The dungeons.

It was underground, with a couple of very long corridors with rooms filling either side of them. There wasn’t anybody in the rooms next to me; or if somebody was, they were very quiet. The walls were cold, damp. It didn’t smell too bad; or maybe I had just gotten used to it.

There was only one door in the room they had shut me up in, and the only window I had was the square opening on the thick wooden door, blocked with metal bars. The stone walls were cold and damp. It was dark; light barely made into here, flickering at times. They delivered food once a day; though I barely ate any. Moist and stale bread; soup with too much water and too less salt; the water was nice, but they barely gave any and when they did, it was in a dirty glass nobody had bothered to clean. It was everything I expected from this place, and less.

But in the dungeons, the greatest adversary to your sanity is your mind.

I spent the first three days justifying my actions in my head; believing that Raz or even Sam would come for me; that they would succeed, and we would end this hellish fuck-up of mine with some drinks at the inn. I truly believed they could get me out of this place.

I couldn’t sleep at night. The mornings, when I could just barely make out the footsteps of the guards patrolling, had me sleep a little, but just not as much as I needed to.

I didn’t think I would regret this as much as I did. I wished I had a better reason for all of this; that I hadn’t just done it for some girl. Even if i had really just done it because I had nothing else to do.

I would rather get locked up for something I truly wanted.

It was some time in the second week when the door opened for me. I was sleeping on my side, my knees curled up onto my chest; my gaze fixed to the ground. I didn’t know if this was my mind playing tricks on me. It was scary, not being to trust what you see and hear.

The visitor was a Rwedar. The member a legendary group made of genius swordsman or other esteemed warriors and scholars. Sworn to serve till death in the name of the people, supported by the crown though not restricted by it. Everybody with a decent head has probably heard of them; half the old men in the city told stories about them.

I could tell he was one because his armor was made of polished iron; it was divided into numerous sections at his joints. It had the Rwedar coat of arms on the chestplate, which didn’t look all that different from the royal coat of arms, and he wore a smooth circular helmet, with a painted visor that covered his eyes. The armor looked sharp in places, and glinted like no coin I had ever seen.

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He stood there for a while, then helped me to my feet and twisted both my arms behind me. I winced, but didn’t complain. The pain felt good, and it was nice to see another person, even if I couldn’t see any of him past his armor.

He lead the way, pushing me down the corridors and then a flight of stone steps that lead into the sunlight. It blinded my eyes; but we were soon inside the cool expanse of the castle. We headed up some steps, went down some corridors. People paid attention to me; it felt nice after being locked up with no company. We stopped in front a large door, though a lot of doors here were large. He turned his head towards me again. There were sharp but tired brown eyes behind his visor, looking over my face. I could tell he was strong; there was no chance of me getting out if I had to face this man.

I looked away. He sighed, then lead me in.

The room was smaller than it had looked from the outside. There was a tall cage in the center of the room. It didn’t look study or well made. There were a few men armed with swords and armor surrounding a large wooden table and the door.

There were three men sitting at the table, all looking down at me from their high seats. They were draped in rich cloth and each had a book and a pen to write with. The magistrates, I’d guess.

I had expected only one of them. Three was a bit much, even if I had attempted to poison the royal family. The Rwedar led me into the cage and closed it; I didn’t bother standing up inside.

“What is your name?” asked the magistrate in the middle. He was wearing monocles, carefully looking at me from behind the tip of his long nose. Which name could I give?

He ignored the silence I offered, and flipped through some pages. One of the other men brushed his moustache and asked “Do you have anything to do with the bloodborn?”

I felt a chill go down my spine when I heard that name, though I didn’t know why.

“I don’t,” I said, my voice breaking, “I…”

They raised their heads and looked at me then. It was different; maybe they noticed how young I was. I knew I looked pitiful after a week down there, but I wondered if i looked any different from the other criminals that find themselves here, even if I was only 15 and looked it.

“The dung-”

“That’s enough. The-”

“...waste of time,”

They continued murmuring with each other. It was irritating, how these men who barely noticed my existence now had the means to snuff it out. I suspected that no matter what happened, I would either be executed or sent back down there. I didn’t know which was worse.

The blood rushed to my head, and I felt something snap.

“My name is Zenaris Wiscith,” I said loudly, causing them to stop and stare. The name of a dead prince.