyes locked on the ground. Whenever a witch passed by, they'd quickly step aside and give a deep bow.
The air was thick with the earthy, herbal scent of medicine and damp soil.
Somewhere in the distance, drums thudded in a slow, steady rhythm.
Grandmaster Raven strode right into the center of the stone plaza.
Before I knew it, at least a hundred people had crowded around us.
"Today, I've brought back a new male slave," she announced. Her voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the plaza heard her clear as day. "His wife destroyed my century-old Hex-Bug King. According to clan rules, the husband takes the fall for his wife's mistake—he'll serve as the lowest of the low, a bottom-tier male slave, for thirty years."
A hundred pairs of eyes all snapped to me at once.
There were all kinds of stares.
Some people looked at me with curiosity.
Some looked at me like I was garbage.
And a few of the witches were sizing me up, like I was some bargain-bin item they weren't too happy about.
One young witch leaned in and whispered to her friend, "He's so scrawny. Can he even handle any work?"
The other witch shrugged, "Well, he's got all his arms and legs. Good enough."
Seriously, are you picking out livestock or actual people?