"Fear is the soil in wich power takes root. Shape it well, and fear blooms into awe— a reverence that binds the masses to your will. A cowering populace does not question; it obeys."

  — Exerpt from from "The principles of conquest", by Emperor Osman Varros II.

  That night, Alric turned restlessly in the rags that made up his bed. His thoughts were churning, and while his body was limp from exhaustion, his mind refused to let him rest. The rest of the day had been pretty uneventful, and packed with hard labor. He had tried to talk more with the Taciturn Ignatharian, but the man was not joking about his stamina. Alric, used to the ease he and his countrymen had with manual labor, had underestimated just how much their physiques differed. Of course, it was common knowledge each of the races had their specialties, and Ignatharians, known for their immense skill in craftsmanship would naturally not have the same endurance Thalorians were known for. But did it have to be such a damnably stark difference? Alric questioned if it was truly prejudice that made Silas so unpopular after having to pick up most of the slack soon after midday. No wonder no one wanted to row next to him. Completely exhausted, Alric didn't even have the energy to sneer at Brandt who had an unfortunate encounter with the "bastard son of a dwarf", and was limping to get his porridge. Served him right the cur.

  By the time Alric had eaten the same slop they got in the morning and returned to his cell, he found Elara already asleep in her much more comfortable bed, that wasn't a stack of rags camouflaging as a mattress. Or at least was pretending to sleep. Either way, Alric wasn't about to poke that snake in the grass, and collapsed on his rags, counting on the gentle rocking of the boat to lull him to sleep.

  But rest eluded him. His mind spun with the revelations for the day - thoughts he was too busy, or perhaps afraid to confront. The labor and danger of the day had kept him occupied, allowing him to isolate himself from the harsh reality of what was now his life. Now, in the quiet darkness, those walls crumbled. He took a deep breath, and let his sarcastic, happy-go-lucky facade drop.

  He was, undeniably, one of the cursed. The collar around his neck confirmed as much. Owen's or at least his memory's parting gift had helped him understand just how significant that was. He was corrupted by the abyss. Never again would he be welcome in society, forever seen as a monster- even by whatever family he had, even if he couldn't remember who that was. Perhaps even Owen. The memory of his old friend had talked kindly, but what he had shared with him reminded him that maybe that was just what he had wanted to hear from him. It wasn't the real Owen after all, just his own mind's fabrication of what he remembered Owen to be like. The real Owen hated the cursed. He was never meant to be a street rat like Alric after all. He had a family, wealthy, decorated veterans. But that was until the night of the thousand torches. The night when Varik the Ashen had unleashed the fires of insanity on Thalorin. The night where his parents killed each other in a fit of madness. Owen rarely talked about it of course, but it was exactly the memory of that conversation memory-Owen had left him as a warning of the cursed. What would the real Owen say if he found out Alric was a cursed, same as the one that had killed his parents? Alric's chest ached. Who was he kidding? Owen probably wasn't even alive anymore. Not if his nightmare had shown the truth.

  He was alone. Alone in a ship full of murderous bastards, and cruel watchmen that believed he was less than human. At least the cursed were restrained by the collar, but sharing their predicament, it didn't make Alric feel much better. He didn't even know what his power was or how to use it, and even if he did, all that it would achieve was call the horrors of the depts for an early supper. Gods, it was so unfair. Owen had helped him remember his old, foolish self that had prayed to the tidebringer every evening to make him a blessed, to give him powers. Oh how he had dreamed of gallantly saving damsels, being respected instead of chased off by storeowners, of eating in a real Inn instead of having stale bread. Of not having to fear succumbing to a random Eldrovora attack, and instead pushing back the tides that threatened humanity. Like a hero.

  Well, he got his damn powers. But at what price?

  His fist clenched, Alric felt a warm wetness trail down his cheek. He felt a void in his heart that mirrored the emptiness in his memory. He wondered if the hazy figures from his fragmented memories missed him. If they remembered him. Or if he had faded from their minds as they had from his own. Bah, why would they even want to remember a cursed, a monster? That's all he was now.

  He closed his eyes tightly, allowing the tears to flow freely in the darkness of the hold. Faces without names floated through his mind, laughing, smiling, moving, gradually loosing their features, and becoming blank. Owen's face, genuine and infuriatingly handsome, already looked a bit more blurry in his mind. What was his hair color again? Alric didn't remember. But what did it matter? He would be alone again soon. It was only a matter of time.

  What had he done to deserve this? Why didn't he remember? Why couldn't he remember? Why? WHY?

  The weight of despair pressed down on him like a vice. He pulled his knees to his chest, curling himself into the thin rags that served at his bed. The muffled sounds of the ship grew more distant. He sank into his sorrow, his rage, his helplessness, like a pebble into a pond.

  But somewhere amidst the darkness, a flicker of defiance Ignited. Spite. A small, stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished by the storm of dread that was consuming him. What had he done to deserve this? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But in the end, did it really matter? He was here now, trapped and powerless, with no memories—but alive. And as long as he breathed and had a hand, he could still stick his middle finger up at whatever fate had found it funny to grant him the power he craved, only to take everything he had in exchange.

  His hands gripped the cold metal of his collar. The symbol of his imprisonment, and his future in the mines. But that wasn't the only thing it was a symbol of. It was also a symbol of his power. One didn't muzzle a wolf with no fangs. The cursed were feared for their abilities just as the blessed were admired for them. They were feared for their power. Power that was his to use.

  He had seen it clearly in the hold today. The Acolytes didn't treat all prisoners poorly. They enjoyed their wanton cruelty, but they knew to hold back when it came to the gangs. While loners like him had to shiver in fear of scum like Brandt and Crom, people like the Bald Bear got more food and luxuries, and the guards didn't dare lay their hands on them. Alric knew it wasn't because they may or may not be highborn. Once one was convicted as a cursed, they lost all their rights and properties as a citizen of thalorin, and if the bald bear was a noble he would eat his sleeping rags. No, the reason for their influence, their disregard for the rules, was fear. Their eyes reflected it every time they shot a wary glance at the red peacock, at Elaras brother. Who needed to be admired, when being feared would do the job just as well?

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  Alric clenched his fist, spite turning to determination. He wasn't content to remain the puppet they had dubbed him, jerked around by the mighty and the pious. His power might be the source of his misery, but it also was the key to carving out a place for himself in this hellhole.

  He thought back to the moment in the galley when the hunger had surged within him. His nightmare was terrifying, but it was also exhilarating. He could sense it even now, faintly. The hunger wasn't gone. It was simply dormant, somewhere beneath the surface, hiding within the fog that clouded his memories.

  His gaze hardened with resolve. The ones who had a say in the hold weren't necessarily smarter or better than him. They simply had an abundance of things he sorely lacked. Knowlege, ruthlessness, and practice with their manifestation. While the bald bear's threat was self-explanatory, Elara and the peacock's dread were more subtle, and much more scary. Alric was sure they knew how to control their manifestations, perhaps even bypass the collars. They had the knowledge he needed, and desperately craved.

  But how would he get at it?

  Trying to get chummy with Elara seemed like an obvious choice, given his easy access to her. She was very knowledgeable, and had both the confidence and power to back up her position, especially with her scary relative. There was potential, but something about her gang sent chills down his spine. Especially the sleepy guy. His slow and jerky movements really put him off. Not to mention, he was still quite crass about her leaving him to get fried by that acolyte bastard. His instincts were warning him to keep his distance, and his instincts for people seldom were wrong.

  The Bald bear was a wildcard. On the one hand, he certainly was the most approachable, and his gang seemed the most friendly. He had a good impression of him given his treatment of his subordinates, and was sure if he managed to get in he would be safe. But on the other hand, he seriously doubted that Huge Musclehead had the slightest shimmer about manifestations. He didn't even need any magic. Just that monstrous body of his could break a spine with one hand.

  The red peacock was the one he dreaded most. His gang had the lowest barrier of entry, after all, most of the people in there were sycophants, but while the exaggeratedly handsome blonde certainly had ample knowledge and magic, he was much too terrifying for Alric to want to get anywhere near him. He was left alone with impunity, was wearing the same pants as the sailors and an expensive blouse that Alric suspected might once have been white, and had a smile that sent a shiver down his spine. It would be a last resort.

  Thi final, but very welcome opportunity was Silas. The forthright Ignatharian seemed to hide quite a few secrets, and his knowledge came at a cheap price. Not to mention, he was all alone and unpopular. The fact Brandt was scared of him despite his low Stamina also spoke volumes, and it clearly told Alric his prowess must be more than just physical. Alric was already rubbing his hands at the thought of what he could achieve with him. It would take some time, but Alric would surely benefit a lot from sticking close to him, even if he joined another faction.

  Not taking advantage of any of these opportunities was suicide, he himself had seen to that when he spit in Brandt's face today. His standing with the gangs had surely improved now that he had shown his fangs, but it also put him on a time limit. He needed to find someone to hide behind before the ugly mutt recovered from Merric's tender care. Alric chuckled. In a sense it wasn't too different from his old street rat ways, crime was rampant in Thalorins lower classes even among the mundane. The stakes just were a lot higher now. Well, nothing like a murderous death wizard to motivate oneself. Or so they say.

  His mind went back to Silas's words. The collar blocked the manifestation with pain, but there were ways to overcome it. Brandt clearly didn't know how, otherwise he wouldn't be forced to shake down the poorest and most miserable cursed for scraps. But Alric was sure the more powerful cursed had some tricks up their sleeves for that. And once he learned them too, it would be the dog's turn to come to heel. Well, perhaps after they landed ashore. Seeing Brandt grovel wasn't worth becoming fishfood for.

  Thankfully, he wouldn't have to wait long for that. He had also picked up another interesting snippet of conversation while picking up Silas's slack. According to some acolyte whose name he didn't know, they were less than a week away from landing on the Shores of Eirathor. That gave him a deadline- he had maybe 5 days to make his move on a faction. Once they arrived at the colony, he was sure they would be dispersed among the mine slaves, and who knew how many gangs existed in a place like that. Thankfully it would be quite a trip from the port to the Mining colony, so he still had some time on land, but a forced march was a horrible place to do networking. That meant he needed a plan, and fast.

  First, he'd stick close to Silas. That much was a no-brainer. Brandt was scared of Silas, and that alone made him the perfect mutt-repellent. Not to mention the slew of other benefits the man would bring him if his knowledge was as deep as Alric guessed. There was little chance of Silas getting suspicious, after all, as long as he didn't blatantly hide behind him when Brandt passed his closeness could easily be mistaken for friendliness.

  The hard part would be getting his sticky fingers into that sweet sweet knowledge in the Ignatharians brain. One had to be careful with the question one asked in a setting like this, being nosy was a sure way to have a shit day in the lower city, he didn't see why the ship would be different. Not to mention he would lose his meatshield and leave himself open for a date with Brandt. Not ideal. No, he had to be careful what he asked and when, and preferably gain his trust before doing any of that. And to do that, he would need to learn more about him. That folk story was a good start. How fortunate he had a well-read murder mage as a cellmate.

  While he was doing that he would also need to keep an eye on Elara's and Bald Bear's gangs. Find out how they work, how one enters, what rules they had, and how much they knew. If operation Silas was too slow or not working he would have to try his luck with those two to provide the safety net he needed. Timing here was crucial, he couldn't make his move too late, else he'd end up at the bottom of the food chain and look like a freeloader. He had to make sure he had what they wanted to offer first, and then make his move before landfall.

  Satisfied with his rudimentary plan, Alric exhaled slowly. He was still heavy with exhaustion, but a fire had been lit within him. He might be a street rat, but who said being a rat was a bad thing? So long as he avoided the cats and played his card right, he would get his grubby paws on the coveted cheese before anyone could notice.

  As he lay back down on his rag mattress, he closed his eyes, letting the creaking of the ship and the sound of the waves sing him a lullaby. Tomorrow this rat was gonna show them all it still knew how to dance.