"Orinthia is a fractured land of petty warlords, locked in the endless cycle of war those brutes consider their national sport. It is a chaotic place where even the title of ruler can be won in a duel, making stable governing all but impossible. Despite their insistence on honor and the cultural importance they put on keeping their word, there is no sense in maintaining diplomacy with them, as the deals made with one ruler become void mere weeks after its writing when the fool dies in a duel. They are divided and uneducated, both in the ways of the world and the divine, barbarians in the truest sense.

  And yet my liege, I urge you to not dismiss them idly. The Unbroken Throne must never again gain an occupant, for if it does, the war host an united Orinthia would gather under one banner is one Thalorin, nay all of Eldrethys cannot defeat without divine intervention. Instead, we must adopt a disruptive strategy. We may not be able to make deals, but we can ensure that their internal conflict never dies out. Give the word my liege, and I shall fan the flames of war."

  — Imperial chronicler Esmond Markand, advising his Emperor

  Invigorated by the glorious sight of the sun rising over the open sea, Alric approached his porter duties with a renewed enthusiasm. Though he still needed Mira's help for many of the heavier crates — especially the ones half his height— he didn't mind the toil as much anymore.

  The bags of grain were manageable on his own, but the camaraderie he had found with Mira made it much more bearable. Mira, unlike what he expected from someone in that broody bunch Elara called her gang, was friendly and outgoing. She spoke nearly as much as he did, and had a nose for gossip unlike anyone he had ever know. To current memory that is. She didn't have much competition.

  But nonetheless, she was a fun person who knew many aboard the ship and was well-liked even by some of the other gangs. Alric learned more about the scuttlebutt going around the ship and rumors of what the empire was doing from his conversation with her alone than he had learned painfully trying to pry the secrets from Elaras and Silas's lips.

  Her personal history, which she shared freely, was equally fascinating. She used to be a Sanctioned huntress from Vorlund, the foremost mining town of Thalorin, and the only one bordering one of the vilest terrains in its territory, the silent mire. To hunt the Eldrovora populating its depths she had to use a bow and enchanted ammunition given to hunters like her by the Order of the Codex to be able to injure the supernatural beasts, and she had the arms to show for it. Under those rags of hers was the toned body of a warrior, and she didn't hesitate to brag about it, only slightly deflating when Butcher-boy smugly passed them with twice the load.

  Alric of course, was not one that let himself be outdone, especially not by such a beautiful and charming woman, and spoke nearly as much as her, despite his repertoire of stories being limited to the little memories of his childhood as a street rat Owen had helped him regain from the endless depths of the fog. But that was nothing a little bit of.. creative liberty.. couldn't fix. And a bunch of colorful opinions on the prisoners they passed as soon as they went out of earshot.

  Abyss claim him, even the frigid Dorian began to grow on him, mostly due to the immense amount of workload he saved him from doing. It led to something Alric never expected to find on a ship carrying future slaves not even the most ragged peasant would see as humans. Leisurely work.

  And with this leisure, came opportunity. After all, his porter duties led him all around the ship unmolested, well so long as he kept his britches up while passing stubbly Jim at least. The acolytes, not bothering with the subhuman scum they saw him as, largely ignored him as he hauled crates from storage to storage. He took full advantage of this, using the impunity to build a mental map of the ship, committing every detail to memory as he passed through its dimly lit halls.

  The ship, massive beyond even what Alric had first imagined, was divided into 3 main decks. The upper deck housed the crew quarters, the armory, the kitchen, the so-called special containment cells, and the anchor room. That wasn't to say there couldn't be more rooms, he had only been to the kitchen on that floor after all, but got lucky when a mundane sailor got an earful from an acolyte about his cleaning duties. Apparently the waste from the ship was always dropped from the anchor room into the seas below, and someone had neglected to clean it well enough. Some discreet snickers exchanged with Mira and a few crates later, equipment shipments led him to the middle deck.

  This was where most of the prisoners would spend their time. The galley with its vast rowing rooms took up by far the most space. When the wind was calm or the prisoners not suffering enough, they would be sent to row here, a mostly pointless task given the size of the ship, but very effective at crushing both the soul and body as Alric had found out yesterday. He also had been to the rope room on this floor, where the largest ropes and chains he had ever laid his eyes on were located. it required maintenance tools. Thankfully it wasn't his job to wrangle with those hemp anacondas today.

  Finally, there was the hold. Alric already knew a lot about this, but Mira helpfully filled some holes in his knowledge. There were exactly 22 cells, each originally meant to hold 2-3 prisoners. The fact that only 36 prisoners out of the former 62 were left did not exactly uplift Alric's spirits. When he asked Elara about what had happened, she just gave him an empty smile and told him that at the start there were many executions by the acolytes, aswell as many brawls and fights amongst the cursed. After someone had killed an acolyte and the rest of them went on a rampage on the lower decks, the captain removed the most brutal acolytes so that he would still have "cargo" to bring to Eirathor, and ordered lashings as punishments instead.

  By that point, many factions had already risen, so the only killings were those under more.. mysterious circumstances. But since the captain disliked his orders being ignored, every murder from then on led to a huge crackdown and lockdown, followed by group punishments. Things had been more calm since then, but people still died in this place, just less frequently.

  Seeing Alrics face become more grave with every word that left her mouth, Mira had just laughed. "Not that you had to worry about any of that. From the talk I heard, you were going to be a servitor to some highly placed person in Eirathor, and so the guards made sure to keep everyone's fingers off the merchandise. Your value took quite the dip though when you stopped being a mindless drone, so I wouldn't count on the captain's goodwill anymore. In fact, I don't recommend reminding him of your existence."

  Not entirely reassured by her nonchalant attitude about his loss of value but still happy about the attempt to butter him up, he continued bickering with her about what price he would have fetched in an auction. She had the gall to not be convinced by his argument that his rugged good looks would make him fetch at least twice the market standard. No eye for merchandise that one.

  They had already passed the Storeroom, which seemed to remain under guard at all times, and even found the sickbay on the other side of the ship, which Mira jokingly informed him would find a new occupant if he kept insisting he would fetch a higher price than her esteemed self. And with that, the only thing missing from a prim and proper naval vessel was the captain's quarters. But if the vessel followed the same standard as most thalorin vessels, that one would almost certainly be abovedeck, a place where porters weren't allowed. Still, he couldn't complain, his new cushy job got him more or less anywhere in the ship without suspicion and left him plenty of time for chatting.

  Still lost in his mental mapping of the ship, Mira's voice brought him back to the present. As they returned to the storeroom with only a few more crates needing to be hauled. "We weren't half bad eh? What do you say, you still got a few more loads left in ya?"

  Alric, his palm kissing his forehead with a crisp smack for the umptieth time this morning, couldn't repress a smirk at the veritable storm of sexual innuendos this woman conjured out of thin air, seemingly without even noticing it. "You wouldn't believe how many loads I still got in me woman, I could go all day. I may not remember my past, but I am renowned for my stamina. Or so I was told yesterday."

  "Ha! Dont act like I don't know who you were measuring up against. Everyone knows the Ignatharian gets exhausted halfway through the Evening. He couldn't keep up with a Thalorian houswife, much less you oar-swinging muscleheads"

  Alric gave her a deadpan stare as he looked at her toned bicep strain while lifting the crate " Who are you calling a musclehead? You have the delicate figure of an ox. You're lucky your face is too pretty for you to be mistaken as Rannok's sister."

  Mira laughed aloud, drawing the glare of stubby Jim, clearly incensed about their work ethics, before destabilizing the crate to punch Alric in the shoulder. "You're a right charmer eh? But don't act like my muscles aren't hot. Besides, at least my savage beauty doesn't attract all kinds of unwanted attention like your cute face does. What was it Brandt called you again? Doll?"

  Part indignified at her clear lack of vision for the rugged masculinity he practically exuded and part terrified at the swiftly approaching steps of "the hedgehog" from who he did not desire any unwanted attention, he hissed at her before speeding his steps up: "Great, now you summoned one of them. Move you ape, my britches are in danger."

  And thus their morning ended with at least one one-sided yelling match against a prickly acolyte. But Alric couldn't complain. It was a beautifully cushy job compared to the endless toil of the oars, and the company was a lot more talkative. Best of all, Dorian, as he had learned was the name of the murder machine Elara called a brother, did the work of 8 men by his lonesome, leaving him and Mira way ahead of schedule.

  And with free time, came opportunity. Alric knew this cushy job was conditional, and he would be damned if he wasn't going to use this free time for some spelunking. There was no better time for this than their free afternoon, with most acolytes being sent to the oars at that time with some exceptions like himself. The cells were empty too, and while Alric didn't know which one was Silas's cell, that wasn't something some snooping around wouldn't fix.

  Mira seemed to share his good mood, and stretched as they left their last crate behind, showing an exquisitely muscled midriff. "Isnt it a joy to work with Dorian? I mean he's usually even less talkative than today, but you cant beat the free time you get when he starts chugging. Plus, I get to brag about hanging out with a celebrity if I ever get back home."

  Alric laughed. "I'll admit, I was pretty nervous about working with someone known as "the butcher of Chroma pass". I totally thought he'd rip my head off if he was a bit slow, but he's a pretty decent guy."

  he was lying through his teeth of course. There was nothing decent about that empty stare that looked like he was thinking about various ways you could be filleted.

  Mira nodded along, smiling. "He is! besides, that ole name is Orinthian Propaganda. Or church propaganda whatever. He's a right hero in Vorlund. Everyone knows the story where I'm from.

  Oh? Alric was very interested in this story, especially if it could help him learn more about the faction he was slowly aligning himself with. "Well, out with it then! You know I can't resist a good story."

  Mira gave him a sidelong glance before smirking "You sure your stomach can handle it? It's no story for delicate flowers like yourself."

  "Delicate flower my ass, if my stomach can handle a Vorlundian screwdriver to the gut it can handle your little story. "

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Mira made a little o face before covering it with a hand like a dainty lady. "You sure got busy already Alric, who was it? No don't tell me. It's more fun to guess.

  Before Alric could protest she shushed him, before putting on a serious storytelling face. "It was a dark an stormy night, when Dorian of house Vale rode out with his cohort to.."

  Alric rolled his eyes, making a signal to get to the point with his fingers.

  Mira stuck out her tongue at him, and continued. "Fine, fine. Tough crowd today. An Orinthian war party was spotted heading through Chroma pass, right for Vorlund. Those Rockhides, as ugly as they are, are really good raiders, and probably would have looted half the town before we could chase them off. There weren't any patrols near the pass except for Dorians. They were outnumbered 10 to one if you believe the bards, but that's probably horseshit. Still, it didn't look good. All news that Vorlund had was Dorian's message he was going to intercept. Then, nothing. Other cohorts rushed in from the capital, but by the time they got there, everything was already over. "

  She paused, for dramatic effect, before continuing. " The pass was covered in blood. Bodies were strewn across the pass, littered like a pile of broken dolls. They were practically ripped apart, but many were covered in boils, scratches and pus, looking like they'd been boiled alive. It was a complete massacre. Everyone was dead, the cohort and the orinthians. All except for one. Barely alive, standing in the middle of the pass, was Dorian. They say the bodies of the orinthians were crowding around him like hills. It looked like a messy butcher's shop. And that's exactly what they started calling him in the wider Empire, the Butcher of Chroma pass. For some reason, Dorian neither got medals nor honors, and just disappeared for 5 years, with his family always being vague about what was going on. Was a real political shitshow I tell you. "

  She shrugged. "Anyways, him and his sister got denounced by the Order of the Codex not long ago, and the churches began a manhunt for them. And now he's here. But for us vorlundian townsfolk he's a hero, cursed or no. Blast I think they even made a statue about it or something like that. But I haven't been to town in ages, for obvious reasons. Still, I like working with him. He's quiet, and his group's a bit spooky, but it feels like I'm giving back what I owe in a way. My family lives on the outer rim of Vorlund you see, so they would have been hit first if he hadn't been there."

  Mira grew quiet after that. A wistful expression settled on her face, her amber eyes shining as if looking towards something distant. And in a way, Alric understood. She must be thinking about her family. Her home. She had lost them, just like him. She would not see them again. Sadness began to cloud his mind, as he thought to the hazy faces that haunted the fog, smiling and laughing. He didn't even have the luxury to miss them.

  His thoughts grew hazy, as soft misty tendrils of fog began to caress his mind, softly luring him into its roiling depths, the hazy figures beckoning him luring him with whispers of his lost past. But then like a splash of water, a sharp pain cut through the haze, as the taste of iron began filling his mouth. Fuck. Biting your cheek had no business being so painful. Alric softly cursed, emerging from his custody dispute with the damn fog that had taken residence in his brain without a punch to the gut this time. That blasted thing was really insidious.

  He blinked his eyes to see Mira walking next to him, seemingly similarly lost in thought. She hadn't noticed, thankfully, and was even smiling. It was a beautiful smile.

  They walked side by side quiety, Alric distracting his treacherous mind with what he had learned about Dorian. Mira had all but confirmed the pair of green-eyed, pale-skinned cursed were high-born, no commoner received command over an entire military cohort. But even with all the training a noble scion received, what he had accomplished was far from an easy feat. In fact, it sounded impossible. Thalorins neighboring kingdom Orinthia wasnt renowned as a warrior kingdom for nothing after all. Everything about this stank of supernatural interference. And if he could know that, so could others. It wasn't a surprise Dorian's Father had hidden him away.

  Alric shivered as he thought about the man's empty green eyes. No wonder he looked like he was thinking about slaughter all the time. Even considering bardic ... liberty ... in embellishing stories, what he must have gone through was nothing short of horrifying. Speaking of horrifying, a shiver went down his spine as his thoughts went to how easily a man that survived all of that could kill him, magic or not. He was really happy he wouldn't have to join their table at lunch.

  Rudely interrupting Alric's musing, the large doors to the galley slammed open, and with the din and chaos of a flock of cannibal geese, the rowers threw themselves towards the mess hall, eager to get some chow down. Mira rapped on the stunned Alrics head with two fingers, bringing his attention to her. "Oi, porcelain head. What are you standing around gawking for? Get your legs moving, or we'll be last in line. Cold porridge is the worst, that stuff hardens like quicklime."

  With a look of mock offense, he grinned back at the redhead. "Then get your trotters in motion. I have some baggage to pick up that probably rowed itself into a coma. You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to rub my free afternoon in his face. Totally worth eating the hard stuff for that."

  She stared at him for a bit before grinning at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "You would know about eating hard things wouldn't you doll? Well, not for me to spoil your fun. See you around, Alric."

  "What does that even.. hey!" With a glare, Alric watched the shapely woman depart, as she waved at him without looking back, laughing. Did his gaze linger perhaps a bit longer than he meant to? Yes. But it was purely for research purposes. Scoping out the opposition, gathering information about potential allies, watching the hypnotic waving of her flaming ponytail, tracing her shapely curv.. oh here comes Silas.

  Silas looked like a wreck, as he usually did after a shift of rowing. But this time, Alric didn't share in his misery, and properly got to appreciate it. With a friendly wave and laugh at Silas's incredulous look, he beckoned him over to their usual table. "Enjoy your peace and quiet on the oars Silas?" he teased with a grin. "I could hear your exhausted groaning every time I passed with a nice, light sack of grain."

  Silas shot him a glare, before proclaiming. "If you fill your mouth with razors, you will spit blood. Or in words an uneducated lizard as yourself would understand, Sodd off, prune. I had mourned your passing at the hands of the butcher, and yet I find you impaling me with spite. Do not tell me the butcher spared you because of your sense of humor."

  Alric laughed at the poetic insult, before continuing "No, I got lucky. You see, my winning charm has started working its magic, and I'm thick as thieves with Mira, the red-haired girl. I don't think the butcher even knows what humor is. I just kept quiet and made myself small, and he ignored me."

  Silas raised his eyebrow. "If only I had such luck. I did not know you possessed the capacity for silence."

  Alric clapped his shoulder laughing. "Oh stop getting your britches in a twist, I was just messing with you. Here, I brought you something."

  Alric knew there was no better way to gain favor in a place such as prison than by offering help without expectations. Under the table, away from the greedy eyes of the other prisoners, he passed Silas a small dried sausage he had managed to pilfer from the supply room when Stubby Jim wasn't looking. Being a former street rat had its perks. The man took it, looking surprised.

  "I know you struggle with the thalorian pace, so I brought you some extra energy. No, no one saw me, no one will miss it, and you don't owe me a thing, except for the most floral thanks you can imagine" Alric said with a wink.

  Silas concealed the sausage within his rags, before returning the smile. "You wish. I preserve my floral language for my insults. But I thank you nonetheless."

  "Dont mention it. I told you we Thalorians cared about food. Time someone showed you some proper hospitality."

  Silas gave a smile, his eyes looking into Alrics, seemingly looking for something, and sighing when he didn't find it. "Alric. I must know. Why do you not have the hatred for me your countrymen share?" he gave Alric a small smile and a curious look. "When you approached me afore, I believed you were merely talented at hiding your thoughts. It was my belief you were looking to use me for something and so hid the rotten fruit under fresh leaves. But your eyes are as empty of disdain as your head is of thought, and your actions betray my assumptions."

  Alric was taken a bit aback. Usually one wasn't so direct about their suspicions, but Silas had always been quite forthright. Alric indeed did not have pure intentions with Silas. Not in the way Mira no doubt imagined of course, but rather in the way that he wished to use him to learn more and gain an advantage.

  But that did not mean he had disdain or looked down on Silas. On the contrary, he admired him. Surviving the massacre of half the ship as the only foreigner without joining a faction was a show of skill, and his knowledge was impressive. His desire to befriend him was genuine. After all, he was a fascinating man who didn't seem to have many hidden motives, and Alric enjoyed his company.

  As for why he didn't have the natural disdain Thalorins had for the other races? It was simple:

  "Because I have forgotten it. I do not remember why my countrymen hate yours, or any other of the races for that matter. How could I disdain you for reasons I do not know? All I can do is objectively judge the person who is in front of me. And the person I see, is one to be admired, not disdained."

  Silas's eyes widened in surprise before warming slightly. But Alric was not done. This was the perfect moment to get closer to the man, and a show of vulnerability was exactly what he hoped could help him make that push. Unless he had completely misjudged Silas, but Alric was confident in his instincts.

  "But I will not lie to you. I had a reason to approach you beyond just interest."

  He looked down, a bit sheepishly.

  "I’m weak. Alone. No faction. No backing. You don’t have backing either—but you are strong. By staying near you, I make myself less of a target during mealtimes. And outside those hours, well… I’m slippery enough to get by."

  Silas looked at him, and for a short moment, a silence hung heavy between them. But then a smile spread across the dark-skinned man's face, and his red eyes glistened with mirth. "It seems I must take back my previous statement. Your head is not entirely empty." He laughed, slapping Alric on the back. "There is no shame in making use of your environment. Even if that environment is me. I appreciate your sincerity." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But that is the most ridiculous yet sensible reason I have heard for not judging someone based on the blood in their veins. My teachers would not believe me if I told them."

  Alric mentally exhaled. His gamble had worked. Showing vulnerability only is a good idea if the opposite isn't a psychopathic masochist, and on a ship full of cursed, that assumption was much less certain than one would think.

  Alric glared at the Ignatharian, who was still chuckling at the thought of his teachers while clapping Alric on the back. "While Im glad my lack of memories would please your teachers, I'd appreciate it if my 'environment' stopped beating my back like a dusty rug. Where was that strength when we were rowing yesterday huh?"

  Silas smiled at him, warmer now than before. "I save my strength for special occasions, just like I do my language. Consider it a mark of honor."

  Despite himself, Alric smiled too. "I better hear you honoring the oars plenty when I go about my relaxing free afternoon. It will be music to my ears."

  Silas's smile grew dangerous. "It sounds to me like you haven't been honored enough yet, my sharp-tongued friend."

  But before they could continue with their light-hearted banter, the door of the mess hall flew open as the more sharply dressed acolyte kicked it in once again. Talk about dramatic. Silas glanced their way, and sighing, hid the sausage within his tunic before getting up.

  Alric gave him a final shit-eating grin, earning himself a rude gesture for his troubles, before watching that surly barnacle of a man trudge to the galley. Alric found himself smiling. Bickering with Silas reminded him of Owen. They both were hopelessly straightforward, and they both had a penchant for just voicing their thoughts without much consideration. Of course, Silas couldn't match the infuriating handsomeness and utter goodness Owen held in his heart, but if anything that only made Alric like him more.

  Not the best feelings to have about someone you were about to spy on. Shit. Alrics fist tightened. He might be a thick-skinned scoundrel with little shame, but unfortunately, his conscience hadn't left with his memories. But as often, his conscience lost out to his egoism anyway. He could loathe in self-pity about being a worthless human who didn't deserve the friendship that had begun to bloom when he was safe and off the ship. But there was no to laud his admirable loyalty once he was dead at the bottom of the ocean, murdered by Brandt or Elara.

  Alric’s gaze hardened. He stood from his chair, the flicker of guilt still burning in his chest. He crushed it with grim determination. Then, without another word, he turned and began his descent into the lower hold.

  This wasn’t a place for innocence.

  Innocence would get him killed. So he had to kill it first.