The prisoners walk free from their cells, now, following the same path up the stairs I took only minutes ago. I look down at Deora, unlocking their cells one by one, as they congregate at the entrance to the dungeon. “Thank you, Ilban.” One says to me as he passes. They’re criminals by law, certainly, but they’re no mindless killers. No, they understand why and when to kill. Time to let the wolves out to feast.

“You look pale, Ilban.” A booming voice says. Wulfhard has arrived.

“Hm-huh?” I turn around, startled.

“Injure yourself further?” He’s covered in spattered blood, coating the shiny metal worn by the royal guards. His face obscured by a helmet, he holds a bloody chain like a whip in his hand.

“Not necessarily. Not any more than I was. Just reawakened those injuries.”

“Resting wounds.” He nods in understanding. “I would like to apologize for our failure to arrive in a matter of hours. The guard stormed our temporary headquarters, and we had to fight them off. Blood ran in the streets when your father made the announcement of Isma’s fall to Daurellian’s forces.” So, it’s fallen, then. Likely the manor, too, if the city has. “When we heard the word of your and Deora’s capture, we began working with inside forces to get you out. We didn’t expect that the Seashroud Rebels were all being kept in one place. Daurellian is foolish, if he thinks he can handle a rebellion from within his walls. Or cocky.”

Or… “Or he’s planned this. It gives him a chance to execute all of his prisoners without trial.”

“We’re in the dungeon’s deepest depths, if these rebels were executed here, nobody would know any better.” Wulfhard replies. He looks over the crowd of gathered Oak Elves. “Hmph. Granth’s kinfolk.”

Deora appears at the top of the stairs once again. “Two dead in their cells. One refused to leave. That’s all of the Seashroud rebels.” She says, and hands the keyring back to me. I look around the chamber. No, the rest of them are criminals, not political prisoners. I toss the ring underhand and it lands with a clang atop the pillar in the center. The choice is made now, to let them all free would certainly incur the wrath of the entire guard, if it isn’t already here. It would also unleash crime onto the streets, killers en masse. No. We’re here to rescue those who were wrongfully imprisoned.

The Oak Elves sharpen blades, a few hold long poles or spears grabbed from around the dungeon. Deora and Wulfhard whisper a few words between one another, then turn to me. “Are you ready to draw just blood?” Deora says.

“I already have.” I respond.

“Then, we’re ready. Stay behind the pack, you’re wounded.” An Oak Elf, the one who petitioned for freedom earlier, approaches, putting a hand on my shoulder as he passes me. “We’ll handle the slaughter.” He has sharp eyes, now, angry. He’s been freed from his cage, and is ready to strike back. I wish I could harness that as well as he is right now.

The group of Oak Elves leads the charge back down the hallway. I turn back towards the prison we’re leaving. No. It’s a poor idea. The keys are already back on the pillar, anyways.

“Well, Sam, we’ve survived.” Deora says through a slight smile. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes. Let’s leave this hole.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The path back out to the main prison is longer than it felt entering. Prisoners here must be the ones who they wish to keep locked away for a long time. We pass by the fork, the vault and prison adjacent to one another. A couple of Oak Elves begin heading down towards the vault. Poor planning by the construction team, I think.

Footsteps after footsteps. It sounds like a herd proceeding upwards. Soon, metal clashing with metal comes into earshot. The Oak Elves have joined the mounting resistance in the prison, and the guards are both outnumbered and outmatched. One Royal Guard pops a firecracker on the ground, and the group retreats in the commotion. The cells on both sides of the prison are empty, a few maimed bodies lay on the ground bleeding out, prisoners and guards alike. Xahee stands, foot planted on the chest of a pinned guard, fingers in his mouth. Pulling a tooth loose. Every time I see him, I wonder more and more why he wasn’t placed deeper in the prison with the other potential fighters. As I look around, though, something else clicks. These cells certainly weren’t meant to be for holding prisoners permanently. There was an overflow, they didn’t have room. Or, more possible, this was where prisoners were held before their execution. A thud jars me from my thoughts. A bolt hits the stone behind my head, and a member of the guard stands at the end of the hallway with a crossbow in hand, hastily reloading it. However, before I have a chance to charge, an Oak Elf grabs him from behind with a piece of wire around the neck, yanking until an audible snap echoes against the wet stone of this prison. “Dead.” He says, nonchalantly, while dropping the newly created corpse on the bloodied stone.

“Now, why, oh, why didn’t they break these out, hm?” An Oak Elf’s voice behind me. He holds in his hand something I’d never seen in person before, but had heard stories of. It crackles with volcanic energy of some kind, and looks sleek in his hand. “Here, Liberator. Take it.” He palms it into my hand before I have a chance to say no, not that I would. The handle fits firmly into my hand, and my fingers wrap around the metal that forged it. It’s warm to the touch. I look down and examine it once more to ensure I’m seeing it properly. A smooth metal barrel, wooden grip, and a clockwork mechanism with infused magical gemstones. “You’ll need these, too.” He hands me a leather pouch, which, as I take it, is much colder to the touch. Inside of it, smooth metal balls. “Volcanic magic, huh? They used them out in the Glass Forest to put down some of my brothers.” The former Seashroud rebel says. “Can’t use it in good conscience. Take it for yourself, put a few of ‘em down for me.” He pats me on the back with this, and continues past me to rejoin his brothers as they prepare to leave the prison, the guards now routed. A few prisoners around us look around and begin leaving of their own volition.

Xahee walks over to me. “Noble conduct, yet no green robes. Father came in to gloat, now he’s on the back foot and running from the city, I sense.” He gives that reptilian grin I’ve come to know of him in the hour I’ve seen his face. “Amar, scion. Learn to kill.”

“I have, before. That’s part of why I’m here.”

“If you only kill when others raise their blades at you, you’ll find yourself on the edge of one before you can turn around. The predator does not wait for his prey to come to him. He strikes out on his own.” I sigh, and think of how much this man reminds me of reptiles, alligators, crocodiles. Ambush predators, who do wait for their prey. If he’s from S’bileh, he should be familiar, too. The Malkyn are practically walking crocodiles, anyways. “I’ll leave you with that. Don’t be prey, don’t be a victim. That’s one thing daddy was right about.” He smiles once more, before turning and leaving before I can react.

A new hand on my back. “Good job, Ilban.” Wulfhard and Deora stand behind me. I haven’t had a chance to look at them, with all the chaos, but things seem calmer now. Deora’s face is bruised, and the skin broken where she was hit. Her skin is actually open again, after the rush, and blood runs down the right side of her face. Her one eye is bruised as well, and her body isn’t in great condition. I overlooked this earlier, and said she looked fine. No. She looks awful, almost worse than I feel. Probably worse, all things considered. A broken hand and some ribs is nothing relative to how she’s looking now. Wulfhard has blood on his armor, but I can’t tell whether or not it’s his own. He does have a gash across his nose, but it doesn’t seem to be hindering him any. In fact, it almost makes him look more masculine and intimidating, although it is certainly painful.

I look at Deora. I put the weapon I was handed into a strap on my robes, resting it between my right leg and my belt, and tie the leather pouch to the left side of my belt. My hands empty, I raise one to her face, and brush her bloodied hair out of her face. It’s bad. “Shit.”

“It’s nothing. We can’t handle it here. Let’s get out of here. Back to base, Wulfhard?”

“Ah. Deora. The base was lost in the commotion of Isma’s falling.” She must not have heard him, before.

“Hm. I can continue. It was only a knock to the head. We should put Samir’s hand in something, though.” She says, quietly.

“I should be fine.” I look down at my swollen hand. It’s gotten worse since I started moving again, somehow. My ribs ache intensely, as well, but it’s not something that can be dealt with here. “Let’s go. Get out of here. I want to see the sky again.” I say, and turn towards the crowd of criminals and Oak Elves leaving.

“Let’s.” Wulfhard says.

Deora offers me a shoulder to lean on as I step forward, limping as the adrenaline finally wears off. The pain is coming back. “Here.” She turns and smiles at me as she says it, and moves to position herself beneath my right arm. I look down at my leg for the first time, and see skin stripped away to bone at the shin, and blood crusted over my right foot. I suppose I must have fallen harder than I remember, getting the keys.