Eyla was crying again. The new master gave us a bucket of water to wash with. It was cold. She trembled so much I had to hold her. I washed her back, my hands rough on her soft skin. I could feel every little bone. She's so small. The sack she wears was sticking to her, wet and dirty. I hate seeing her like this. I hate these collars. I hate the way men look at her... at us. They see our horns and think they know what we are. They don't see a person, just a thing to use. I get so angry I want to break something. My claws itch to tear into flesh. But then Eyla clutches my arm and whispers my name, and the fire just... dies. What's the point? We're just slaves. All I can do is try to keep her warm tonight. Fuck this world.