The heavy latch to the dungeon lifted and dropped. Daithi glided in with calm grace, his palms low and faced upward. Cian lingered close behind, his narrow face turned downward, appearing profoundly sombre next to the glowing lord. Four guards stood outside Ayube’s cell with several more standing ready nearby.

Daithi stopped squarely in front of his prisoner. The slouched dark-skinned man did not look up at him, though Daithi wished he had. It was one of four times a year he dressed as a true lord, wearing a silken gold robe over a rich green doublet. Below the belt he wore white breeches and green, leather-soled shoes which came to a pointed tip. It all fit snug on the toned man, though Daithi wore it awkwardly. Fine clothing, he thought, allowed one to judge a person at a glance, and so obviously separated the rich from the poor. It was the autumn harvest, however. Nearly every citizen of his fiefdom would be in attendance in their finest clothing. On this day, everyone would appear equal.

“Leave us,” said Daithi, and the four guards departed. “You as well,” he said, eying Cian over his shoulder.

“My lord, I’m not sure that’s the best—”

“Please, friend. I ask only this. I won’t go hurting an unarmed man if you’re worried.”

With hesitation, Cian nodded and left his lord alone with the prisoner. Braziers and torches blanketed the castle grounds in orange and yellow hues and shone through the narrow prison window. It was strange even to Daithi to feel such beauty and warmth inside a dungeon.

Metal chains dragged across the ground as Ayube pulled his legs in closer. His previously destroyed cage was two cells further to his left, the metal door now separated and leaning against a far wall. He pressed his head on the iron bars, hopeless.

“I never got your name,” said Daithi. Ayube remained motionless.

“I said, I never got your name.” Ayube still did not move. Daithi flattened his lips and exhaled. He knelt down to the prisoner’s level, demanding the young man’s attention. Neither said anything for nearly a minute longer.

“Why do you torment me?” asked Ayube.

“Torment you? This is punishment for what you’ve done. Do you think I enjoy all this?”

Ayube finally looked up to the kneeling lord. “You seem to derive some pleasures from this, yes.”

Daithi furrowed his brow and stood to his feet. “I used to be an angry man, stranger. Ages ago. Weren’t from my family neither—my da was a kind, honest man. There was just so much to hate, so much suffering in the world caused by other angry men, so much… injustice.”

“You think that this is justice?”

“You don’t? Truly, do you believe that?” Daithi stared at the dark man in his filthy thick robes. Some might have thought the man thinking and plotting, but Daithi could see the only true thought buried behind those dark eyes: apathy.

“You silenced me,” mumbled Ayube.

“For the good of my people, aye,” said Daithi. “You’ve put me in a difficult spot though, I’ll admit. I believe in justice—in a fair trial—but the people of Gildaun are gentle folk, and already I’ve seen your words sway my own captain and master of arms. These people believe in forgiveness, as do I, but there are some things that can’t be forgiven—that I won’t let be forgiven.”

“Then there was never any hope for me so long as men like you live; men who only believe in justice when the outcome suits their own favour.”

“I know what’s right for my own people. Yee think we’ve come as far as we have without my guidance?”

“Why have a trial at all if you will ultimately decide its outcome? Your kingdom’s foundation is built on not but lies.” The rustle of Ayube’s chains bounced around the stone chamber as he twisted, sitting on the hard ground.

“Your mother,” said Daithi. “Did she value your opinions?”

My mother, Ayube thought. He pictured her round face and beautiful smile. For a moment he heard the bugs of his land and the howling wildlife in the foliage around his town. He tasted blood on his lips, then looked back to the lord.

“These people are not your children,” said Ayube.

“Yee might think it strange, but I could name yee nearly each and every single person who lives among my flock, even the fifty yee killed. I love these people, with all my heart, and if I need to shelter them from creatures like you at the cost of some of their freedom, then so be it.”

Ayube continued to stare at the floor. He was done speaking with the lord. Daithi had already made up his mind. If Ayube were to die soon, he wished to do so with his sanity still intact. A pointless argument with a vengeful lord only worked against that goal.

Any hope seemed to have evaporated from the prisoner. Daithi walked to leave, then stopped.

“I’ll have some food brought for yee from the feast. Then tomorrow, come noon, you will hang.”

The tailors of Gildaun were just as talented as any other artisan within the city. Madwen wished to play the part of a partygoer, but more than that, she wished to feel comfortable. The life of an omeness rarely afforded one the ability to indulge in the pleasures of feasts and balls, rarer still was the ability to do so while working. And so, she purchased an elegant—yet unrestricting—front-open gown.

Madwen was quite stunning. Even sitting at the edge of the lord’s head table, far from the common people, eyes from across the lively great hall drew to her like artists eying their subject. Worne gathered a similar collection of looks, though mostly in awe at his sheer size and endless appetite. If anything, however, some found it humourous watching the ravenous bull pile up bones and cartilage as he feasted.

“Perhaps it’s time we mingled,” said Madwen in a hushed tone. “I’ll find a space to be on my own and concentrate on burdening the entire area under the castle. Hopefully, it’s not enough that the guards will notice.”

Worne dropped a bone to his plate, spying a servant opening a silver platter before Daithi. The lord lifted a spoonful of hearty stew to his face and melted in his chair.

“What am I supposed to do?” asked Worne.

“Why, what you’re best at of course, being a social butterfly and keeping as many eyes off me as possible,” Madwen smirked, tucking her chair as she left. Worne only grunted.

The great hall was indeed great for its size, but even a castle like Gildaun’s could not hold the thousands attending that night’s feast. Many ate outside in the courtyard, and many still collected outside the castle walls at various stalls and stands with delectable autumnal pastries and jams. Best not to stray too far, thought Madwen as she flowed around the edges of the dense crowd.

At the side of the large room and somehow hidden in plain sight, Madwen leaned against a stone wall watching the boisterous common folk eat, drink, and laugh. Drawing her breath slowly, she gently touched her apathy and slowly mixed it with the well of magic within her. It took years of training to touch her negative emotions without provoking them. Apathy was a powerful emotion, however; the root of all her offensive magic in fact, and fatigue still gnawed at her mind despite her brief rest earlier that day.

Below the great hall, below the feast, below the laughter and love, Ayube lay curled on the layer of straw in his cell, two guards flanking him on either side. There was no point in hope, so he had none. There was no point in thinking, so he did not. A burden pressed down on him ever so gently, almost comforting if it weren’t so perverse. How could I have betrayed her?

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Plotting my demise, are we?” Daithi’s gentle voice somehow danced through the buzz of the rowdy crowd.

“Lord Daithi,” said Madwen, adjusting herself to appear calmer than she was.

Daithi stood to her side, a goblet of wine in one hand. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

Madwen relaxed her shoulders. “Indeed. Though, I tend to live more vicariously I’ll admit.”

“Aye, perhaps in my younger years, but alas, those are far behind me I’m afraid.” Daithi’s smile seemed genuine. Watching his people enjoy themselves clearly eased his stress.

Madwen watched the handsome lord slowly scanning the room. There was a proudness about him, the kind built over generations. It felt even more distant than a father proud of his family, almost like an ancient soul bound to the land, basking in the fruits of its legacy.

“I’ll admit,” said Madwen, “not many lords would open their doors like this.”

“Are there any at all?”

“I’ve known a few.”

“Coming from you, that’s a scary thing indeed,” said Daithi. “I imagine an omeness meets only the most twisted of mankind.”

“The first thing you learn as an omeness is how similar fiends are to men. It makes the work considerably more difficult.”

“If only more were like me,” said Daithi.

Madwen eyed the lord, then touched her apathy yet again, squeezing harder below the castle. Somewhere, the stranger would be falling further into darkness.

“You’ve quite the opinion of yourself,” said Madwen, playfully.

“I only mean to say that more men should care less about wealth and more about the things that make life worth living,” said Daithi.

“You’ve sure done well for yourself. I can’t imagine that came from being entirely selfless.”

Daithi smiled. “I won’t lie, Lady Madwen—”

“Just, ‘Madwen,’ I owe no land, nor am I of noble blood.”

“Then you and I were similar at one point. My life was taken from me early, Madwen, and I’d done some bad things trying to make it right—I’ll be the first to admit that. But after me da passed, I swore I’d become a better man. So yes, I’ve done well for me’self, but I can promise yee that none of this comes from exploitation if that’s what you’re meaning.”

Madwen felt the apathy slosh within her, spilling into her psyche. “If only all those who had been wronged received their own castle.”

“I don't deny I've been lucky, but I've never been corrupt.”

“A feast like this, a beautiful prosperous city, I’d imagine you collect quite the taxes. I wonder if it all makes it back to the High King.”

Daithi turned to the omeness, shoulders squared. “I pay what's expected of me to pay. If I started sending in large sums of coin, it might catch the High King's glance, and with it, his grip.”

“So better you decide what to do with the funds,” Madwen stated sarcastically, stirring the magic within her, squeezing tighter below the floor.

“Would yee have it any other way? You’ve seen it yourself, omeness. There's no oppression here, no corruption. My dungeons have been empty for years, save the odd drunk who needs a place to cool their head—and that lunatic killer, of course. Tell me, do you ask the High Crown how you should do your job?”

“The High Crown doesn't know how to do my job.”

“And if yee ask me, they don't know how to do mine neither.”

“Don’t they? You can’t deny the High Capital is a beautiful city.”

“Beautiful, aye, but does it function as a haven for its people? Are yee to tell me there’s none without a home, a job, or even a purpose? During my past life, I had dealings with the High Capital and its lords and ladies, they were a twisted lot. Kind to your face, but mean as all when you weren't looking.

Apathy sloshed again within Madwen. “You've been kind to my face,” Daithi’s eyes remained calm, but Madwen could see the thin veil of guile returning to him.

“Perhaps that's what you were talking of earlier,” said Daithi. “Fiends and men.”

Madwen smirked. “Perhaps both need to be dealt with just the same.”

“Ha! I'm starting to wish we'd met sooner. You're sharp as a knife, nothing like that dull one you keep with you.”

“He's sharper than he lets on, don't let him fool you.” Searching for Worne among the crowd was like searching for the sun during a cloudless day. He leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the great hall, the tavern keeper, Carlina, clinging to his massive frame, endlessly teasing the sullen man.

“Oh, that bull couldn't fool me. I reckon I know him better than you do.”

There it was again. Daithi had previously mentioned some kind of deal with Worne, but Madwen could not know of its nature, or even if or how it related to her. Even when Daithi lowered his guard, he still played games. Truly, she thought, this must be the man’s second nature.

Why can I not live a simple life?—Why do I only kill the innocents?—Am I simply a killer?—I cannot do a single thing on my own—Pathetic—I am a fraud—I am a freak—All I do is make things worse—Pathetic—I am better off dead—Better in the ground—Pathetic—I will die tomorrow—Pathetic—I will be nothing—Pathetic—The creator god will toss me aside—Pathetic!—Pathetic! Pathetic!

Burden bore down on Ayube as he clawed at his robes. His fingers trembled, blood creeping from his fingernails as they peeled back under his grip. The endless drone of Gildaun rang shrill in his ears. The more he clenched his jaw, the more the sound faded, replaced by the rumbling of his boiling blood.

“What do we do?” asked one guard to another. Each of them could feel the enormous pressure that burdened them less than a day ago.

“Lord Daithi gave explicit order to kill him if he acted out again!” said another guard.

“He looks like he’s in pain. Do we help him?”

“He might kill us all!”

“I’ve never killed anyone!”

“No one has!”

“But he did.”

Another guard burst through the dungeon entrance. “Do we summon the lord?” they yelled.

Another burst of pressure jolted the guards.

“Whats… what’s happening?” said one.

“I feel… Fiona was in Fiamór. Now she’s dead,” said another.

“They’re all dead. Soon we’ll all be.”

“It’s… so…. dark.”

“I don’t… where am I?”

Red and black filled Ayube’s already blurring vision, believing his own magic to be crushing him slowly. Through the whine and the rushing blood, he heard the guards collapsing to the floor, some beginning to sob.

This is your fault! You did this! Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic!

Ayube widened his eyes, his gaze scattering about the room. His heart pounded deep within his chest, sour blood coursing, thudding through the arteries in his neck. Swift, short breaths became him.

I am so sorry…

A deep rumble pulsed through the castle. Now, Madwen thought. She strained, sharply tuning her magic to match the new force just below them. Her eyes shot toward Daithi. Has he noticed?

“Where did you find such a man, I wonder?” asked Daithi, watching the taverness rub Worne’s biceps longingly.

Madwen fought to maintain her composure. “He found me. Most men do. Some looking for glory, some to satiate their curiosity, and some with a simple death wish.”

“And which do you think he is?” Daithi looked back to the omeness. She was tense.

The young man’s power was not nearly that of Madwen’s, but it shifted about unpredictably like wild flames. Her still-weak mind made it difficult to maintain the barrage of tiny adjustments.

“I told you,” said Madwen. “He’s sharper than he lets on. At first, I thought he only wanted death, but the more I’ve grown to know him, the more I doubt that.”

Daithi watched Madwen carefully. She tried to look away smoothly, but her quick, nearly shaking eyes deceived her.

Deep in the crowd before them, a single smile turned downward. From across the room, Daithi watched as Carlina’s gentle caressing slowed.

“Do you think he ever relaxes?” asked Daithi.

“If he does, then it’s never around me.”

Another smile in the crowd faded.

“And why do you reckon that is?” asked Daithi, locking eyes with Madwen.

Again Madwen struggled. A single bead of sweat formed and slid down her forehead.

“I can’t say. Perhaps a drink is his only version of relaxing,” said Madwen.

Daithi watched Worne again. “Except he’s not drinking.”

A dozen smiles faded in the crowd, a dozen laughs simmered.

Daithi watched the room. “…Because he doesn’t drink when he’s working.”

Madwen’s breaths drew shorter. Daithi stepped closer, an inch away from her eyes, his lip beginning to curl in anger.

Worne leaned off the wall. Carlina fell to his side, then sat on the floor, no longer interested in the bull.

“What have yee done?”

Another flare of power coursed through the room. Madwen’s face twitched. She stared, switching between the lord’s hazel eyes filled with fury. She could not respond.

The crowd began to simmer.

Daithi lifted his left hand, slowly peeling off his leather glove.

Worne took a step forward.

Quickly, Daithi snapped his hand to the omeness’ wrist. A jolt of icy pain seared through her, the same grip that burned her when Worne had touched her, only infinitely more intense. Her power drained.

In an instant, a massive wave of pure invisible power came screaming from the hells above, pinning each guest immediately to the ground. None resisted.

Worne fought, but the unimaginable burden forced him to his knees. He tried to straighten his back but collapsed further to his hands. Daithi clutched Madwen roughly, the previously gentle torchlight now reflecting with fiery wrath from his eyes. Madwen was in pain, unable to move under Daithi’s crushing hold. She’d lost control, somehow even lost her power.

Worne felt a familiar pull from his breast pocket. Sinister whispers taunted him through the deep rumbling surrounding him.

No, all this time I’ve never needed it.

Another pulse of downward pressure forced Worne flat to the floor. Every one of his senses began blurring; fading. Through the growing darkness, Worne watched Daithi grab Madwen’s throat. He squeezed. If she tried to resist, it was imperceivable. If Worne could hardly move, what chance did Madwen have?

More and more the darkness grew; more and more Worne tried to move but could not. His fingers lay only an inch away from his breast pocket.

“M…MADWEN!” Worne screamed. Madwen’s head slumped forward.

Worne clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. With all his effort—shaking and trembling—Worne reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a small, corked, brown bottle.

Fuck it.