There's nothing to do but sit and wait, though there isn’t even a stone bench for me to sit on, just the cold stone floor. My cell is about ten or so feet in length, less than half as wide, and the ceiling is as low and cramped as any cave tunnel. There's a small hole in the floor for a toilet, but as far as amenities go, that’s all.

The floor and walls are smooth. Just like the tunnels leading here, they're expertly carved from the natural rock. The miners must have been paid something approaching decent for them to have been so careful and precise.

I’ve tried pulling at the bars a little, but they won’t budge even a hundredth of an inch, and they hurt my hands to grasp. I’d like to examine the runes on them, but it’s too dark.

Twice a long-hour—or so I guess—food and water is brought to me. The cell door is never opened: the food and cup are placed on a long tray that’s slid between the bars. It’s plain water and plain bread.

After the first few deliveries, I start a count. There’s nothing to scratch on the wall with, and no light to see any scratches by anyhow, so this count is all done in my memory.

I count two dozen times before the first thing of note happens: another prisoner is brought down. The light from the guard’s lantern makes my eyes run with tears, but through them I can see the hunched figure of a large dwarf. He is muscular, with a long beard. He has no shirt and is covered in scars.

Our eyes meet. I flinch—that’s a look of bloodlust if I ever saw one.

This part of the prison must be one reserved for only the most serious criminals. But I doubt anyone here has committed a more serious crime than mine. How many dwarves have ever been responsible for the destruction of an entire realm? Two realms, if you count our enemy Broderick’s.

In between sleeping and eating, I reflect on all I’ve done. The black dragon—how could I have been so foolish as to trust it? It’s a dragon! An immortal beast of living flame, an embodiment of all-consuming greed.

Yet what else could I have done, young as I was? I didn't know much about dragons, or indeed much about anything. I was too confident in my brother’s words, in his promise that we had great destinies awaiting us. That, perhaps, was what made me believe everything would turn out all right somehow.

Can foolishness and naivete be called criminal? Was Guildmaster Wharoth right, and I'm just another victim of the black dragon? Or maybe my motive was greed after all, and I deserve to face swift punishment for my actions.

I suppose neither my opinion nor his will matter. Only those of the judges and jury.

----------------------------------------

Three dozen more meals—which makes my total time in prison more than two months—and suddenly I’m awoken by white light. Through stinging tears I see the cell door swinging open. A harsh shout makes me flinch.

“Up!”

I slowly rise to my feet, joints aching terribly from cold and disuse.

“Fifth Degree Runeknight Zathar of the Realm of Thanerzak, come here.”

I limp forward. The guard looks me in the eyes through the slits in his helmet, which is of titanium and exquisitely flared. He’s of a higher degree than those who brought me here, maybe some kind of guard commander. Around his neck is a white scarf emblazoned with a golden hammer. A symbol of his rank?

I swallow. “What is it?” I ask.

“Your fate has been decided. Your guilt is beyond question. There is no need for a trial. You are to be executed forthwith.”

His words stun me. I stagger back a step, open my mouth to reply, but no sound comes out.

“Now?” I finally manage to say.

“Forthwith. Do you have any final requests?”

My mind is blank; I can’t think of anything. The guard commander nods sharply.

“None. So be it.” He steps out of my cell and shuts the door. Locks click loudly. “The executioners will be down to collect you shortly. I hope you use the time between now and your death to regret what you’ve done.”

Then I'm alone in the darkness again—yet now I know my fate. There is no more uncertainty. I am to die. That is the punishment decreed to be fitting to my crime. Death without trial.

I stumble back to the rear of my cell and slump down against the wall. The stone chills my back through my thin clothes.

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I let out a long sigh. I’d expected no less, to be sure, though some part of me had hoped that Nthazes’ testimony of my good deeds down below might have changed someone’s mind. Apparently not. It seems they believe that nothing can absolve me of my sins.

Hopefully I don’t have to wait for long, and that the method of death is not too cruel and unusual. I hope for the axe, rather than the breaking hammer, or a bath of molten rock.

And I don't have to wait long. Light flashes through the bars; long thin shadows stretch across the floor. I stand up and swallow, determined to meet my fate without shame. Steps approach, fast and heavy—two guards, it sounds like. Come to take me to hell.

Except it’s not two guards, but the guard commander again.

And beside him is Guildmaster Wharoth.

I stare at my old guildmaster. He stares back. His brow crinkles. He blinks a few times, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing either.

“I apologize,” the guard commander spits. “It seems there was a mistake with the orders. A trial is to be held for you. And, you have a visitor.”

“Zathar?” Guildmaster Wharoth says. “Is it really you down here?”

“It is!” I cry. “Guildmaster! What’s happening?”

He looks at the guard commander. “I believe visitors are meant to be given some privacy.”

“Not down here. Not with this one—you know why.”

“You'll take whatever I say upstairs, then.”

“That is my duty. You won't be telling him any way to escape.”

“You think I want him to?” Wharoth snaps. “I want justice too.”

The guard commander narrows his eyes. “I consider all possibilities.”

“Unlike certain others, I'm not interested in perverting the course of justice, special investigator.”

Not a guard commander then, but sounds high-ranking.

“I'm not sure what you're implying,” the special investigator says darkly.

Wharoth shakes his head at him, then turns to me. “It'd take a long time to go over everything in detail. For now, I'll tell you this: there were some irregularities after your capture. And during it too, as I'm sure you noticed.”

“Yes. It was Vanerak's dwarves, I'm sure of it. You warned me about him, guildmaster. I think you were right to.”

“Vanerak is an upstanding and honorable member of the Thanic Guard,” snaps the special investigator.

“Quite,” says Wharoth. “Whatever he is, he wants his hands on you. For personal reasons. He hasn't succeeded yet—despite his great influence and personal connection to this case there are legal barriers in place.”

“Who was it that stopped him?” I ask. “That night, I mean. Who took me here?”

“You don't know?” snaps the special investigator. “We are the Civil Force. The protectors of the Runeking's realm.”

“The Runeking saw what happened through his Eyes,” Wharoth explains, “though I don’t think he’s yet aware of who you are. But the Civil Force has your description; they've been on the lookout for you for a long time.”

“They have?”

“The destruction of an entire realm, the ascent of a very dangerous foe...” He shakes his head. “You were presumed dead, yet if there was even the smallest chance you lived, you had to be caught. Yes, they’ve been on the lookout for you.”

“Indeed,” says the special investigator.

Wharoth looks different to how I remember. His beard is grayer—but not from age—ash has worked its way deep into the hair. His face has more scars and pits than it did; they look like they're from burn-wounds. However, he looks no less strong than before, and his armor is improved also. It's bright steel with fine gold and platinum runework, with rubies embedded at key focal points. Even at a glance I can tell it's of quality far beyond what my own abilities could accomplish.

“I see,” I say. “How... How did you stop my execution?”

“It’s not stopped,” says the special investigator, glaring. “Merely delayed.”

Wharoth ignores him again. “After your execution was announced, I hurried to make impassioned pleas to certain senior dwarves. Your crime was not committed just against Vanerak, but against all of the realm.”

I bow my head in shame. “I suppose you said every survivor had a right to lay their case before me.”

“I said words to that effect; but I also told them what I said to you before.” A pained look crosses his face. “That you were also a victim. An unwilling pawn. I said you deserved a chance at least to make your case.”

Tears well at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you,” I choke out. “I... I'd thought, after the... After the heat, that you'd decide not to forgive me.”

“I haven't decided that yet,” he says harshly. “And I never did, unless my recollection is false.”

I flinch, then wipe my eyes. “Of course.”

“Yet... Vanerak still means to carry out the execution personally. What form that will take... I do not know. I don't think it'll be justice.”

An imagining of brutally shaven dwarves plummeting into a pool of molten rock flashes in my mind's eye. It's a memory, I realize a second later: those were the funeral sacrifices for Thanerzak. And what was it Vanerak said about them? That when you die, the pain you feel in that moment you feel for all eternity? Yes, that was it. There is no peaceful sleep after the agony.

Wait, no. That's not what Wharoth's talking about. Vanerak doesn't want me dead. He wants my runes.

“Whatever the traitor gets, he deserves,” says the special investigator. “I've talked to more than a few witnesses to his crime. His greed unleashed a nightmare.”

Wharoth glares at him. “It was Runethane Thanerzak's greed that led to the black dragon gaining that power. I know you're privy to certain knowledge, special investigator: you know what lay under the mountain castle.”

The special investigator shifts uncomfortably.

“They were bound strongly.”

“Not strongly enough. It was a fool risk. And don't lecture me about not criticizing the Runethanes. That's not a crime here, is it?”

“It's not. Yet criticizing the dead won't win you many friends.”

“I don't have many in the first place. But those I do have respect how I'm happy to criticize whomever I wish to. Regardless of station.”

The special investigator shrugs sharply. “Be that as it may, he doesn't have a hope in hell for his trial.”

“He does. His friend—one Nthazes has also pleaded, most passionately, that you be given a chance—and I are going to make sure of it. Zathar has done a great deal of good recently. Maybe even saved a realm.”

“We'll see.”

“What's going to happen now?” I ask.

My heartbeat is violent, my breath short and my skin clammy. This doesn't make sense: I was calmly prepared to meet my death, yet now that I've been given a final chance, I'm suddenly very keen to plead my case. Keen to live!

I feel guilty for feeling this way, but no one can help their feelings.

“Now I will see if I can get you a fair trial,” says Wharoth. “As fair as is likely to be under such circumstances, at any rate.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I hope... I hope I get the justice I deserve.”

“I hope so too.”