Book 16: King of Slaves

Kaleb

“We’re out of wood for the pyres,” Otto, an elder wolf, says as he smoothes a withered hand down the length of a log. It’s leaning precariously against the others–against stacks upon stacks of logs given to the Glade last week in anticipation for the dead. It’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

I turn to look at the funeral pyres, at the rows of log structures that will soon house five or six men to a pyre. Fathers. Brothers. Sons. They should each have their own. The fae know what they’re doing by purposefully giving us less than we need. They always do.

“I’ll find more.”

Otto gives me a grim smile before turning back to the pyre that will soon be a beacon of light to guide his son, two of his nephews, and his eldest grandson home to the Goddess. He’s not the only man wandering through the darkness tonight adjusting logs and bringing handfuls of wood taken from tables and chairs–anything they can find.

It’s a quiet night. Moth