#1 Holding Center

Branwen POV

Turns out the wagon to hell smells like piss, fear, and old onions.

We've been rattling along the rutted road for hours, thirty of us crammed shoulder to shoulder in a barred cart like livestock. Our hands are bound, ankles chained and our cursed fate is sealed. Every bump sends my arse airborne and knocks my skull against splintering wood. I've counted each bounce just to keep myself from screaming or murdering someone. We're at seventy two jolts now. If we hit eighty, I might start biting folk, consequences be damned.

"Keep your knees shut, girl," grumbles the crusty codger squashed too close on my right. He hasn't bathed since the last winter solstice, judging by the stench. "Won't help you none once the beasts get a whiff of ya."

I stare him down. "Worry about your own legs, old man, before they snap clean off in the first ten minutes."

His toothless grin spreads slow, cracked lips peeling like dry leather. "Mm, bet those warlords'll fancy you, witch. Bet they'll pin you down real good. Soft arse like that won't last a day." That's when the bastard tries to pat my backside as if it's already for sale. I see red.

I twist towards him, my teeth bared, snarling like the feral wolf he thinks I am. "Touch me again and I'll chew off your fingers, you withered bollock!" He shrieks like a damn girl and tries to yank away, but I'm quicker. I clamp my jaws around the side of his filthy hand before he even blinks. "Oh gods... she's bloody biting me!"

The wagon erupts into chaos. Half the prisoners scream. A twitchy girl next to me starts sobbing. Someone cheers. I dig my teeth down harder until I taste copper. Metal slams against the bars as a guard howls from outside. "Oi! Break it up in there!"

The wagon lurches to a halt. Dust rises so thick it makes me choke. Moments later, two iron helmed guards yank open the hatch and storm inside swinging batons. "Which one of you mongrels.."

I spit the old man's blood to the floorboards and snarl up at them, my eyes blazing. "He grabbed my arse. I removed his hand."

The old man blubbers behind me, clutching his mangled fingers. "She's possessed! Devil in her mouth!" One of the guards, a brutish fellow with a crooked nose, kicks my leg. "Keep your teeth to yourself, witch."

"Keep his hands to himself and I will," I growl with my chin held high, damnable curls falling wild around my face. They glare at me like I'm already half savage. Which is funny, really. The real savages are still waiting for us out there… deep in the forest, sharpening their claws, ready to spill our guts for breakfast.

"Separate her," Crooked Nose huffs. "Put her in the back cage. She's too mouthy for the others." Two of them yank me up by my bound arms and drag me through the wagon. Boots scrape. Someone whistles low as my skirts hike up, showing every inch of thigh I'm not trying to show.

"Pretty witch," one man mutters. "Won't be pretty long." I twist away and bare my teeth again. "Say that a little closer, sweetheart, I'm still hungry."

They shove me into a cramped iron crate bolted to the back of the wagon. Barely enough room to crouch. A lock snaps shut behind me. Cold wind slices in through the gaps. I watch through the bars as the main wagon doors slam shut, sealing the other prisoners into the darkness again.

We begin rolling once more.

An hour later ...

This is it. Last stop before the killing fields.

The guards call it the Holding Center, a halfway house between "civilized punishment" and the savage woods where the Warlords wait. They'll strip us, brand us, inventory anything we've got left on our bodies, then shove us through the gates at dawn.

I draw my knees to my chest and tap my fingertips against the iron cuffs around my wrists, over and over in rhythm. Helps me think. Helps me not panic.

Breathe, Branwen. You're a fucking Mosswood. You're witch born. You're not prey. Not now. Not ever. A flock of crows takes off from the trees overhead in an explosion of wings. Good omen. Blood birds. Death eaters. They carry messages for the restless.

Somewhere out there, past the last ridge of hills, beast kings are grinning with bloodstained teeth, waiting to hunt me down like I'm some trembling little doe. If any of them think I'll go down easy… they've got another thing coming.

When we crest the next hill, I see it.

The Killground Holding Center sprawls below in a muddy clearing surrounded by sharpened pikes. Smoke curls from watchtowers. Cages rattle in neat rows full of doomed souls. Men in iron masks patrol the gates with spears longer than I am tall.

Savage surrender, they call the Games. As if a girl like me would ever surrender. I bare my teeth one last time, pressing my forehead to the bars as we roll toward the gaping maw of the holding center.

"Come on then, boys," I whisper to whatever monsters are waiting. "Let's see which one of you dies first trying to claim me."

The wagon squeals to a halt inside the Holding Center's courtyard, a muddy square surrounded by spiked walls, watchtowers, and cages stacked three high like a butcher's pantry. Guards bark orders. Dogs snarl. Fires crackle in burn barrels as they prepare us for slaughter.

They drag me from my iron crate first, shoving me down a narrow tunnel lit by torches and reeking of wet fur, piss, and fear. A crude wooden sign hangs above the door in dried blood:

"KILLGROUND PREP."

Surrender, and you may survive.

Bollocks to that. "Strip her," someone orders.

Four guards don't even bother with gentleness, they slice the ropes binding my wrists, yank my tavern dress off over my head, and toss it into a heap already smoldering in a barrel. I lunge to grab it, too late. My last belonging curls into ash as I stand completely naked and goosefleshed, clutching my arms over my boobs.

My hair's a wild mess of knots and curls, my skin dusted in mud from the wagon. I lift my chin anyway, refusing to give them the satisfaction of shame. A thickset woman with arms like a butcher steps forward holding a firehose. "Spread your legs and hold your arms out."

"Buy me dinner first?" I mutter, and instantly regret it as the hose roars to life, slamming ice cold water against my body hard enough it nearly knocks me backward. The force stings my nipples, blasts between my thighs, rips the breath from my lungs. I scream curses the entire time.

"Lippy one," the guard snorts. "The beasts love those. Break 'em slower."

Once I'm clean, or at least rinsed raw, they shove a skimpy leather "hunt outfit" into my arms. It's barely more than scraps:

A leather top that barely covers my breasts, one wrong breath and I'll pop free. High cut leather bottoms that show the underside of my arse cheeks. Laces up the sides that do very little to protect my modesty. Boots. No panties. No weapons.

They enjoy this part, sick bastards. "Put it on. You're property now." I grind my teeth and pull the damn thing on. It's tight across my hips, snug around my tits, and so revealing I feel more naked than I was moments ago.

They fit a thin metal collar around my throat etched with just two words. BRANWEN. THIRTEEN. That'll be my number for the Games.

Down the line, other prisoners are being processed the same way. Men, women, young, old, all tossed into cells wearing scraps of leather and fear. None of us look like warriors. We look like offerings.

We're marched into the mess hall where a giant iron pot bubbles with something pretending to be stew. A woman dollops a thick sludge into wooden bowls, slaps a stale bread roll on the rim, and tosses me a rusty tin cup of water.

"Eat fast. Tomorrow you run." I keep my back straight and sit on the stone floor. I force myself to swallow the stew even though it tastes like boiled rats and sadness. I stare around at the others, sizing up threats, would-be allies, victims. None meet my eye for long. Good. One girl who looks barely sixteen is shivering and sobbing. She whispers, "How many lords will be hunting?"

A guard smirks. "Ten this year. Fresh batch of beast kings. They drew straws to see who gets first blood." Ten. Gods spare me.

Lion, wolf, bear, panther, tiger… and five more I don't even know exist. I'd hoped rumours of more were just tavern gossip. After we eat, they split us into narrow iron barred cells lining a long hallway. One cot. One piss bucket. No blankets. They shove me inside and slam the gate. I immediately test the door. Solid.

Boots stomp down the corridor as the guards lock up the rest. One pauses outside my cage and leers. "Pretty witch," he says. "Bet the lords will fight over you before dawn's second horn."

I bare my teeth. My collar glints in the torchlight. "Let 'em try," I hiss, voice low, feral. "I'll carve my name into their hearts before I let any bastard claim me." He laughs as he walks away, jangling his keys. The torches flicker. Somewhere outside, something howls. The sound is long, mournful and hungry. Gooseflesh prickles down my arms.

I sink onto the cot and pull my knees to my chest. The leather digs into my skin with every breath. I imagine the Killground waiting just beyond those walls, a wild expanse of twisted trees and blood soaked soil, where monsters wear crowns and treat humans like toys.

But I am Branwen Mosswood, witch daughter of the wild. I will not break. I will not surrender.

When they release us at dawn…I will run. I will fight. And if the beasts want my body...

...they'll have to survive my teeth first.