[https://i.imgur.com/nhYpUoP.png]

From flesh and blood She wove the earth

Breathing life and vibrancy

Atop her realm She placed the Four

To oversee Her masterpiece

Hail the Heirs, divinely blessed

Immortal spirits, strong and pure

Countless generations pass

Yet They shall reign forevermore

A guard named Merek was unknowingly spending his last hours among the living. But as with any other day on duty, he frittered them away exercising his unusual aptitude for sleeping upright. Images of salt-roasted pork enticed his dreaming mind, a sweet reprieve from the endless bowls of thin gruel that haunted his waking hours. The reinforced door to his right, as well as the occupant within, remained silent as ever.

"As vigilant as I expected." A deep, unfamiliar voice slashed apart his buttery dreams.

Merek jerked awake, wiping his mouth with a gauntleted hand. "Who in Eris' drawers are you? And who'd you think you are, disturbing a good man's rest?" He'd been cheated out of at least another good hour.

The wall-mounted torch cast dramatic shadows upon this newcomer's heavyset face. A bushy dark beard sprouted below a broad, strong nose and small, beetle-black eyes. He was tall and stocky, as robust and sturdy as a tree.

The man grinned cheerfully. "Apologies. My name is Marcus, of Borne. Thought I'd take a look around before my first shift."

Marcus spoke with surprising delicacy. The others, especially Deckard, would no doubt knock that out of him in good time. Something about the Dead End invariably rubbed away any traces of refinement. Perhaps it was the perpetual, unchanging routine, the omnipresent hues of gray, or the inescapable reek of stale sweat and waste coating every inch of filthy old stone.

Merek stretched, letting out a loud, satisfied groan that echoed impressively down the length of the narrow corridor, and scratched at his patchy ginger beard. "Look all you want," he grunted. "Get your jollies in now, while your spark of interest still flickers."

"Aye, this place boasts an incredible history. Built under the direct command of Queen Ayo the Luminous, I hear."

Having fully emerged from the cloying cloud of sleep, Merek considered the stranger more critically, and found that his cheerful affability rather spilled over into excess.

"Did you request a posting to this place in particular?" he asked.

Marcus' single, flustered bark of laughter was all the answer necessary.

He smirked. "You caught wind of the rumors, then. Worry not. If it were a crime to succumb to curiosity, we'd all be locked up."

Marcus' fingers clenched a little tighter around his spear. "Is it true?" he finally said in hushed tones, discarding all pretense at nonchalance. "Your prisoner, is he…?"

Merek allowed himself a few seconds to bask, then nodded with the solemn importance of an ancient wiseman.

"How long?"

"Eleven years, maybe twelve. The Blade was in shambles after the Madness, of course. Took them far longer to find him than they would've otherwise. But don't be spreading any of this beyond these walls. The Heirs would have all our tongues out." Merek was beginning to enjoy himself. He hadn't realized how much he'd been missing the undivided attention of a good listener.

His post consisted mostly of solitude. The others had each other for company on the lower floors, but just two in total were assigned to the single prisoner at the top. The guard who alternated Merek's shift spoke little and smiled less. It was a lonely, thankless station.

Even the prisoner's entertainment value had begun to yield diminishing returns. No matter its identity, one could only prod at a mute, helpless animal for so long, though the weighty swell of coins at Merek's hip was a small consolation. Speaking of which…

"I do uphold a sacred duty here," he said, feigning a casual tone.

"Indeed, an indescribable honor," Marcus agreed.

"Allowing access to this prisoner is certainly not a lapse I could… freely burden my conscience with."

Marcus' bushy brows relaxed in comprehension. "Ah, then for the sake of your honor and your conscience, would you accept my attempts to soothe them?" He loosened the small pouch at his hip and brought out two splendens, flickering warmly in the torch light.

Now in a delightful mood, Merek pocketed the coins with relish. Upon his next three-day monthly relief, he'd be able to afford all the frothy ale and warm company he could possibly stomach.

As he swung the cell door open on labored hinges, a rancid wave of putrescence wafted out from the darkness. Marcus flinched. Merek, his senses long conditioned, merely grinned.

"Go on," he gestured. "Most will never enjoy the privilege of meeting a Divine Heir."

*

Fooling the nitwit guard had been far easier than Marcus had dared hope. He briefly wondered how cruelly the Heirs' wrath would fall upon such a clueless wretch once the dust settled, and found that he didn't much care.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Marcus stepped inside and pulled the door shut. Only the thin slats of light between the bars of a small, eye-level window prevented the cell's darkness from swallowing him up entirely.

The distinctive stench of filthy bodies and excrement continued to wash over him in waves. He squinted hard, willing his eyes to adjust.

A small, ragged heap eventually materialized in the far-left corner, barely distinguishable from the dark gray walls. It rose and fell in slow, steady intervals, the sole proof of potential life. Marcus moved forward; the stench grew stronger, curdling more deeply in his nose with every step.

The creature's limbs were emaciated, its overgrown hair dull and filthy. It wore a ragged brown tunic that barely reached its knees. Years of accumulated crime layered every inch of exposed skin. With great effort, it raised its head upon Marcus' approach.

"I mean you no harm," Marcus muttered, though there was no knowing if the prisoner would understand him. "If you could bear with me..."

The boy--for upon closer look, it was indeed a boy--didn't respond, but neither did he shrink away. Marcus crouched down and took a small cloth bundle from another pouch at his waist. Beneath several layers of old fabric sat a dark, jagged stone the size of a yallowberry.

The boy twitched. Then his hand, timid and weak, began to reach out for the stone.

It grew unnaturally cold in Marcus' palm, steadily more so as the boy's fingers drew near. The darkness around them deepened and undulated, coming alive with faint, ghostly murmurs. Marcus' own spirit stirred uneasily. Gooseflesh erupted across his skin, but this was a coldness of the soul, not of the body.

He closed his fingers around the stone, and the voices ceased. The boy froze, as if a spell had been broken, and his arm dropped limply to the ground.

Marcus' heart twisted at the wretched sight before him. He'd never thought much of the Divine Heirs or the lofty white Citadel from which they presided, but even he could recognize the utter disgrace of what they'd inflicted upon their own kin.

He rose to his feet with a rough jangle of metal. "Endure for just a while longer, Your Grace." Marcus bowed deeply to the huddled prisoner, touched his right index and middle finger to his mouth and then his heart, and tapped the cell door to signal his exit.

Merek's smug grin awaited him outside.

"Not much to look at, is he?" he sniggered. "All those grand, flowery legends of the Blessed Ones… can't deny they've curdled a bit, eh?"

Marcus attempted a smile, though he couldn't quite make it past a vague grimace. "You've surely earned a handsome sum with this venture of yours."

Merek shrugged, potent self-satisfaction bleeding straight through his attempt at modesty. "What can I say? The others were curious, much like you." He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And some paid extra for a little quality time."

Marcus' half-smile vanished entirely.

"I'm spared the details," Merek laughed. "But boredom makes for certain--"

His remaining words shriveled in his mouth at Marcus' expression.

Marcus swept out of the corridor and down the stairs before his fingers could find their way around the little weasel's throat.

*

"Your instincts were right," said Marcus, taking a large swig of ale. "It was him."

"You made certain?" said the woman seated across the table. Her face was gaunt and weather-worn, framed closely by dark, shoulder-length hair. Her pale blue eyes scrutinized him intently.

"Of course. There was no mistaking it."

They were in the Blue Iris Tavern in the small village of Gon, the settlement closest to the Dead End at an hour's ride away. Despite the stink of sweat and rotten fruit, the wobbling furniture, and the watery ale, the room was packed to the brim with off-duty guards, bellowing with laughter and bawdy jokes. Such ruckus could effectively mask any conversation.

The frazzled barmaid, a full-bosomed older woman with wild blonde hair, bustled about refilling tankards and artfully dodging wandering hands as she wove between the tables. She passed by Marcus' table to drop down a chipped bowl of nuts.

The woman tapped distractedly at her untouched ale. "Thank you, Marcus. Without you…"

"You're the one who rode across the region asking locals, and the kingdom has no shortage of prisons."

She shrugged. "The Heirs squirreled him away like a nasty secret rather than make a spectacle of his imprisonment; it was merely a matter of choosing the least likely location. Granted, you were my one chance to confirm it."

Marcus rolled a nut between his fingers. "How will you break in?"

"With some help from a paralytic agent."

"Permanent?"

Jana rolled her eyes. "Come now, this is Alvir we're talking about. Temporary and non-lethal, of course."

He chuckled. "How a stringy, ruthless bird like you charmed a man like him, only the Goddess knows."

She flashed him a crooked half-smile that sloughed a whole decade from her face. "You knew but one side of me, old goat."

He lifted his tankard. "Just… be gentle with the boy, would you?"

"Why, do I not strike you as a warm, nurturing figure?" They both took a deep draught.

Underneath the table, Marcus passed her the bundle of fabric. She slipped it into her pocket with her free hand.

"Careful with it," he said sternly. "A family heirloom, that."

"Remind me, how many generations is it removed from the original theft?"

Marcus shrugged. "My uncle is family, isn't he?"

A guard, well into his fifth pint by the look of him, sauntered over to their table. His cheeks were ruddy beneath a scraggly blond beard, and he leered at Jana with a mouthful of crooked, stained teeth.

"Ain't seen you before, milady. What's a nice tart like you doing hereabouts?" He raised his finger. "Ah ah, don't tell me. You're here to work, eh?"

Marcus hid a grin behind his mustache.

The guard bent down, lowering his rank mouth down to her ear. "What say you to two gleamers and a bit of fun out back?"

Jana turned her cold gaze onto him, then slowly rose to her feet. The guard's leer crumpled as her height significantly outdrew his.

"You couldn't afford me, love," she said, and clapped him twice on the shoulder, making him stagger. He scuttled away as quickly as his sozzled legs could carry him, mumbling something about freakishly large broads. He rejoined his fellow drinkers, who whistled and jeered.

"I never tire of your displays," said Marcus as Jana sat back down. "The Giantess, was it?"

"The politest of them, aye," she said.

"The woman who could crush a man's head like a walnut, uproot a tree with her bare hands, punch through an armored chest like--"

His light tone wavered, and all traces of budding humor died in his throat. Even now, he couldn't reminisce of the old days with any sort of levity. In a single night, the Madness had eclipsed them all.

Jana seemed of a similar mind. The heaviness of the unspoken hung between them, and her eyes lowered. A long time ago, they'd already said everything that could possibly have been said on the matter. There was no use in prodding at old wounds.

"The most I kill these days is a rabbit or the occasional deer," she murmured, and Marcus was glad for the change of subject.

"Well, no longer. The Blade will find you; it's only a matter of time."

"Don't worry about us. After the boy either proves himself useful or definitively incapable, he is free to do what he will."

"You consider his help a forgone conclusion."

"It'd be the least he could do to repay me."

Marcus peeled apart an old nut.

"Indeed. If this prisoner had merely been an ordinary child, I doubt you'd have glanced twice."