“What do you think the odds are that one of us Krastac’s heir?” Sleek asked Cowbell. The bald barrel-chested man grunted low in response.

“I think you should go first,” Sleek went on, “you’ve more of a kingly aura about you than me.” Cowbell used the shackle on his wrist to rub at his tangled beard, grunting again. Like Sleek, Cowbell was balding on top, but unlike Sleek—who had the sides and back long, and tied back in a rat’s tail—he kept it short.

“It’ll be fine,” Sleek assured his friend, “you’ll sit on the throne, you’ll be crowned King. And all of Athlin will rejoice over their restored monarch. Your tongue will magically regrow itself—because fuck it, if we’re living in a fantasy we might as well go all in—and you’ll declare me a free man. In fact, you’ll declare me an’ Con as the Duke and Duchess of Port Novic. And Avriem can rot in the dungeon for all his crimes against the people. How’s that sound?”

“Mmm,” Cowbell replied, his eyes expressing the sadness they both felt. Sleek felt a frightened lump grow in his throat.

“I know, pal, I know,” Sleek said, his eyes watering. “Fuck, how did it come this.”

There was a tug on the chain connecting their shackles. There were a dozen of them in the procession. Twelve stupid men and women who figured being melted by a big crystal chair was a better way to die than hanging from gallows. But there was always the chance.

Besides himself and Cowbell, Sleek noted that only four members of their crew were present. That means the others chose the noose. Sleek prayed that Connie wasn’t among them. He hoped she’d been smart enough to run when Avriem’s soldiers had broken into their crewhouse.

She better not be at the fucking Whistle. That was the last place she should be, whoever sold them out to the authorities surely wanted her in chains as much as the rest. It was probably Dennis, he’d sell out his own mother if he thought she was worth anything. We never should’ve taken a job from the revolutionaries. The Duke’s men would be quick to jump onto any leads for conspirators. Dennis probably got wind of that job they did for that group a few weeks back.

If Sleek managed to get out of this, he’d make sure Dennis suffered. Would he drown him in the canal? A knife across the throat perhaps? Both were good options. No, Dennis can sit on this fucking chair. That’s how he’d do it. He’d haul Dennis by the neck and push his face into where Krastac’s arse used to sit.

Sleek found some comfort in all the ways he could punish Dennis for this. The man was a deceitful little prick but Sleek never thought he was a snitch. If it got out that Dennis was the one who’d squealed to the watch, then the other gangs would be quick to punish him. That thought at least gave Sleek some consolation.

Connie also wouldn’t let this go either. She’d find whoever did this and repay them. That’s assuming she’s not in the dungeon, waiting to hang. He shoved that thought aside. No, she’s fine. She would’ve fled north, to her sisters in Estarhall. She’s safe. Sleek needed to believe that.

Sleek felt his shackles tugged by the chain. Their procession was moving forward again. They were being led through a nondescript hallway. At the end, Sleek could see an open doorway through to the throneroom. Oh shit, oh shit. It was really happening. He was going to die. Sleek didn’t want to die. In fact, it was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He could see the foot of the dais that the throne sat upon. Sleek remembered as a youth, stealing away from his mother with his friends to watch the executions. He remembered the smell of old and new blood in the throneroom. The place was cleaned daily, but when that much blood poured through it each day, it became part of the stones. Sleek remembered being horrified, he’d laughed and jeered alongside his companions, he hadn’t wanted to appear weak to his peers. That attitude had gotten him into the life of crime to begin with.

It had been Connie that had eventually set him straight… kind of. Smuggling was still a crime, as demonstrated by Sleek’s current predicament. But he didn’t hurt people no more, he was a good man these days. Had been a good man for years. He wanted to help people and who gave a fuck about Avriem loosing out on his tariffs. Obviously Avriem does. And the Duke is the one who pays the watch, the soldiers and everyone else that hates Sleek and his kind in this damned city.

He wondered then if Connie would be here. He wanted to see her face one last time. But a part of him knew that she wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t in her position. It was too risky, but also just too painful to watch. The doorway loomed closer. Cowbell was tense beside him. Honest, loyal Cowbell. It was Sleek’s fault he was in this mess too. Cowbell had never wanted this life. It was Sleek that convinced him.

“I-I’m sorry,” Sleek spluttered. His words caught in his throat. Oh gods, it’s happening. “I’m sorry, Cowbell. This is all my fault.”

“Mmm,” Cowbell grunted, it was considered grunt.

“No,” Sleek refuted, “it is my fault.”

Maybe. Maybe he could be Krastac’s heir. He was Athlinian, his parents had been Athlinian. Stories told that Krastac had been evil once. That he’d become redeemed, he’d seen the error in his ways and became a benevolent leader to his people. Sleek was like that. I’d been a shithead too, Krastac. But I’m just like you, really. I’ve changed.

He realised that he was praying to Krastac like he was some god. Maybe he was. The Sorcerer Kings had been more powerful than any man had a right to be.

He moved closer to the entrance to the throneroom. It was an enormous hall with intricate pillars supporting the high domed ceiling. One side of the hall was exposed to the outside, overlooking the city and the docks. The cold winter wind was blowing in, giving Sleek and his peers a chill in their prisoner’s rags.

He could see now through the doorway; the Red Throne sat up on a raised dais. It was made entirely of red crystal—the colour of a bloodstone garnet. Many Athlinians believed that the throne had once been clear as diamond, that it had taken on its appearance over centuries of executions. They said that each time blood was spilled on the throne, it absorbed it into itself. That the colour was actually the blood of the victims it had claimed.

Despite the executions being so gruesome, there was always a big turnout of the crowds. The hall could fit hundreds of people. Sleek could hear them, howling and jeering for the executions to begin. Sleek could spy a few of the scornful taunting faces from where he stood in the hallway. He was scanning for Connie, but he knew she wouldn’t be there. He really wanted to see her face.

The first in their procession was unshackled. He was a huge, red-faced man. The rags barely contained the man’s muscled physique.

“Maybe… ” Sleek leaned towards Cowbell, “maybe, I should go first. I mean, I’ve been thinking and maybe, you know, I really could be—”

“—Here I am!” The muscled prisoner bellowed as he entered the thoneroom, “Krastac’s heir!” Some of the howls in the crowd turned to surprised cheers. The drums began to beat for the first of today’s tribute to Krastac’s chair. Soldiers with spears lined the dais to ensure no prisoners tried to flee into the crowds. As if the mob would let anyone flee.

“Bow!” the condemned man roared out to the crowds, “your King has arrived.” There was applause and trumpets began to blare. Now freed from his shackles, the man began beating on his chest in triumph, as if this was his plan all along. He even began blowing kisses out to women in the crowds to rancorous approval.

Many people in the crowd were now enthusiastically cheering. A lot of folk came to the executions for the entertainment of the spectacle but equally as many came in the hopes of Krastac’s heir truly being discovered. Duke Avriem was not well liked by the common people, and there was a growing number of people that believed that Krastac’s heir would soon appear to herald a change in the city.

The prisoner swaggered up the steps of the dais, oozing confidence. He made a final flourish to the crowds, raising his meaty arms out as if to embrace them all.

“Today, ladies and gents, Athlin is reborn!” There was a roar of cheers from the crowd. The trumpets blared, the drums beat. He treated his soon-to-be subjects with a smug, yellow, gap-toothed grin and sat upon the throne.

There was a wet, squelching noise as he suddenly exploded into blood, guts and undefined chunks of meat. It appeared Athlin’s rebirth would not be forthcoming.

All the man oozed now was guts and viscera.

There were exclamations and gasps from the crowds. No matter how many times you saw it happen, you could never become accustomed to the sight of a Red Throne execution. Sleek felt his mouth go dry, his knees buckled. He’d never needed to piss so badly in his life.

The fountain of blood splattered across the throne and the dais. Coming up just short of the ring of soldiers surrounding it. Get splashed with blood enough times and I guess you learn pretty quickly how far back to stand. No one really knew exactly what happened to your body when you sat on the throne. There were never any bones left from Red Throne executions. Everything turned to liquid so disturbingly fast.

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The next in their procession was unshackled. A woman, this time, with matted mousy hair. She was trembling, the executioner had to prod up the steps. She was shaking her head vigorously. The crowd began to jeer. She could still back out. She didn’t have to die this way. The gallows waited outside for anyone who couldn’t face the throne. Sleek himself could still back out.

The woman was weeping as she climbed the steps. Sleek felt his own eyes watering again. He couldn’t watch this time. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the clamour of the hall. He could hear Cowbell’s heavy breathing beside him and focused on that, trying to find comfort in matching it with his own.

“That guy wasn’t one of yours was he?” Sleek heard a feminine voice close to him. He snapped his eyes open, his head whirling for the source. Cowbell was also looking around confused.

“Over here.” Sleek’s attention was pulled to a girl leaning against the wall just next to them. How did she get there? There had been no one in the corridor other than the shackled prisoners and the executioner at the head. Behind them was a stairs that led back down into the dungeons.

The girl was dressed in all black, with a cowl covering most of her face.

“W-what?” Sleek said, dumbfounded by the girl’s sudden appearance.

“You’re Sleek right?” she asked and Sleek nodded.

“The guy that’s now leaking into the paving stones. He wasn’t part of Con’s crew was he?”

“Uhm, no,” Sleek replied, “just us.” He gestured to himself and Cowbell and the four other prisoners behind him in the procession.

“Ok good, that makes it easier for me,” the girl stated simply, “you know those two at the back?” she pointed to the two prisoners chained at the very back. Sleek did not and he shook his head.

“Well, it’s just their lucky day, then. Honestly, I’d love to rescue everyone, but sometimes you just have to be practical.”

She reached forward and clasped the shackles on Sleek’s wrist. He felt them evaporate in a cloud dark grey. Sleeks eyes widened. The girl wasted no time, reaching across him to touch Cowbell’s manacles and disintegrate them too.

“Who are you?” Sleek asked, casting a nervous glance back up to the executioner at the front. The hooded man was still nudging the crying woman towards the throne, the crowd still booing and taunting her.

“Introductions can wait,” the girl replied, setting to work on the rest of the crew. All of them were wearing faces of auspicious bemusement in this shift in circumstance.

“Hey! What ‘bout me?” one of the prisoners in front of Sleek and Cowbell said to the girl when he realised that she wasn’t freeing the prisoners up front. Sleek noticed the look of conflict on the girl’s expression before she covered it with a mask of resolve.

“Hurry,” she said to the six freed prisoners, ignoring the man. She started down the hallway. Sleek hesitated a moment, unsure of what was happening but when the others moved to follow, he began to move too.

“Hey! Hey! What about the rest of us?!” the prisoner began pleading as they ran down the hallway. The girl pulled up short of the stairs, rested a palm against the wall and it puffed to dust just as the shackles had.

“You’re a sorceress,” one of the crewmen—Farns was his name—gasped. She’s just a runewielder, you dolt. A bloody strong one though. Sleek had never heard of a stonebreaker that could dissolve so much metal and rock in the span of heartbeats. She stepped back and pointed at the cavity in the wall.

“Go,” she commanded them. The crew hurried through, eagerly jumping at the chance of any alternative to sitting on that throne. Sleek pulled up, the hole in the wall led right through into the back end of the throneroom. Sleek could see the crowd of execution spectators on the other side. All were facing towards the throne.

The woman that had been crying before was now screaming. Sleek met eyes with his saviour, she looked so young, maybe half Sleek’s age. Barely more than a child.

“We owe you our lives, kid,” Sleek said. He looked out at the crowd, he wanted to disappear into it. The girl didn’t respond, her gaze locked on the remaining prisoners and the wailing woman that had now fallen to her knees before the throne. The executioner began pushing her forward with the butt of his spear.

“Shit,” the girl cursed, she had a strange defeated look on her face. Sleek recognised the expression, it was the same face Con would make when she realised doing ‘the right thing’ would get them all into a lot of trouble.

“You’re going back for them,” Sleek stated, looking back up along the hallway. A part of him wanted to help her. Wanted to rescue these people in this fool’s errand. But a much much bigger part of him wanted to flee into the crowd.

The girl turned back to face him.

“Con is waiting at the docks on your ship, take the others to her. Tell her to wait for me, I will not be pleased if she leaves without me.”

“I…” Sleek hesitated. He wanted so desperately to be able to help her, wanted to be as brave as her. He realised that as she spoke a black mist began to appear around her. The mist coalesced and condensed around her forming thin coils of black metal. The coils began to snake around her, coating her in a strange woven-like armour.

“Go,” she urged him towards the crowds. Cowbell was next to him, waiting loyally for Sleek to decide what they should do.

“There’s probably going to be a big fallout from what I'm about to do,” the girl grimaced, “make sure Con is ready to leave.” She was already running back towards the remaining prisoners before Sleek could say anything.

Sleek passed through the tunnel and out into the crowd on the other side. It was incredible how nobody even noticed the hole in the wall. All eyes were locked forward on the woman still screaming on dais.

“Come on, Con’s waiting at the dockyard,” Sleek said to Cowbell and the four crew members.

“What’s going on? Who was that lass?” Farns asked. Sleek opened his mouth to respond, he was about to tell Farns to ignore that for now, that they’d been given a lifeline and they had to grasp it, regardless of the hand throwing it. But chaos erupted at the throne dais cutting him off.

The soldiers began to shout orders. There was clanging of steel as fighting broke out. Sleek saw a dark shape moving fast up to the throne. He then spotted the remaining prisoners that had been chained fleeing out through the hole he’d just come through. She’s really doing it.

People in the crowd began to scream as they realised what was happening. A battle had broken out in the heart of Athlin. Sleek felt bodies push up against him as the crowd began to bubble over. Some were clamouring to flee the hall, others were trying to push forward to see what was happening.

Sleek felt Cowbell pull at his arm, dragging him away. Cowbell was a big man and was able to clear path, shouldering and shoving people out of their way. There was a sound like cracking thunder and Sleek felt the tiles at his feet shudder.

He glanced back and saw that the pillars supporting the ceiling closest to the throne were collapsing. Falling upon the dais in crumbling debris. Sleek’s eyes shot up and saw the cracks appearing in the dome above. He could no longer see the Red Throne or the soldiers or the girl, the entire dais was clouded in a shroud of dust.

He felt Cowbell jerk him away, nearly pulling his arm out of its socket. He pushed through the crowds and out of the hall into the plaza. The horde of people were swarming down the steps from Krastac’s Hall and dispersing into the plaza. Athlinian soldiers were trying to keep order amidst the chaos, nobody entirely sure of what was even happening.

Sleek saw people tripping on the steps, and then trampled as others rushed to get away from the hall. Cowbell continued dragging him down the steps and into the plaza. It was hard to hear anything over the shouting and screaming of the crowd but Sleek could hear soldiers trying to change bark orders over the chaos.

The plaza was contained within a stone wall. There was a huge steel gate that was normally left open to the public to visit Krastac’s Hall. Sleek could see now that the gates were closing. Some captain had likely decided it would be wise to seal the entire area until the situation was understood.

Sleek looked back up at Krastac’s hall. The great red dome that had once dominated the skyline was now gone. Some fallout, indeed.

“Krastac’s heir has been chosen!” Sleek heard someone call out.

“The King has returned!”

“Avriem’s reign is at an end!”

This isn’t good. Sleek had lived through four major city riots. The most recent was only a few years before when a fire had broken out in one of the city's main granaries, burning most of the city’s food reserve. The people had feared there wouldn’t be enough food and the riots had taken days to subdue.

Sleek could feel the shift in the mob. The people were angry. Avriem’s taxes were high, and the travel and trade embargo because of the emerging war between Reldon and Rubane was exacerbating existing social problems in Port Novic. The people wanted to believe Krastac’s heir had been found, they wanted change in the city.

It didn’t take long before the soldiers found themselves embroiled in fighting with the mob. The soldiers had spears but the crowd had numbers. Avriem’s men would eventually regain control. Reinforcements from the garrisons about the city were likely already on their way.

To Sleek’s surprise, all four of the crew members had managed to follow in Cowbell’s path—even a handful of the other prisoners they had been chained with were following him. A second chance for us all. But they needed to get out of the plaza and into the streets. From there they could make their way to the docks before the riot spread.

They pushed and shoved their way forward towards the closing gate. Sleek released with dismay that there were soldiers blocking the path through. The mob was pushing up close to the spear points.

“Back up!” A soldier called out as Cowbell forged a path through the masses.

“No one is to leave the plaza!” Another soldier called out. Shouts of protest were rising from the crowd pressing towards the gate.

“Let us out!”

“Krastac’s heir has come!”

Sleek followed close on Cowbell’s tail.

“You there! Stay back!” a soldier prodded his spear towards Cowbell who slapped it aside. For a big man, Cowbell could move remarkably fast. His hand shot forward, grabbing at the soldier’s helm and wrenching it from his head. Without breaking stride, Cowbell slammed his head forward, headbutting the soldier and knocking him backwards.

Cowbell’s action was like a breaking dam. Suddenly the mob was pressing forward. Spears were pulled from the soldiers and people pressed forward. Sleek was caught up in the river of people flowing through the gate and onto the street beyond.

He was free! He was actually free. He could see the dockyard in the distance. Sleek broke into a run.