So...this is going to seem really random, but this has been on my heart as of late, and I feel that it needs to be addressed. Don't worry, I'll try to keep it short.

As you all know, I've been tackling some...difficult topics in this story. I want you to know that I don't enjoy what I've done- quite the contrary. It hurts. But I feel that the subjects I've covered so far are very serious and need to be confronted more often than they are. The self-image problems that Jay and Cole dealt/are dealing with are no laughing matters. Neither are Kai's wounds- or Kaeli's, or any of the other slaves'. I continue to write on these difficult topics because I want to show that there is hope; wounds can heal, pain can grow dull. I pray that I have done a decent job showing respect to these topics so far, and have dealt with each of them accordingly.

I want you guys to know, if any of you are struggling in any way, you can come and talk to me. I can pray for you, or just listen. I had friends in this fandom who have listened while I was struggling with depression years ago, and I will gladly extend the same courtesy to any who come to me.

Whew. Well, then. On a less serious note, Miraculous Ladybug showed up on Netflix recently. It's so great. I mean, it's silly, and the villains seem a bit uninspired, but the ships make me so happy. Also, I've come to the conclusion that Cat Noir and Kyle are one and the same. GASP. Would that make Vara Ladybug? Ohh man, this'd be a cool crossover... Also, despite popular opinion, I'm skeptical about Gabriel and Hawk Moth being the same guy. I mean, he could be, but I can't help but feel the writers are making it *too* obvious. My theory is that Gabriel's wife held the peacock Miraculous, and she died while doing something...heroic, for lack of a better word. Anyways, Gabriel might have recognized Adrien's ring as a Miraculous because of his wife and that book. Which would explain his odd reaction when he noticed the ring, and why he's been so protective of Adrien his whole life: he lost his wife, he doesn't want to lose his son, too. I could be wrong. Regardless, I'm excited to see where season 2 takes us!

...Hosts, I just need to join that fandom already. Write some love square fluff. I have so many ideas, but not enough time. XD

Out of the Frying Pan

Zane and his company- which included Josi, Iam, and several dozen Southern soldiers- traveled in weary silence toward the Southern village of Kosima. Even from a distance Zane could see the smoke; a dark, thick, acrid haze. Traffic was heavy on this road in both directions. Some hurried away from the town, laden with everything they could save from the growing fires that threatened their homes. Others, curious passersby, just wanted to see what was going on. Talk was plentiful as people asked one another what was happening in the village ahead: "Look, there's Lord Zane! The riot must be bad if he's taken the time to come all the way out here himself…" "I wonder if he knows what's going on in Kosima?" "That so-called lord has a lot of nerve showing his face after what he's done to the South…" "Why is that fool out here? He should be planning the war!"

Thankfully, Zane's stern expression kept most people from trying to talk to him directly, and his party moved quickly.

This was the third riot they'd responded to since Peran's untimely betrayal and disappearance the night before. All of the riots of the past day had happened in a different town or village surrounding Sheshin, the capital of the South. And each riot seemed more vicious than the last. As the number of dead and wounded continued to rise, the number of people demanding change- and more often as the days wore on, war- increased dramatically.

Zane rode through the throngs of people as if in a trance, tiredly making his horse travel at a steady trot toward the fracas in town. He knew what he was riding toward would be essentially the same scene he had ridden into every other time before now: fire, blood, perhaps even kidnappings- though for what reason the latter occurred, Zane hardly dared to guess.

"The plague is already killing so many people," Josi said in her soft voice. She rode beside Zane, and despite her alert posture there was a relatable weariness in her eyes. "Why must the people kill each other, too? They should be working together to defeat our main enemy."

Zane knew that the "main enemy" she spoke of was the plague, not Garmadon. But Zane chose to save his energy and said nothing.

To a degree, Zane could still feel the tension between himself and Josi. But, especially in the past two days, that tension had been worn down by weariness until it became difficult to remember what their original argument had been about. They simply offered each other mutual, wordless support as they traveled from town to town helping the wounded, encouraging the general populace, and interrogating the rioters.

So far, these interrogations felt utterly useless. The enraged men and women seemed to have no reason for the senseless protest and killings except that violence was an easy way for them to express themselves in light of all the terrible things that had happened to them in recent months.

But if you don't like the way I do things, Zane always told them, you could have simply left the South, instead of causing all this trouble.

That's where they usually fell silent, seething with wordless rage, or shouted the same phrases and obscenities over and over again until Zane ordered them from the room.

All too often it seemed that the problem with the Southern citizens was not that they wanted the South to surrender, but that they thought Zane was not radical enough to rule this, as one rioter had curiously called it, "bright new world."

After a whole day of attending to these riots, the soldiers had fallen into a rhythm. As Zane and his escort reached the town, soldiers on their horses began to branch out down different streets in sets of three, scouting the "outer ring" of the riot for scattered fighters and wounded citizens. Iam gave them a few orders, but mostly he just let the men do what they had been all day long.

Iam's current job, until yesterday, had been Peran's. But now that he had abandoned the South, Iam had to take over while a Southern lieutenant supervised the Sheshin Keep: Zane dare not let Iam out of his sight now that he'd seen the manipulation this man was capable of.

It hadn't taken long for Zane to figure out Iam's part in Peran's betrayal. Peran was a man of action, and being withheld from taking action in Varasach's predicament would, naturally, test his patience. Iam knew this, and had used that to turn Peran against the South. Iam assured Zane that was not the case; that Peran was merely frustrated, and once he'd finished his task he would return, willing to cooperate once again. But even if this logic wasn't complete bull, Zane knew that his and Garmadon's quiet war of wills would be over, one way or another, before Peran could make it back. By sunrise the day after tomorrow, Zane either had to raise the white flag, or ride out to war against Garmadon's far more experienced and prepared troops. There simply wasn't enough time to rescue Vara and plan a war.

Smog hung thick in the air, and Iam coughed behind them. Zane looked back once to see the lieutenant pulling his scarf up over his mouth and nose. Their eyes met, and Iam looked away, pretending to busy himself with a strap on his saddle. Zane scowled and turned back to the road ahead of them, gripping his reins tighter.

Damn you, Peran, Zane growled. I may not be certain about what to do with Garmadon yet, but I do have Vara's situation under control.

A shout ahead and to the right drew Zane from his thoughts. He and Josi exchanged a glance and urged their horses even faster around the bend.

Two men fought with swords against three Southern soldiers in the middle of the road before them. As Zane watched, several more soldiers entered the fray, and the two rioters were promptly subdued and shackled, cursing and jeering the soldiers all the while.

One wounded soldier gripped his bleeding arm with a pained and weary grimace, leaning against his horse as another soldier retrieved a bag of medical supplies to bandage him up. Neither of them seemed to notice Zane's approach.

"My lord," another soldier greeted Zane as he and his companions drew nearer. "There is a group putting up resistance inside of a shop a few streets over. Aside from that, though, I believe the violence has been contained."

"Excellent," Zane said without much feeling. "How many dead and wounded?"

The soldier pursed his lips. "Fifteen dead so far," he said. "No civilian casualties this time, though. They all got out of the way in time. There are several burned buildings. The town's deadthaw storage caught fire." He wrinkled his nose. "As if you couldn't tell from the stench. The wounded rioters- of which there are at least fifty, but more are brought in all the time- are being tended in a building separate from the prison. The number of wounded soldiers…" He glanced at the soldier with the wounded arm. "…undetermined. I could gather an estimate of the total damage if you'd like. Give me fifteen minutes-"

"No, don't bother. Just make certain they're cared for. I'll get an exact count later, once the situation is contained. Do you need me to help quell the remaining rebels?"

"No, my lord. My company was just about to head down there. We should have it covered."

"All right." Zane nodded to the two rioters, surly men with scowling faces, held fast between four soldiers. "I'll be taking these to the prison, then. The others are already there, I assume?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Excellent." Zane didn't care that he'd said the same thing twice now. "Carry on, lieutenant." He waved to the wounded man, still leaning against his horse. "Soldier!" he called.

The soldier's head jerked up, his eyes wide with alarm.

Taken aback by the clear mistrust, Zane almost forgot what he was going to say. Then he looked at the blood between the man's fingers and took a deep breath, drawing his Blade. "Come here."

The soldier approached him silently. He tried to salute with his good hand.

"Don't," Zane said gently, and took the man's wounded arm in his free hand. He waved Duskweaver over the deep cut, and the skin healed under a mist of soft white light. The soldier's eyes widened further, but he didn't dare jerk his arm back until after Zane let go.

Since the moon was finally returning after the weeks of stormy weather- and then the dark new moon directly after that- Duskweaver had finally been able to build up a bit of its power again. Zane did not yet have enough to heal everyone wounded in these riots, but he hoped to reach that point within a few days. Hosts, though, these riots had better end soon.

"Um…thank you, my lord," the soldier said, tentatively feeling his healed, still bloody arm.

"No," Zane said with a smile that, for once, didn't feel entirely forced. He sheathed Duskweaver. "Thank you." He nodded a farewell to the soldier, then gestured to the group holding the captured rioters. "Let's get to the prisons."

Zane, Josi, and Iam followed the soldiers and arrested rioters deeper into town. They finally reached the justice building: a small structure, clearly not meant to house more than a couple prisoners at a time. But that was to be expected: no criminals were kept in prison any longer than their trial. And this was a small town where not a lot of crime happened. Usually.

Zane, Josi, and Iam dismounted their horses and tied them outside the justice building. They followed the soldiers inside.

The interior was muggy. Over two dozen men- and a few women, even- were crammed into the two cells on the far wall. When they recognized Zane there was an immediate outburst of angry words and curses from many people in one cell. The other cell's inhabitants, clearly supporters of Zane's cause, looked relieved to see him. Some even cheered, but Zane didn't take much heart in this.

Zane noted that the cell stuffed with Garmadon-supporters was a little fuller than the other. He sighed, motioning to a guard. "Let's get this over with," he said, and walked into the interrogation room off to the side. Josi followed, but Iam stayed behind in the main room.

The interrogation room was also small, holding only three wooden chairs facing each other. Natural light- and smoky air- came in through one window slit directly ahead of Zane.

Josi sank into one chair with a sigh. Zane, however, remained standing, one hand clasping his wrist behind his back. He paced slowly behind Josi's chair as he waited for the guard to bring the first prisoner.

He didn't have to wait long.

The prisoner was a man in his late thirties, with closely-cropped, peppered black hair and bright blue eyes. He sat in a chair, and the guard stood behind him. The door was shut, and Zane evaluated the rioter quietly for a moment.

If the hopeful- but slightly skeptical- look was anything to go by, this man was one of Zane's supporters. The encouraged him a bit, and he smiled politely at the man.

"Good evening," he said.

The man nodded, but said nothing.

"What's your name?" Zane asked, beginning his list of questions, memorized from an entire day of repetition.

"Noa Herentel," the man answered.

"Age?"

"Forty-one."

"Good. Now, please note that cooperation will make things much easier for the both of us. So kindly answer all my questions to the best of your abilities."

"Of course, my lord."

Zane's shoulders relaxed a bit. He leaned back in his chair, grateful that this interrogation, at least, promised to go smoothly. "Why are you in prison today, Noa?"

Noa thought about it for a moment. "Because things got out of hand, I suppose… We- the South-supporters, that is- were trying to hold off Garmadon's followers. Their plan was to storm into the Sheshin Keep and force you to surrender to the King."

Zane dipped his head with weary understanding. This was the same plot he'd encountered in every other rioting town. It seemed too coincidental that the exact same scenario had occurred so many times. Zane wasn't sure what to make of it. It's likely been over a hundred years since the last riot. Perhaps their lack of originality simply stems from a lack of experience… Or perhaps there's more at play than meets the eye?

"So you think the Garmadon-supporters started the fight?" Josi asked.

The man's eyes tilted to the side with thought. "I think so. But I'm not entirely certain: I came after the fight had already started. The South-supporters were barricading the roads, trying to drive the king's men into shops and barns so they couldn't carry out their plan."

"So I suppose you wouldn't know which individual man- or woman- started this riot, would you?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Who started the fires?" Zane asked.

Noa grimaced. "I'm hesitant to admit that it was a bit of both sides. Things happen quickly in the heat of a fight. Lanterns were likely knocked over and spread during the fracas."

"Mmm." Zane leaned forward. "All right. I have two more questions."

"Yes?"

"Did you harm or kill anyone during this riot?"

Noa thought seriously for a few moments. "I may have broken one man's nose," he admitted.

"When we're done here, I want you to give that man's description to the sheriff," Zane said. "Depending on the sheriff's verdict, you- and everyone else involved in the fight- may have to make restitution for all harm done to persons and property."

"Yes, my lord." The man seemed to have expected this, and even looked a bit relieved by the verdict. There were much worse sentences to have been given.

"Two more questions," Zane said. "Why did you join the fight?"

Noa looked quietly at Zane as he thought about his answer. "…Is 'Because I didn't want to see Lord Zane get hurt' the answer you're looking for?" he said at last with a slight smile.

"Not exactly," Zane chuckled. "But I'll take it. Here's the final question: are you interested in joining the militia in Sheshin to defend the South from the King?"

Noa considered this. "I might," he said.

"Thank you." Zane motioned to the guard. "He's free to go after he's spoken to the sheriff."

The guard bowed and took Noa by the arm. The man stood and followed his escort to the door.

"Thank you, my lord," Noa said as the guard opened the door.

"For what?"

Noa's lips stretched into another smile. "For finally bringing some change. I'm just sorry that those Garmadon-supporters can't see things the way we do."

And then he was gone. The door was left open a crack, and through it Zane heard the clamor of dissatisfied prisoners. The sound seemed to be growing louder. Either more prisoners were being brought in, or news had spread that Zane was in town and people had come to see him and ask questions.

But they will have to wait their turn, Zane thought as the same guard re-entered the room with a new prisoner. This man scowled venomously at Zane as he was nearly dragged to his chair and was forced to sit. To the side, Josi grew visibly tense.

"Good evening, sir. What is your name?" Zane asked in his best impression of a pleasant but firm voice. In all honesty, though, Zane could think of a dozen places he'd rather be than in this interrogation room now. Like the bottom of a frozen lake. Or inside a wild cat's den, holding one of its frightened, mewling kittens.

The rioter remained silent, glowering at the Southern Lord.

"Your name," Zane repeated firmly. He rose to his feet and looked down at the man. "The better you cooperate here, the better your chances of being released from prison with a light sentence- though I assure you, there will be restitution to make to the people you have harmed during this altercation."

The man ground his teeth, eyes never leaving Zane's. "…Max Relinden," he answered at last.

"Thank you. How old are you, Max?"

"Twenty-three."

"Good. Now, please note that cooperation will make things much easier for the both of us. So kindly answer all my questions to the best of your abilities."

Max said nothing.

"Why are you here today, Max?" Zane asked.

The answer slipped easily from the prisoner's tongue. "Because I hate you."

Zane tightened his jaw. "Do you know the man- or woman- who started the riot?"

"If I did, do you think I'd tell you?"

"Yes," Zane retorted. "Because if you don't, things won't go well for you. Answer the question."

Max smugly and silently regarded Zane.

Zane sighed inwardly. "A yes or no answer will do," he said, trying to keep the anger from rising into his voice- he feared it may have already penetrated his eyes. "But if you know a name, that would be even better."

"Riki," Max said.

Zane blinked. "Pardon?"

"You asked if I know a name. So I gave you one. Riki."

"You know what I meant!" Zane snapped.

"Do I?"

It was all Zane could do not to cross the few paces between them and strike this insolent rioter. His fist clenched.

Thankfully, Josi intervened before Zane's resolve broke. She stood from her chair. "If you don't give us the information," she said calmly, going to one knee in front of Max, "then we'll go to one of your other cellmates and extract it from them instead. So please, save us all the hassle. Do you know who started the riots?"

Max finally responded with a low chuckle. He leaned close to her face and, after glancing left and right in a dramatic fashion, whispered conspiratorially: "Go…to…hell."

Josi maintained his gaze for so long, and so hard, that at last Max was the one who blinked and looked away. But the smug smile remained, and he quickly composed himself and brought his attention back to Zane. "I'm not telling you anything," he said. "I don't care if you torture me. Nothing's gonna change."

"I doubt that," Zane muttered. He spoke to the guard. "Take this man back to the cell, and leave his cuffs on. We'll continue this later."

"Yes, Milord." Again, the guard left.

Josi stood, sighing. "There are so many rioters this time," she said. "Is this really necessary? It could take all night for us to get them all to talk."

"I know," Zane growled.

Josi shook her head at him. "I really think you should go home and rest for the night," she said. "I can take care of these interrogations myself. The sheriff could help, too. I mean, technically, this is his job. You're just supposed to be here helping him, not doing it for him."

"I'm not going home," Zane said. "There's no time for that. We…" He trailed off as the next prisoner was brought in.

This man- or more precisely, boy- sat, regarding Zane with a venomous stare. His face was adorned with dark bruises, likely from the fighting today.

"How old are you?" Zane asked.

"Seventeen winters," came the gruff answer.

"What's your name?"

"Alen."

"Do you have a last name, Alen?"

"No," the boy answered with a smirk. "No, I don't."

"Don't be smart with me," Zane snapped. "Answer the question."

"I don't have to answer to you," Alen jeered. "You, an unnatural mess of metal that could have- should have- been made into a cooking pot. You're a freak."

Both Zane and Josi stiffened at the insult. Zane's inorganic conception was well known across the island, but few dared to mention it. Fewer still had the gall to insult him to his face.

Zane's face grew hot. His father had spent years of his life painstakingly translating old books from the third age to learn how to build Zane and Pixal. He, and all the other Nindroids who now secretly walked on this island, thanks to Cyrus, were brilliant works of art.

"Your full name," Josi said. She seemed less affected by the insult than her companion, and regarded Alen with a straight face.

"Why do you associate with that thing?" Alen asked, ignoring the question. "We're so much better than him. He's not real. He shouldn't be allowed to lead us."

"Your last name, child!" Zane snapped. "It's not a difficult question!"

"You don't need to know!" Alen shouted back, and spat on the floor.

"That's enough," Josi said firmly, stepping between them and giving Zane a warning glance. She looked down on the boy. "Alen," she said. "I don't know what you've been led to believe about us, but we aren't out to destroy the South. We're trying to save it. And, frankly, these riots are only wasting the precious few hours that we have left to do that." She bent at the knees again, meeting the young man eye-to-eye. "What's your last name?"

Alen dropped his gaze to her chest, then raised it back to her eyes, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "Why don't you boot that freak and the guard from the room," he purred, "and I'll answer all the questions you'd like."

Josi seemed too shocked to blink, let alone speak. Zane, on the other hand, was relieved to finally have an excuse to strike the boy.

And strike him Zane did, so hard that Alen's head snapped to the side, and the guard grimaced.

"I will not tolerate that sort of talk!" Zane gripped the boy by the collar and lifted him partially from the chair, face growing hot with rage. "Answer my questions!" Alen seemed too dazed to respond. Zane shook him. "Speak!"

Alen coughed, eyes clearing a bit. He chuckled at Zane. "That," he said, "is exactly why we hate you. Put me down, freak."

Zane snarled, lifting the boy completely out of his chair. His feet dangled inches off the ground.

"Zane!" Josi exclaimed, standing. Zane ignored her and struck the boy's face again. Alen just kept laughing, which only made Zane more enraged. He opened his mouth to shout more, but, without warning, Josi gripped his wrist and squeezed with so much strength that he dropped Alen. The young man dropped to the floor, and Josi shoved Zane backwards. He caught himself and stared at her, speechless.

Josi's amber eyes seemed to glow with fury. She clenched her fists, looking ready to attack him head-on, but instead whirled on the shocked guard.

"I'm sorry," she said evenly. Her posture relaxed slightly, and she breathed slowly through her nose. "Please, take the prisoner outside. Don't lock him up with the others yet, and don't let him talk to anybody. Leave me and Lord Zane alone for a few minutes."

The guard seemed all too happy to obey, and nearly dragged the still-laughing prisoner from the interrogation room. The door banged shut, and there was silence for a minute. Zane didn't know what to say.

"It's over," Josi said at last. "You realize that, right? No one will want to follow you after what you just did."

"After what I-" Zane began indignantly. "Josi, he was harassing you!"

"And you don't think I could have handled it myself?" Josi snapped back. "Zane, you're a nobleman. More than that, you're the leader of a rebellion! You're supposed to set an example, not stoop to the criminal's level every time he makes a petty threat!"

"A petty threat?" Zane repeated. "What part of what he just did was petty?"

Josi's mouth opened, then snapped shut. They both regarded the walls silently for a moment. Outside the interrogation room, there was dead silence.

Zane felt a sudden surge of embarrassment for his behavior: everyone inside the building likely knew there was something wrong. He was grateful that Josi at least had the foresight to tell the guard not to let Alen speak to anyone about the altercation- yet. They couldn't keep him silent forever.

"I'm sorry," Josi said, rubbing under her eye with a thumb. "I'm sorry that he spoke to you like that. And thank you for trying to stand up for me. But I could have handled it- I should have handled it. I guess I'm just…" She sniffled and looked away again. Zane, unsure what to say, waited silently for her to collect her thoughts.

"You get upset over minor things," she continued. "But Vara was kidnapped yesterday, and you hardly batted an eye. You're doing nothing to save her, and more than that, you've forbidden anyone from going after her! Why?"

"I've told you," Zane said, "I have her situation under control."

"How?" Josi demanded. "Have you sent out any soldiers to track her down?"

"Peran is out there-"

"No! Peran left of his own accord because you refused to let him rescue her." Josi threw her hands up. "You're doing nothing, Zane! Do you care about anyone besides yourself?"

Her words hurt like a hot iron prong through his heart. He took a step backward, speechless, as Josi's expression made the swift change from angry to regretful. Her lips parted to say something more, but all that came out was a small squeak. She swallowed and continued.

"Just go home, Zane," she whispered. "I can take care of this. You have much more important things to be dealing with at home, and you need to stop procrastinating."

"I'm not-" Zane protested, but Josi cut him off again.

"Go." She pointed at the door. "And if you know what's good for you, I'd apologize to both the prisoner and the guard."

Zane started to protest, but the sorrowful, angry look in Josi's eyes shut him up.

Zane stormed from the justice building without another word, refusing to acknowledge the confused looks and smirks from soldiers and prisoners on his way out.

Consciousness came back to Varasach unhurriedly, like slow drips of clarity into the pool of her hazy mind. She felt cold, but not intolerably so: she could feel her fingers and feet, which was a distinct improvement from when she'd been traveling down the snow-covered highway with Zak in the middle of the night.

Zak-!

Varasach at last came fully to and bolted upright. She sat on the floor of a small room, lit by a single candle on a shelf spanning the entire wall overhead. As she moved she heard the distinctive jangle of chains, and with no small measure of horror she realized her hands were shackled to the wall. She pulled halfheartedly at the mounts, but knew from the start there was no way she could pull herself free, and chose instead to observe her surroundings a little better.

I must still be in…what's his name…Alerik's house, she thought, looking at the many shelves that filled the small space above her head. She was in an empty pantry.

She heard movement to her left and realized she was not alone.

There were five other people chained with her. Two women about Varasach's age. Two other young girls, probably between ten and twelve winters each. And a boy, Varasach guessed fifteen winters old.

Only one of these five was awake: the smallest of them all, a girl with stringy blonde hair and cheeks puffy and flushed from many tears.

"What is going on?" Varasach asked quietly. She kept her voice steady for the girl's sake, but her stomach was suddenly churning from fear and she wanted very badly to throw up: the sour odors choking the air in the small room suggested that some of these people had been in here for many days without bathing. The floors were clean, though, which led Varasach to believe that they would be let out periodically to relieve themselves.

"I-I don't know," the girl breathed, casting a furtive glance at the door. "We must be quiet or- or he will…" She left it unsaid.

Varasach nodded in understanding, examining the door. It had been shut, and probably locked as well, despite their chains. Slowly she began to recall the details of those minutes before she'd passed out on the table. Zak offering Varasach to Alerik for free. The larger man had seemed surprised- as if he usually purchased Zak's victims. But for what? Why would Alerik buy these people just to lock them in a room?

He doesn't plan to keep us here, she decided, clicking her teeth together softly as she mused. He spoke of a…market. And the Dark Knight.

Many months ago Cole had mentioned a slave trade in Ninjago where he sometimes purchased the girls that he brought to the Dark Island. He would trade them for merchandise from the Dark Island- exotic fruits, coffee, and medicine, mostly.

Varasach's mind reeled unexpectedly, as if she'd been grabbed by her feet and hung upside-down. Dizzily, numbly, she let her hands shake on her lap, chains rattling as the full weight of her predicament hit her.

She was going to be a slave again. But this time she'd probably belong to someone here in Ninjago because the Dark Knight was no longer making rounds between Ninjago and the West.

Varasach heard sniffling, and she looked back up at the girl, whose eyes were wet with fresh tears. Varasach's heart swelled with compassion. How had this girl come to be here? Did she have a family somewhere in the Middle, worried sick about her?

"We will be fine," Varasach told the girl, hoping her words communicated at least a little sincerity. She wrapped her cloak tightly around herself- fortunately, Alerik had taken nothing from her but her boots- and shivered. The girl continued crying silently.

I am a fool, Varasach chastised herself, looking away. I should have stayed with Garmadon. At least with him I was safe. Zane would have known where to find me. Now I'm not there, and no one, not even Garmadon, will think to look here in the middle of nowhere.

She recalled a saying she'd heard Cole use once a long time ago: Out of the frying pan, and into the fire. She hadn't understood the phrase at the time, but now she began to grasp it with a bitter smile. She mouthed the words to herself, shaking her head.

The door opened without warning, and Varasach's head shot up.

Alerik's smile held the same warmth as when he'd offered her that drugged bowl of soup, but now Varasach could see the malignancy behind his mildly amused expression. His large form cast a shadow over the captives as he stepped into the room.

"I heard talking," he said, speaking softly, as if to an infant. "You know that's against the rules, Bela."

The girl, Bela, cowered and said nothing.

"I'm the one who spoke," Varasach said. "I asked her a question."

"I see." Alerik's pale eyes flitted back to the girl. "And did you answer her, Bela?"

"No," Varasach answered for her. "No, she said nothing." This was, of course, a lie. But Varasach had gotten quite good at lying during her fifteen winters of slavery. Stretching the truth every once and a while was the only way to survive in a place like Overlord's compound. One either learned to do it well, or died.

Either Alerik bought her lie, or he had no interest in punishing Bela at the moment. "We're leaving tonight," he said loudly, waking the sleeping captives. "Then begins the long journey North. Enjoy your rest while you still can." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the boy's shackles. He rose to his feet and obediently followed Alerik from the room, chains around his ankles clinking together as he walked. His tired, fear-filled eyes fixed on Varasach's for a moment before he was out of sight.

"Where are you taking him?" Varasach asked, drawing alarmed looks from the other captives.

Alerik came back into the room faster than Varasach would have thought possible for a man of his size and slapped her cheek. But she had expected him to do something like that and relaxed her neck slightly, letting her head fly with the force of his hand: there would be less pain that way. It still hurt, though, and she cringed.

"To use the latrine," Alerik said, a flash of anger showing through his mask of calm. "I don't want him making a mess on my floor. You understand, don't you, slave?"

Varasach knew then what she had to do to survive this place. She resisted a strong urge to snarl at the man, and instead drew a shuddering breath, lowering her gaze. The universal sign of surrender.

"Don't hurt me," she whispered. "Please…don't hurt me."

Alerik regarded her, his amusement clear in his tone. "Whether I hurt you again today depends on how well you behave," he said. "And tomorrow… Well. That's up to your new master. Pray to your Host that you get one that treats you half as well as his animals." He chortled and left the room with the boy in tow.

One by one, each of Varasach's fellow captives were led out to relieve themselves. She maintained the act throughout the whole ordeal- but with all the emotions she had in her anyways, this wasn't too hard to do.

"It'll be all right," one woman ventured to say to her when Alerik was outside with Bela. Varasach looked up to see who was speaking to her.

"We'll be okay. I promise." The woman's smile was weary, but comforting. Her thick, wavy black hair was drawn back in an unkempt braid: loose strands fell into her face. She opened her mouth to say something more, but a door opened somewhere in the house, and she fell silent.

Varasach sniffled, then resumed her act. Her only hope now lay in the assumption that, if she passed herself off as a shaken, submissive girl, she would be underestimated. Then, perhaps, Alerik would make a mistake and she'd be able to escape.

Escape how? Tears rose more heavily into her eyes. She let them come, carefully and without sound: they could only strengthen the perception of herself that she wanted Alerik to see.

But how much of this is an act, truly?

"Hey now, Princess," Alerik said, entering the pantry and chaining Bela up again. "Your new life has hardly even begun yet. Get up."

Varasach ignored him.

Alerik stormed toward her and kicked her stomach. She cried out, curling around herself. Compared to what she was accustomed to, he did not strike her very hard, but she still choked back a mouthful of vomit that rose up her throat.

"I said get up!" Alerik unchained her arms and pulled her upright. She hastily got her feet under herself, mind reeling from the pain.

"P-please," she stuttered, pulling halfheartedly against his grip. "No more."

Alerik grabbed her face and pulled it close to his. For the first time in this encounter Varasach felt a stroke of true fear, and prayed that he would bring her no closer.

"I will do whatever is necessary to gentle you," he said, breath hot on her face. "If that means beating you until the First King himself comes down to smite me, so help me I will do it. Now shut your mouth. There is no noise allowed, and the next time I hear so much as a sneeze outa you, you will be punished. Understand?"

Varasach swallowed- the taste of vomit was still strong in her mouth- and nodded.

"Good." Alerik released her face. "Come on. You have two minutes to do your business."

Varasach's chains jangled as she followed her captor into the main room, and then out the front door. The snow was cold under her feet, protected only by woolen socks, but she set her jaw and walked on: two minutes was not that long. She could handle it.

With some measure of surprise she saw that her horse, Adiva, was still tied out front. Zak must have given her to this man as well. But Zak's own horse was nowhere to be seen. Varasach was glad for that: if she ever saw that man's wretched face again, she might be tempted to claw it off.

Varasach and Adiva's eyes met. The horse, recognizing her, whinnied and pulled at her tether. Her ears, first flat against her skull, swiveled forward earnestly, and she stamped the ground. But she was too far away for Varasach to reach before being caught- and besides, her feet did not have enough protection for a long journey. It was safer to wait for a more opportune moment to make their escape.

Not yet, Varasach thought as she was pushed into a small outhouse. The door slammed shut behind her. Alone at last, she allowed herself a small, determined smile through the tears. Not yet.

Ughhhhhhhh

Yeah, I don't think I've ever dealt with a character as difficult as Zane. I almost prefer Overlord to this jerk. I mean, Overlord had terrible thoughts and emotions, but at least they were reasonably consistent. Zane's a rollercoaster, and I'm starting to get sick. XD

That scene was just difficult in general. I hate that I've pinned such a heavy stigma against the King's supporters, I hate that I'm not able to go into more detail on these riots... But I'm really crunched for time. I have a very limited number of days in the story to get everything done before the end and cramming it all into, like, three chapters instead of ten is super frustrating. I'm glad for Josi, though. She's the voice of reason in this mess.

Poor Vara. She's been through a whole lot. I do admire her, though. She's strong. It's no wonder Kyle loved her so much.

A heartfelt thanks to Kira Vulpes for her invaluable help. I don't know what I'd do without her.

I know you all have some thoughts about this chapter, good or bad. If it isn't too much trouble, there's a handy box down there where you can leave your input? :) Knowing the opinions and perspectives of my readers seriously does help me out. Please and thank you. You're the best. Have a great week, all, and God bless!