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Vol.3, Ch.4, P.2

The margrave’s manor, the Fiefguard garrison—Arbel’s respective seats of policy and police. Small wonder why the Nafílim horde should hunger for their fall. But the concentration camp? Hardly the heart beating in the fief-burgh’s bosom, as it were.

Yet this was the far march of Ström, straddling right up against Nafílim country from which it has reaped a great many “boons of war”, as its soldiery and slavers were wont to term it. And what better coffer to contain such brimming “riches” than a concentration camp?

A veritable trove, indeed, ever the dirty buttress to Arbel’s weal. But in the eyes of Rolf and his newfound friends, it sparkled with a different light—of vanished friends and family, of lovers lost yet unforgotten, of forlorn souls to be sold to a life of drudgery most unjust. No doubt, then, that