Journal Entry, Crestwave Isle Voyage, Day 17

The Scylla, often called the 'crustacean roach', is a frequent scavenger aboard ships. Averaging 10 centimeters in length, its exoskeleton shifts color to blend with its surroundings, typically a mottled gray-brown to match the wooden beams or stone walls of coastal structures. Its most notable feature is its secretion of a wax-like fluid that hardens on contact with air. This fluid has two primary functions: ensnaring prey in hardened cocoons and providing the Scylla with quick, protective shelters during storms. It feeds primarily on decaying organic matter, playing a vital role as a natural cleaner in the coastal ecosystem.

Apollo paused his writing, the soft scratching of his quill filling the damp silence of the brig. His gaze drifted to the small creature scuttling along the rotting wooden wall of his cell, its legs scraping lightly as it vanished into a crack. In another life, he might not have given it a second glance. But now, here in the brig, everything seemed to hold meaning.

The Scylla wasn't just a pest to him; it was a survivor. He scribbled a quick note in the margin of his journal: Potential use for sealing wounds? Further testing required. The creature's wax, he thought, might one day serve a greater purpose than just preserving itself. It could save lives.

He let the quill rest for a moment, the ink blotting on the rough paper. The irony of it wasn't lost on him-this insignificant scavenger moved freely around the cell, unnoticed and unpunished, while he sat in chains for the simple crime of saving a man. A slave like him, someone whose life, apparently, wasn't worth the risk he'd taken.

Apollo leaned back against the damp wall, the cold seeping through his thin tunic, though the chill in his bones came more from his thoughts than the air. The dim lantern light flickered above, casting long shadows that stretched and bent with the sway of the ship. The rhythm of the waves, once calming, felt oppressive tonight, as if the very ocean was pushing down on him, reminding him of the weight he carried.

His fingers drummed idly against the page, the ink smudging slightly under his touch. He had acted on instinct, not orders, when he dove into the black waters to pull the drowning man from the storm. The wind had howled like angry gods, the sea thrashing beneath them, but the water had been worse than the storm-a force that wanted to claim them both.

The ocean always felt like that to Apollo-alive, malevolent, and relentless. His heart still pounded with the memory of the cold water wrapping around him like a living chain, dragging him down. But he had fought back, kicking, pushing, his lungs burning as he hauled the man to safety. And for what? To be thrown in the brig once again, his hands bound in shackles, not for the first time. This wasn't his first rescue, nor the first time he'd been punished for it. It was just the way of things.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"A slave soldier doesn't get to choose who lives or dies." The overseer's voice rang in his ears, bitter and mocking. "Your life isn't yours to risk."

He clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the journal. He'd known the rules since childhood. A slave's life was never his own. Every breath, every action, belonged to someone else. Even the simple right to save a life wasn't his to claim. But how could he stand by and let someone die when he had the power to help?

The Scylla had disappeared now, back into whatever crack it called home, a mindless creature living purely by instinct. In a way, it reminded him of himself. He, too, acted on instinct, often with little thought for the consequences. But was that really so wrong?

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the cramped cell. His head fell back against the wall with a dull thud as he stared up at the beams above, dark and heavy with moisture. What would his master have thought of him now? The thought lingered, pulling him back to a time before all of this-before the war, before the abominations, before the kingdom's cruel mandates.

His master, a man of unshakable discipline and sharp intellect, had taught Apollo that there was always a solution, always a way forward if you only thought long enough, studied hard enough. Back then, in the quiet of the laboratory, knowledge had seemed like the key to everything. Freedom, progress, hope-all were within reach if you could think your way through.

Apollo closed his eyes, remembering his master's calm face, the way his eyes would light up with curiosity whenever they stumbled upon something new. His master had believed in knowledge as a form of freedom, a force capable of elevating even those trapped in chains.

"Ignorance is the truest form of imprisonment," his master had once told him, "a cage without walls, where the captive remains unaware of their chains. Knowledge, then, is the key-silent and subtle-that unlocks not just the door, but the very understanding that freedom was possible all along."

The words now felt painfully ironic. Knowledge had brought Apollo here-into this cage-but what good had it done him? He sighed, running his fingers along the page. The notes on the Scylla seemed insignificant now, but to him, they were a glimmer of hope. If there was anything his master had taught him, it was that knowledge-no matter how small-had the potential to change everything.

Perhaps this tiny creature's wax, which everyone else dismissed, could be the key to something larger. Maybe, just maybe, it could serve a purpose beyond the confines of his cell, something that might buy him the favor of the overseers. Or at the very least, it might give him something to hold onto, a reminder that even in a world dominated by chains, there were still discoveries to be made.

The ship groaned louder this time, and Apollo leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. Tomorrow, he would face whatever judgment awaited him. But tonight, in the quiet of the brig, he would let himself dream of a different path-one where knowledge was the key to a door that hadn't yet been opened.