​The Scene: The Branding Sheds of Ar ​POV: Susan Pevensie ​The sun of this "Counter-Earth" does not set with the golden promise of Narnia. It is a harsh, brassy thing that hammers against the dust of the slave-pens. ​I stand in a line of twenty women. My school jumper is torn at the shoulder, the wool scratchy and absurd against my skin. Only hours ago, I was stepping through the back of a wardrobe, smelling mothballs and expecting the cold kiss of Narnian snow. Instead, I found a world of heat, the smell of musk-beasts, and the terrifying shadows of giant birds circling above. ​The man behind me—the one they call a Slaver—has not spoken to me as a person once. He nudges me forward with the butt of a spear, a rhythmic, casual cruelty that tells me I am no longer Susan Pevensie. I am a "Barbarian unit." ​"Logic, Susan," I whisper to myself, but my voice trembles. “This is a dream. Or a madness.” ​But the heat of the brazier ahead is not a dream. The smell of searing iron and wood-smoke is too thick, too real. I look at the girl in front of me—an Earth-girl like myself, perhaps from America—and see the way her shoulders shake. She is wearing nothing but a rough hempen cord around her neck. I try to reach out, to offer the comfort of a Queen, but my wrists are bound in "slave-fists," the leather thongs biting deep into my skin. ​"Next," a voice barks. It is deep, bored, and utterly masculine. ​I step forward. The interior of the shed is dim, lit only by the glowing coals. There stands a man, a "Smith" of flesh, holding a long-handled iron. At the end of it is the Gorean letter for 'K'—the Kajira mark. ​I feel a sudden, fierce flare of the High Queen. I lift my chin, the way I did when I faced the giants of Ettinsmoor. "I am Susan, Queen of Narnia," I say, my voice ringing out despite the terror. "You have no right to touch me. I demand to be released." ​The Smith doesn't even look at my face. He looks at my hip, then at the Slaver. ​"A feisty one," the Smith grunts. "A high-pedigree 'Barbarian.' She still thinks she has a name." ​"She’ll forget it by the time the iron cools," the Slaver replies. ​The Slaver’s hands—large, calloused, and indifferent—grab my arms. I struggle, my Narnian training kicking in, but the gravity of this world makes him feel like an oak tree. He forced me down onto the wooden bench. The wood is stained dark from those who came before me. ​I look at the iron. It is glowing a cherry-red, a beautiful and terrible color. I think of Aslan. I pray for the roar that shakes the earth, for the Deep Magic to split this bench and turn these men to stone. ​But there is only the sound of the bellows. ​"Hold her," the Smith commands. ​The Slaver pins my legs with his weight. I am trapped—physically, logically, and utterly. As the Smith brings the glowing 'K' toward my thigh, I realize with a sickening jolt that the 'Gentle' Susan is about to be burned away. There is no Lion here. There is only the heat, the iron, and the looming shadow of the collar. ​I close my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like a Queen. I feel like prey