"Do you think it'll be an overlord?" Beetle asked as we waited in line. Her voice was low, tinged with a bit of hope. I was the endcap of the line, behind Beetle and the long line of bulky men and scrawny boys. All of them reeked of sweat and damp soil. It was beginning to drizzle on us, but most of us were too tired to care.

"I sure hope not," I muttered, glancing at the dark clouds that loomed overhead, racing each other south. Overlords terrified me.

"Maybe it'll be one of the Three," she muttered, glancing up at me in amusement.

"What business would one of the Three have here? At some backwater farm in the far south of Emory?" I shot back. Thunder rumbled low down on the far side of the property. Beetle shrugged and turned to examine how quickly the line was moving.

The Three. The horrible, beautiful, nasty, powerful Three. Three powerful families who ruled Emory.

The Nomars ran the government. Valiant, noble, and terrifyingly powerful. Most overlords bowed to their every wish, anxious for a little bit of that power to rub off on them. From what Dad had told me, the Nomars were the exemplar of overlord ideals—if you ignored the long list of enemies they created by their rigid dedication to the status quo. I could hear Dad's voice, Thm Nomars don't know how dumb they are. If you never change anythin' you'll never get anythin' better than what you've got.

The Trapedz family were the bloodsucking monsters of the crew—they ran the mines and farms—all natural resources ran through their long, sticky fingers. They were a curious family, highly devoted to the superstitious rituals and economic isolationism that they believed provided them with undue protection. They would never touch a human, let alone a dewloi. Ever since the discovery of magestone reserves in the south of Emory, the high and mighty Trapedz family began purchasing more dewloi to work in the fields and mines, so they were forced to interact with the very people they despised as unclean.

If the Trapedz ran on money and the Nomars on power, the Strapo family ran on loyalty. They were only rarely in the cities, preferring instead to live with the soldiers under their care. The Strapos ran the military, protecting our borders from the southerners who were encroaching on the magestone-fertile lands. They were powerful friends and the Strapos had very few enemies—the enemies they have, they tended to kill. Betrayal was a capital offense, and they were quick to execute their ideals.

I sidestepped a puddle as we moved closer to the front in line.

That said, it was very unlikely one of the Three would deign to visit a dewloi farm. The Trapedz would rather collapse a mine than visit the "bugs" if they could avoid it. Most people who came to trade were humans.

What made overlords different from humans? That was a mystery I had yet to solve. I remember hearing some of the other dewloi insist that they could smell the power on them, but I was pretty sure they were full of it. All overlords wore a magestone around their neck, which glowed according to their capacity for magic. However, humans with capacity (while a miniscule minority) also wore magestones. Being an overlord was kind of like have orange hair. Mothers and fathers passed it along to their children, but as far as I knew, there was no physical mark—the only thing that set them apart was that they all had capacity. Other than that, it was a social construct.

The line shuffled forward as the rain began to let up. Beetle grabbed a plate and handed one to me as well. I sincerely hoped there would be food left. As the women, we were put at the end of the line. If they ran out of food, we didn't get any. It was part of the life.

I had only ever seen two overlords. Both were looking for extra doxies and breeders for their bed. The first time, I had just arrived at the farm and didn't realize how rare an overlord visit would be. He chose one of the young women and left, dragging her by the ring in her nose. I could still remember the sound of her screams piercing the still air. The foremen intentionally pierced dewloi through a nerve in the nose, which made any motion startlingly painful. I could only hope that the overlord was unaware. Susan was quiet and sweet. I hope she was okay. The second time was only last year. The foremen hid Beetle and I away without an explanation. We only saw him through a crack in our window—the overlord stormed away after finding out that the farm had no women.

The stew splattered wetly on Beetle's plate, splashing some onto her hand.

"Thanks, Jack," Beetle said happily and spun off as the foreman frowned. Based on his reaction, his name was most definitely not Jack. I walked up quietly and accepted the last scoop of stew gratefully, keeping my eyes on the ground. I did not want to receive any secondhand anger from not-Jack.

Suddenly, not-Jack grabbed my arm. I looked up and realized it was the foreman who had been staring at me earlier. He told Beetle there would be a trade tonight. He was new to the farm—he had only been there for a few weeks and was confined to the unskilled tasks like watching the dewloi and serving dinner. I flinched away from his grip and a few of the other foremen chuckled.

"Bug, tell your friend that the name's Tuck," he said slickly, running his hand through his thinning blonde hair to keep it out of his face. I nodded and turned to leave before he caught my arm again at the crook of my elbow. "If she doesn't, maybe I'll have to pound it into you. I think a night or two of you screaming my name will help her remember," he said lewdly, squeezing my elbow.

I flinched back, horrified by his words. His grip only tightened, and my veins flooded with a violent terror.

He finally let go of me and the other foremen chuckled at the free show.

"The women are worth more un-pounded," one of the older foremen warned lightly as I scurried off, feeling lightheaded. I must have been holding my breath. "Hate to take it out of your paycheck," he challenged jokingly, making the other foremen laugh raucously.

I rushed over to Beetle and sat down, quickly shoveling food into my mouth. My face was burning with anger and fear. Why? What did I do? Had I said something wrong to catch his eye? Or was it simply because he was a ravenous, unmarried male—

"Five minutes!" a foreman called. I continued shoveling food until I realized Beetle was staring at me with an eyebrow (her good one) raised. I stopped for a second to meet her suspicious eyes.

"What happened to you?" she asked sharply. "What did the foreman want?" For once, she didn't have a blasted smile plastered on her face.

"Nothing. He wanted us to eat quickly so we can line up," I said, purposefully misinterpreting her words. "Let me eat," I said, trying to keep the foreman's words out of my mind. My knee was bouncing furiously. Beetle nodded slowly, unconvinced but willing to be distracted by her meal.

The foreman began shouting for us to get up, so Beetle and I quickly abandoned our meals and made our way down to the main road. The gravel street had small puddles forming, pockmarking it like acne scars on a teenaged boy's face. We stood just off the road, feet sinking into the mud. The clay deposits made for a very slippery surface. Beetle and I were, again, relegated to the end of the line. I felt a pair of eyes stabbing me in the back. The foreman's words echoed in my mind. Tuck. Beetle set a hand on my shoulder discretely, and I gave her a small smile.

"It's fine. I'm pretty sure they're selling, not buying," she said, eyes on the puddle in front of us dejectedly.

I nod, pretending that was the only cause of my fear.

I have never told Beetle, but I had a plan. If I were ever sold as a doxie, I would reveal that I was a healer. It was my only chance at finding Anthony.