Hardwood clattered against itself, echoing through the pristine dungeon. Through the door came Daithi, gliding with calm grace, his hands clasped low. Cian followed closely in tow, his narrow face turned downward, appearing profoundly sombre next to his lord. Four guards stood outside Ayube’s cell—hands on scabbards. Several more lingered anxiously in the corridor just beyond.

  Daithi came to a stop in front of his prisoner. The slouched dark-skinned man did not look up at him, though in truth, Daithi was glad. It was one of four times a year he dressed as a true lord, wearing a silken gold robe over a rich green doublet. Below the belt, white breeches and green, leather-soled shoes which came to a pointed tip. It all fit snug on the toned man, though Daithi wore it awkwardly. Fine clothing, he thought, allowed one to judge a person at a glance and so obviously separated the rich from the poor. It was the autumn harvest, however. Nearly every citizen of his fiefdom would be in attendance in their finest clothing. On this day, everyone would appear equal.

  “Leave us,” Daithi commanded, and the four guards departed, one sighing in relief as he did.

  “You as well,” said Daithi, Cian hovering over his shoulder.

  “My lord, I’m not sure that’s the best—”

  “Please, friend. I ask only this. I know I’ve not been me’self, but I think our worries are soon to come to an end. I promise you, I’m not here to torment.”

  Cian nodded, though hesitation stayed his gait. This feeling, this doubt, it wrapped itself around his beating heart, tightening in his chest. He’d never felt such an emotion, then all at once, it vanished. Cian turned his gaze. Daithi smiled soft, and suddenly Cian was safe, his worries seeming foolish. Hey turned and walked, shacking his head. Of course he could leave his lord alone with the prisoner, why had he ever thought otherwise? People weren’t like that. Daithi wasn’t like that.

  Braziers and torches spotted the castle grounds, their glow blanketing thousands of cheerful patrons in warmth as they sampled foods and traded cloth. The serenity pierced even the dungeons, its peace juxtaposed by the iron cages and a miserable man. To feel such a peace in a place reserved only for the wicked seemed strange even to Daithi.

  Metal chains dragged across the stony surface below Ayube as pulled his legs in close. He sat on a bed of straw, his previous cage empty and destroyed not ten feet to his side.

  “I never got your name,” said Daithi. Ayube remained motionless.

  “I said, I never got your name.” Still, Ayube did not move. Daithi’s lips pressed flat as he breathed deep. He knelt down to the prisoner’s level, becking the young man’s attention. Neither spoke for nearly a minute longer.

  ELDERS MADE ME DO IT! ELDERS MADE ME DIE!

  STOP!

  Whenever Ayube clenched his eyes shut, a dull pain followed in his face. Given he repeated the movement during every episode of panic, the pain had soon become a constant presence, now practically a part of him. Speaking and engaging his mind helped stave the bouts of fear, but did it have to be now, with this man?

  “Why do you torment me?” asked Ayube, voice soft.

  “Torment you? This is punishment for what you’ve done. Do ye think I enjoy this?”

  Ayube finally looked up to the kneeling lord in his rich clothing. “You seem to derive some pleasures from this, yes.”

  Daithi sighed deep, then stood. There it was again, another reminder of the monster people perceived him to be.

  “I used to be an angry man, stranger. Ages ago. Weren’t from my family neither—my da was a kind, honest man. But there was just so much to hate, so much suffering in the world caused by other angry men, so much… injustice.”

  “You think that this is justice?”

  “What would you have me do were our roles reversed? If I’d murdered people you loved without reason?” Daithi stared at the dark man in his filthy, thick robes. Some might have thought the man thinking and plotting, but Daithi could see the only true thought buried behind those dark eyes: defeat.

  “You silenced me,” mumbled Ayube.

  “For the good of my people, aye,” said Daithi. “You’ve put me in a difficult spot though, I’ll admit. I believe in justice—in a fair trial—but the people of Gildaun are gentle folk, and already I’ve seen your words sway my own captain and master of arms. These people believe in forgiveness, as do I, but there are some things that cannot be forgiven—that I won’t let be forgiven.”

  “Then there was never any hope for me so long as men like you live; men who only believe in justice when the outcome suits their own favour.”

  Daithi shook his head. “I know what’s right for my own people. Ye think we’ve come as far as we have without my guidance?”

  “Why have a trial at all then if you will ultimately decide its outcome? Your kingdom’s foundation is built on not but lies.” Again, Ayube’s chains rustled and clinked as he twisted on the ground, the rapid sounds tickling his frail mind, forcing his teeth to grit.

  “Your mother,” said Daithi. “Did she value your opinions?”

  My mother, Ayube thought. He could see her round face and beautiful smile as if she sat caged by his side. For a moment he heard the insects of his land and the howling wildlife around his village. He tasted blood on his lips, then looked back to the lord.

  “These people are not your children,” said Ayube.

  “Ye might think it strange, but I could name ye nearly each and every single person who lives among my flock, even the fifty ye killed. I love these people, with all my heart, and if I need to shelter them from creatures like you at the cost of some of their freedom, then so be it.”

  Ayube continued to stare at the floor. He was done speaking with the lord. Daithi had already made up his mind. If Ayube were to die soon, he wished to do so with his sanity still intact. A pointless argument with a vengeful lord only worked against that goal.

  The prisoner curled in and buried his face in his knees, any hope he’d once possessed seeping from his body, soon to be dead. The boy was sharp. It was easy to forget his sins, but someone needed to remember. Such was his burden to bear.

  Daithi turned away. “I’ll have some food brought for ye from the feast. Then tomorrow…”

  The lord stood for a moment longer, face hidden, then continued to leave.

  The tailors of Gildaun were just as talented as any other artisan within the city. Madwen wished to play the part of a partygoer, but more than that, she wished to feel comfortable. The life of an omeness rarely afforded one the ability to indulge in the pleasures of feasts and balls, rarer still was the ability to do so while working. And so, honouring her promise to cease her investigation, Madwen had bathed, perfumed, and purchased an elegant—yet unrestricted—front-open gown, courtesy of the High Crown, of course.

  Madwen was stunning, a trait she only gained in her maturity. Even sitting at the edge of the lord’s head table, far from the common people, eyes from across the lively great hall drew to her like artists before their subject. Or is it because of what I’ve done, she found herself wondering. Worne gathered a similar collection of looks, though mostly in awe at his sheer size and endless appetite. If anything, some found it humourous watching the ravenous bull pile up bones and cartilage as he feasted.

  There was, however, something more that lingered in the air. It wasn’t the scent of delicate morsels or sounds of celebration, but whispers. At first, they seemed nothing more than stray echoes of cutlery and tableware, but as the night drew longer, the shifting whispers shaped into singular words. “Protected,” “Knight,” “Saviour.” Were the hushed folk of Gildaun speaking of Worne? Madwen watched the man sitting far on the opposite end of the table, still wearing his same tunic and gambeson, still inhaling food. She chuckled to herself. Perhaps they were.

  Madwen excused herself, drawing a white cloth to her face and patting her lips as she did so. The omeness moved with tried grace past the cautious eyes of all the lords by Daithi’s side, including Daithi himself.

  “Come,” said Madwen to Worne, her tone soft but expression still cross. “Perhaps it’s time we mingled. Wait for me to settle before you move to keep suspicions low. Once I’ve found a suitable place, I’ll begin flooding the entire area under the castle with my burden. Let’s hope it’s not enough that the guards will notice.”

  Worne dropped a bone to his plate, spying the same servant from the day previous, two covered silver platters in his hands. Madwen had already gone. Worne hadn’t noticed, his gaze transfixed on the approaching man. The first platter came to rest in front of Daithi, the lid lifting, revealing that same, simple bowl of stew as before. Daithi’s eyes closed as he breathed deep, pure ecstasy moving through his body from toe to head. He bounced with anticipation, and when a spoonful of hearty stew finally touched his tongue, the lord melted.

  Lips parted and shoulders relaxed, Daithi finally turned to Worne. His look said it all: Join me, brother. It has been far too long. Worne sneered with nostrils flared as he stood and dropped his food, wiping his hands on his gambeson.

  The great hall was indeed great for its size, but even a castle like Gildaun’s could not hold the thousands attending that night’s feast. Many ate in the courtyard, many more collected outside the castle walls at the various stalls and stands laden with delectable autumnal pastries and jams.

  “A celebration of hard work and the fruits that it bears.” That’s what Daithi called it. “Tonight, your troubles shall fade, and another year’s happiness shall be bestowed upon us all. As it has, as it always shall.” He was correct. There was certainly no lack of merriment amongst the common folk, that much was clear. Madwen leaned against a table near the edge of the chamber, somehow hidden in plain sight, watching the boisterous people eat, drink, and laugh.

  It was time.

  Drawing a slow breath, Madwen gently touched her apathy, mixing it with the well of magic within her. It took years of training to touch her negative emotions without provoking them. Apathy was a powerful emotion—the root of all her offensive magic, in fact—and fatigue still gnawed at her mind despite her earlier rest. Perhaps it would leak into her psyche, but it was a risk she had to take.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Below the great hall, below the feast, below the laughter and love, Ayube lay curled on his bed of straw, two guards stood tall on either side. There was no point in hope, so he had none. There was no point in thinking, so he did not. When the screaming voices inside him moved to speak, he let them.

  A weight began to form all around him, squeezing him ever so gently. It would almost be comforting if it weren’t so perverse. How could I have betrayed her?

  “Plotting my demise, are we?” Daithi’s gentle voice danced through the buzz of the rowdy crowd.

  “Lord Daithi!” Madwen adjusted herself to appear calmer than she was. Why was he not avoiding her?

  Daithi moved to her side, a goblet of wine in hand. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Daithi’s voice sang brighter now than during his earlier speech.

  “Indeed,” said Madwen, forcing her shoulders down. “Though I tend to live more vicariously these days, I’ll admit.”

  “Aye, perhaps in my younger years, but alas, those are far behind me I’m afraid.”

  Daithi’s smile seemed genuine. Seeing his people enjoy themselves clearly eased his stress. Madwen watched the handsome lord as he slowly scanned the room. There was a kind of proudness about him, the kind built not over one lifetime, but over several, like that of an ancient soul bound to the land, basking in the fruits of its legacy.

  “I’ll admit,” said Madwen, “not many lords would open their doors like this.”

  “Are there any at all?”

  “I’ve known a few.”

  “Coming from you, that’s a surprising thing indeed,” said Daithi. “I imagine an omeness meets only the most twisted of mankind.”

  “The first thing you learn as an omeness is how similar fiends are to men. It makes the work considerably more difficult.”

  “If only more were like me,” said Daithi, his gaze still forward, still ever watchful over his flock.

  Madwen eyed the lord, then touched her apathy once again, squeezing harder below their very feet. Somewhere under the castle, the stranger would be falling further into darkness.

  “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself,” Madwen said playfully.

  “I only mean to say that more men should care less about wealth and more about the things that make life worth living.”

  “You’ve sure done well for yourself. I can’t imagine that came from being entirely selfless.”

  Daithi smiled. “I won’t lie, Lady Madwen—”

  “Just, ‘Madwen,’ I own no land, nor am I of noble blood.”

  “Then you and I were similar at one point. My life was taken from me early, Madwen, and I’d done some bad things trying to make it right—I’ll be the first to admit that. But after me da passed, I swore I’d become a better man—a good man. So yes, I’ve done well for me’self, but I can promise ye that none of what you see comes from exploitation if that’s what you’re meaning.”

  Madwen felt the apathy slosh within her, spilling into her psyche. “If only all those who’d ever been wronged received a castle of their very own.”

  “I don't deny I've been lucky, but I've never been corrupt.”

  “A feast like this, a beautiful prosperous city, I’d imagine you collect quite the taxes. I wonder if it all makes its way back to the High Crown.”

  Daithi turned to the omeness, shoulders squared. “I pay what's expected of me to pay. If I started sending in large sums of coin, it might catch the High King's glance, and with it, his grip.”

  “So better you decide what to do with the funds,” Madwen stated sarcastically, stirring the magic within her, squeezing tighter below the floor.

  “Would ye have it any other way? You’ve seen it yourself, omeness. There's no oppression here, no corruption. My dungeons have been empty for years, save the odd drunk who needs a place to cool their head—and that lunatic killer, of course. Tell me, do ye ask the High Crown how ye should do your job?”

  “The High Crown doesn't know how to do my job.”

  “And if ye ask me, they don't know how to do mine neither.”

  “Don’t they? You can’t deny the High Capital is a beautiful city.”

  “Beautiful, aye, but does it function as a haven for its people? Are ye to tell me there’s none without a home, a job, or even a purpose? During my past life, I had dealings with the High Capital and its lords and ladies. They were a twisted lot, kind to your face but mean as all when ye weren't looking.

  Apathy sloshed again within Madwen. “You've been kind to my face.”

  Daithi’s eyes remained calm, but Madwen could see the thin veil of guile returning to him like an addict returning to the drink.

  “Perhaps that's what ye were talking of earlier,” said Daithi. “Fiends and men.”

  Madwen smirked. “Perhaps both need to be dealt with just the same.”

  “Ha! I'm starting to wish we'd met sooner. You're sharp as a knife, nothing like that dull one you keep with you.”

  “He's sharper than he lets on, don't let him fool you.” Searching for Worne among the crowd was like searching for the sun during a cloudless day. He leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the great hall, arms crossed, mug mean. The tavern keeper, Carlina, clung to his massive frame, endlessly teasing the sullen man.

  “Oh, that bull couldn't fool me. I reckon I know him better than ye ever could.”

  There it was again. Daithi had previously mentioned some kind of deal with Worne, but Madwen couldn’t know of its nature, or even if it related to her. Now he hinted at some sort of shared past? Even when Daithi lowered his guard, still he played games. Truly, she thought, this must be the man’s second nature.

  THOUSANDS OF MILES JUST TO DIE!—Why can I not live a simple life?—Why do I only kill the innocents?—KILLER MAN! KILLER BOY! HELLS HELLS HELLS! Is that all that I am?—Unable to accomplish a single thing on my own?—PATHETIC!—I am a fraud—I am a freak—All I do is make things worse—PATHETIC!—I am better off dead—Better in the ground—PATHETIC!—I will die tomorrow—PATHETIC!—I will be NOTHING—PATHETIC!—The creator god has TOSSED ME ASIDE!—PATHETIC!—PATHETIC! PATHETIC!

  Burden bore down on Ayube, shaking the earth beneath his feet and the hairs along his body. He clawed at his robes, pushing and pulling on them at random in his fits of panic. His fingers trembled, blood dripping from his nails as they peeled back under his grip. The endless drone of Gildaun rang shrill in his ears. The more he clenched his jaw, the more the sound faded, replaced by the rumbling of his boiling blood.

  “What do we do?” asked a guard. Several men stood hunched, feeling the familiar, enormous pressure that squeezed them only the night previous.

  “Lord Daithi gave explicit orders to kill him if he acted out again!” said another guard.

  “He looks like he’s in pain. Do we help him?”

  “Help him? He might kill us all! We need to act first!”

  “I’ve never killed anyone!”

  “None of us have!”

  “…But he did.”

  Another guard burst through the door. “Do we summon the lord?” they yelled.

  Another powerful pulse of pressure jolted the guards.

  “Whats… what’s happening?” said one.

  “I feel… Fiona was in Fiamór… Now she’s dead,” said another.

  “They’re all dead. Soon… soon we’ll join them.”

  “It’s… so…. dark.”

  “I don’t… where am I?”

  Black and red filled Ayube’s already blurring vision, believing his own magic to be crushing him slowly. The guards started collapsing to the floor one by one. He could hear them falling, hear their armour clinking, hear them sobbing.

  This is your fault! You did this! Pathetic! Pathetic! PATHETIC!

  Ayube widened his eyes, his mad gaze scattering about the room. His heart pounded deep within his chest, sour blood coursing, thudding through the arteries in his neck. Swift, short breaths became him.

  It was happening again.

  It was happening again.

  I am so sorry…

  A deep rumble pulsated through the castle, resonating through the white stone like a perverted heartbeat.

  Now! Madwen strained, sharply tuning her magic to match the new force just below them. Her eyes shot toward Daithi. Has he noticed?

  “Where did you find such a man, I wonder?” he asked, watching the taverness trace her fingers through the hairs on Worne’s forearm.

  Madwen fought to maintain her composure. “He found me. Most men do. Some looking for glory, some to satiate their curiosity, and some with a simple death wish.”

  “And which is he?” Daithi looked back to the omeness. She was tense.

  The young man’s power was not nearly that of Madwen’s, but it shifted about unpredictably like wild flames. Her still-weak mind made it difficult to maintain the barrage of tiny adjustments. If her push wasn’t hard enough, then the stranger’s power could affect the people in the great hall or crush the guards in the dungeon. If her push was too hard, then she would be the crushing force. It had to be perfect. Fighting to sustain an intelligent conversation with the very man she looked to deceive complicated things further.

  “I told you,” she said. “He’s sharper than he lets on. At first… I thought he only wanted death; many of them do to avoid debt or to pay penance for something or rather. But the more I’ve come to know him, the more… I struggle to place him.”

  Daithi watched Madwen carefully. She made an attempt to look away smoothly, but her subtly quivering eyes deceived her.

  Deep in the crowd before them, a single smile turned downward.

  From across the room, Daithi watched as Carlina’s gentle caressing slowed. “Do ye think he ever relaxes?”

  “If he does… then I’ve never seen it.”

  Another smile in the crowd faded.

  “And why do you reckon that is?” Daithi locked eyes with Madwen, demanding her full attention.

  Again Madwen struggled. A single bead of sweat formed and slid down her forehead. Where are the guards? They should no longer be affected!

  “I can’t say,” said Madwen. “Perhaps a drink is his only way to relax.”

  Daithi watched Worne again; not a drink in sight, nor had he drank during the feast. “Except he’s not drinking.”

  A dozen smiles faded in the crowd, a dozen laughs simmered.

  Daithi watched the room. “…Because he doesn’t drink when he’s working.”

  Madwen’s breaths drew shorter. The perceptive lord’s lips began curling, a fire lit within his soul. He stepped closer, no more than a palm’s width from the omeness’ face.

  Worne leaned off the wall, fixated on the pair across from him. Carlina drooped down to his side and sat on the floor, no longer interested in the bull.

  Another flare of power coursed through the room. Madwen’s face twitched. She stared, quickly switching between the lord’s hazel eyes filled with fury.

  “What. Have. You. Done?” he spat.

  She could not respond.

  The crowd began to simmer.

  Daithi lifted his left hand, slowly peeling off his leather glove. He looked to his hand with intrigue, then to Madwen.

  Worne rushed forward.

  Daithi snapped his hand to the omeness’ arm. A jolt of icy pain seared through her, the same pain that burned her when Worne’s skin had touched hers, only infinitely more intense.

  Madwen dropped her burden.

  A massive wave of pure invisible power came screaming from the hells above, pinning each guest immediately to the floor. None resisted.

  Worne fought to move forward, but the unimaginable burden forced him to his knees. When atop the hill, Madwen had only worked to slow him, but the stranger was lashing out with all the power he could summon. Worne heaved himself upward but collapsed further to his hands. Not again! Aches and pains had plagued him throughout the day; one didn’t simply recover from a feat such as Worne’s after a single restless night. To defeat an omeness once was a miracle, but twice?

  Daithi clutched Madwen with a rough hand, the previously gentle torchlight now reflecting a fiery wrath within his eyes. This omeness—this witch—had betrayed him. Her defeat, Worne’s betrayal, it was all a ruse, and for what? To protect the thriving people of his kingdom? To save them from a fulfilling life of peace? Clearly, she could no longer be trusted. No. She’d had enough chances. It was time to end this once and for all.

  Worne felt a familiar pull from his breast pocket. Sinister whispers taunted him through the deep rumble surrounding him.

  No, never needed it!

  Another pulse of downward pressure forced Worne flat to the floor. Every one of his senses began blurring; fading. Through the growing darkness, Worne watched Daithi grab Madwen by the throat and squeeze. If she tried to resist, it was imperceivable.

  More and more the darkness grew; more and more Worne tried to move but could not. His fingers lay only an inch away from his breast pocket.

  “M…MADWEN!” Worne roared. Madwen’s head slumped forward.

  Worne clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. With all his effort—shaking and trembling—Worne reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a small, corked, brown bottle.

  Fuck it.