Prologue

Magistrate Hayes

"𝔅𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫?"

As I stared into a bastion of unbroken darkness, where the endless veil of shadows clung to every corner, I wondered out loud if our newest prisoner wasted away within these old, weathered bars.

“A- aye, thy honor.”

I narrowed my eyes, straining to catch any flicker of movement within the corroded cell, hoping for even a silhouette to stir in the suffocating gloom. Yet, as the silence lingered and my patience frayed, a sudden surge of anger rippled through me, sharp and unbidden.

“Osmond, by th' Divine, is this dungeon as hollow as your skull? I thought I toldeth thee to brighten this wretched place up!”

I must've caught Osmond by surprise, for his scarred, maimed face twisted into an expression of shock, as though he were entirely oblivious to the misery around him.

“Mi'lord, hast thou forgotten the Earl's decree? She is to be left in darkness, bereft of both bread and water.”

Suddenly, I seized the torch from the torturer's grasp, stepping back as I did, and with a stern voice, I commanded him to open the woman's cell.

“Unbolt it.”

“The Ea-”

“Curse that Earl to th' Abyss if you will, but by the Divine, 'twas the Sheriff who assumingly gave the order. Had you any wit about you, you would know it well enough. Now unbolt it!”

With a wary yet pressing haste, and much reluctance, I watched as Osmond's rough, leathery hands drew forth a small key. Slowly he approached the chamber door, and with an eerie creak, he unlocked it. As soon as there was space enough to slip through, I found myself eagerly stepping into the woman's cell.

Within the room, there was little to mark it apart from the rest of the dungeon. The air remained thick and oppressive, and the insects still scuttled over the jagged stone walls and floor as though they were the true masters of the place—indeed, by now, they likely were. Yet, this woman's cell alone was left in utter darkness, and even with my torch, all I could summon was but a faint, feeble glow.

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At last, as I neared the rear of the room, my torch faintly revealed a naked, hunched woman, crouched in the shadowed corner, seeking refuge there. And near instantly, when our eyes did meet, a sudden chill ran the length of my spine. She did not react like any other prisoner we had thrown into the stockades. Nay, she was still, emotionless, cold even. In my trade, I know well that most would be weeping, trembling on the edge of breaking. But her—she was different, and it frightened me.

Though, upon closer inspection, I soon came to realize the full horror of her condition. Bruises marred her body in a cruel dance of fresh and old wounds, with some appearing only hours new. What I initially perceived as vast, discolored patches revealed themselves as a mixture of cuts and muck, and embedded dirt clung to her skin like a crude layer of insulation. It was plain that she had wasted away during her time here, for her ribs jutted sharply, easily seen with the naked eye. Her cheeks were hollowed, and any trace of color had long since drained from her face.

My heart broke at the thought of such cruel treatment, especially upon one whom I believed innocent. So, I took a cautious step forward and lowered myself to one knee. She gave no sign of reacting to my movements, but only stared at me, unblinking. Still, there was something in her eyes—something that cried out for vengeance. The way she looked upon me made it seem as though, in her mind, I was the enemy.

“Do you hunger?” I asked, my voice somewhat soft spoken.

She remained silent.

While kneeling, I noticed her fingernails were gone, likely torn away. Her jaw appeared swollen and oddly misshapen. I dared not imagine if Osmond or the Constable had gone so far as to pull the teeth from her very mouth.

“This was not mine own doing.”

My heart swelled with sympathy, indeed it did. How could a woman of such high standing find herself imprisoned in our dungeon? It baffles me that we, in this instance, defied the authority of the Divine, for surely she would have fared better before an ecclesiastical court. Yet, alas, our Sheriff and Earl, both driven by madness, demanded swift and harsh judgment.

“Will you speak?”

Does she possess no emotions, no means to convey her thoughts on the matter? Since they forcefully removed her from home, her speech dwindled to a mere whisper. Before this, she was a woman of grace, possessed of a captivating smile. Now, it seems as though someone—or something—has bound her to a solemn silence in our presence.

“Be it true what folk whisper, that you art bound by a different calling?”

Receiving no response yet again, I deemed my efforts in vain and rose from where I knelt. As I made my way back toward Osmond, I noticed a look of stark fear etched upon his face, as though he had seen something behind me, striking me with a deep unease. Then, a faint voice, like that of a banshee, reached my ears from the darkness behind.

“My calling is beyond your comprehension, Thomas…”

I turned swiftly, only to behold the eerie woman, now grinning from the shadows.