The smell alone was enough to keep Pyre in a panic. Although she was half fire, she had never acclimated to the smell of burning, the sweet sharpness of smoke and the sour taste of anything the fire touched. It mingled with the vomit of those who were sick with the plague that had struck the swamp with the invasion of the refugees, and the sweat of the new invaders as she smashed through the houses and walkways in their unmitigated search for anything and anyone they thought would be useful. It mingled with the blood of those ker who had died fighting for the right to stay in their homes and not be packed up to go to war. It smelled like fear; it smelled like chaos.

And the aja was alone beneath the hut where her ker slept with her family and her mother. Within was the infirmary, where any army should know to keep out. If not out of a moral obligation to leave the sick to rest and recover without fear of being gutting in their sleep, then out of the personal obligation not to become sick themselves. It seemed, however, that that bit of logic was not taught to the tads of the volcano, or perhaps these soldiers were too stupid to know anything about self-preservation. They slammed their way into the cabin themselves, forcing their way in, and disrupting the cots and beds that had been placed all over the floor to accommodate the large numbers of the sick.

Pyre screamed a warning to Minnow just as a rope was thrown over her neck by one of the uniformed volcano ker. Despite her hooves planted in the ground, the ground was mud and easily manipulated. Pyre was dragged along as she continued to scream for Minnow. She couldn’t see her ker, but she could hear the yelling of the guards and soldiers and the screams and sobs of people being torn from one another’s arms. Pyre fought to turn her head back to the settlement, back to her ker’s family and all of the people who were becoming as imprisoned as she was. But the ker with the grip on her face ropes yanked her forward again, the gloves in his hand protecting him from the rope burn that Pyre’s struggle would otherwise have inflicted.

Slowly, step by step, the swamp grew quiet. There was no more shouting or crying or screaming. There was no more light conversation or laughter. The bugs and wildlife continued their lives in blissful ignorance of Pyre’s pain, but their songs had been the white noise of Pyre’s life for months now, so she didn’t notice them. The ker ahead noticed the flies biting at him, however. He was large and intimidating and covered in black armor that was clearly tailored to him when he was either younger or smaller. But volcano uniforms didn’t protect against the pests of the swamp. Everything here was wild and unimpressed by pretty things. The mud that had splashed up on Pyre during the run for the cure and continued to coat her as she was pulled along, protected her from the bites. The ker’s own aja was covered as well, but the man had not dismounted once and the insects were taking advantage.

Twice during the journey, Pyre had attempted to chew through her restraints as the man walked her along. Five times she heated her main and forlock to solar levels, but the rope remained uncharred. It was Rock tech against the volcanos, meant to withstand any heat. The volcanic ker had made use of it for a long time. There was no hope of Minnow finding Pyre now. She’d have known if she were nearby, following along to plan a rescue mission. Minnow wouldn’t have had the strength to take another adventure onto their already trying 48 hour day, no matter how much the ker insisted she could. So Pyre gave in. No more tugging or burning the rope. She simply followed along as the man lead her out of the swamp and onto the mainland. Out of the natural existence and into the kingdoms that relied on their technology to survive. Out of the quiet stillness and into the madness of a volcano military camp.