BEAUTIFUL

Why don't you cry?" the windspren asked.

Kaladin sat with his back to the corner of the cage, looking down. The floor planks in

front of him were splintered, as if someone had dug at them with nothing but his fingernails.

The splintered section was stained dark where the dry grey wood had soaked up blood. A

futile, delusional attempt at escape. The wagon continued to roll. The same routine each day. Wake up sore and aching from

a fitful night spent without mattress or blanket. One wagon at a time, the slaves were let out

and hobbled with leg irons and given time to shuffle around and relieve themselves. Then

they were packed away and given morning slop, and the wagons rolled until afternoon slop.

More rolling. Evening slop, then a ladle of water before sleep.

Kaladin's shash brand was still cracked and bleeding. At least the cage's top gave

shade from the sun.