Page 43 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
"Too many," I said grimly. "And every single one of them was someone's child once."
The thought sat between us like a stone, heavy and cold. I'd served the Empire for fifteen years before my conscience finally rebelled against an order I couldn't stomach. I'd thought I understood the depths of Imperial cruelty, but this... this was beyond anything I'd imagined. To systematically steal children, enslave them, breed them like animals—it was a horror so vast I struggled to comprehend it.
"We should get the camp set up," Antonius said finally. "Give her something normal to focus on."
I nodded, grateful for his practical wisdom. Antonius had always been good at reading what people needed, even when they couldn't articulate it themselves. It was one of the many things I valued about our friendship—that and his unwavering loyalty to the people he loved.
We worked in companionable silence, setting up the small tent that would serve as Livia's quarters and arranging our own bedrolls nearby. The familiar routine seemed to help ground her somewhat, and by the time we had everything arranged to our satisfaction, some colour had returned to her cheeks.
"Thank you," she said softly, settling onto her bedroll and leaning back against Sirrax's warm flank. The dragon shifted slightly to accommodate her, and I saw her tension ease marginally at the contact.
"Always," I replied, meaning it completely.
As evening fell, I took advantage of my invisible status to move through the camp. It was one of the few benefits of slavery—people looked through you rather than at you, which made gathering information remarkably easy. Soldiers talked freely around servants, officers discussed strategy within earshot of the help, and no one thought twice about a slave moving through areas that might be restricted to others.
The first thing that struck me was the professionalism of the force assembled here. These weren't green recruits or garrison troops called up for duty. These were veterans, soldiers who moved with the confidence of men who'd seen real combat and survived it. Their equipment was well-maintained, their formations precise, their discipline unshakeable.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
I turned to find a grizzled sergeant watching me observe his men. He was missing two fingers on his left hand and bore a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw—marks of a career soldier.
"Yes, sir," I replied, adopting the deferential tone expected of a slave. "Very impressive."
"Twenty years I've been training boys to kill," he continued, apparently in a talkative mood. "These lads are the finest I've ever seen. Shame they'll be wasted on this campaign."
Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. "Wasted, sir?"
He spat into the dirt, his expression turning sour. "Talfen aren't soldiers, boy. They're savages. No discipline, no formation fighting, no real military training to speak of. This won't be a war—it'll be a slaughter. These fine troops will be putting down rabid animals, not fighting a proper enemy."
The casual dismissal of an entire people as animals made my stomach turn, but I kept my expression neutral. "I see, sir."
"Course, there's talk of some new wrinkle," he continued, lowering his voice slightly. "Shadow magic, they're calling it.Bunch of nonsense if you ask me, but it's got the officers spooked."
My pulse quickened. "Shadow magic, sir?"
"Aye. Supposedly the Talfen have mages who can manipulate darkness itself—turn shadows into weapons, blind our forces, that sort of thing." He snorted derisively. "Probably just tricks with smoke and mirrors, but you know how superstitious these young officers can be."
I nodded noncommittally, filing the information away. If there was truth to these rumours, it might explain some of the tension I'd noticed among the command staff.
"Well, I'd better get back to it," the sergeant said, straightening. "These weapons won't sharpen themselves."
"Of course, sir. Thank you for your time."
He wandered off, and I continued my circuit of the camp. Near the command pavilion, I caught fragments of a conversation between Jalend and several other Wing Commanders. They were clustered around a map table, their voices low but urgent.
"—reports from the border scouts are troubling," one of them was saying. "Entire patrols just... vanishing. No bodies, no signs of struggle, nothing."
"Shadow mages," another replied grimly. "Has to be. The descriptions match what we know of their capabilities."
"What do we actually know?" Jalend's voice, carefully controlled but with an undertone of strain that made me pay closer attention. "I mean, these abilities were supposedly wiped out generations ago."
"Were they?" The first commander leaned forward, his expression grim. "Or did we just drive them deeper underground? Think about it—we've been hunting anyone showing even a hint of magical ability for decades. Killing children, burning entire families. But magic like that doesn't just disappear."
"The purges were necessary," the second commander interjected, but he sounded less certain than his words suggested. "Shadow magic is unnatural, corrupting. Better to err on the side of caution."
"Tell that to the six-year-old girl they burned in Thessia last winter," Jalend said quietly, and something in his tone made the others shift uncomfortably. "She could make flowers grow faster. Hardly the stuff of nightmares."
"That's not the point," the first commander snapped. "Magic is magic. Once you allow some, how do you control it? How do you keep it from spreading?"
