Kol Maros felt the motion of the ship around him. The vibrations were slight, but he had nothing else to observe, nothing but his cell’s steel gray walls.

The Knights had taken Max away from him, like they’d taken Duncan away. They’d left him alone for many hours, feeding him only water and tar-thick porridge, sent through a slot in the door. No one spoke to him and he did not speak to them. He did nothing and ate only enough of the porridge to stay alive.

Kol didn’t have the will to starve himself. He didn’t have the strength, because not eating was a decision. Any decision would make him think, would make him confront his life and face the truth behind his danger. All of it could have been avoided. He’d faced thousands of choices, but only one chosen path led him here, led him and his family to pointless death.

When the ship halted and the squad of security forces came for him, Kol did not resist.

“Up.” A captain with spiked gauntlets walked between the security team. Kol did not stand. “Up.” Kol stared at the man and at the two guards who seized him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Both guards were taller than him and broader. They pulled him toward the door, his feet dragging behind him.

The officer raised a hand. The guards held him where he was. The captain stepped into the cell.

“I won’t tell you a third time,” the captain said. “Stand! Up!”

Kol did not look at him. He did not move.

The captain slammed the toothed edges of his right gauntlet into Kol’s shoulder, shredding his tan prisoner jumpsuit and his skin beneath. Kol winced, but he still didn’t speak. Even when the captain withdrew his gauntlet and blood began to drip free of the torn shirt, Kol still didn’t stand.

The captain took Kol’s face between his fingers and moved his chin until their eyes met. “Do you want to…”

“He needs a subtler approach, Captain.” Another man arrived at the open doorway. He wore a plain white tunic without rank. “Mr. Maros is a traitor, but he’s still experienced our training. He is not so easy to break, are you, Mr. Maros?” He waved to the guards. “Drag Mr. Maros this way. We’ll visit the loading dock. I’ll give him reason to stand. Thank you for your efforts, Captain, but you are no longer needed here.”

Another guard cuffed Kol’s wrists in front of him. Then his escort pulled him from the room, into the larger brig corridor, lit by pale blue overheads. A small tram waited for them in the center of the hall.

The guards that held Kol’s arms forced him into a seat and sat on his either side. The man without rank also boarded. He spoke in hushed tones with the gray-uniformed tram driver, before the tram sped down the corridor.

“Mr. Maros,” the man without rank said. “You’ve only visited regional Corps bases, is that correct?” Kol did not answer. “Well, at the very least, I’m sure you will appreciate the Pinnacle. It’s breathtaking.”

The tram arrived at the end of the hall, where the man keyed them through a door.

Kol felt a burst of wind whip through his hair. The tram advanced into a larger room, a loading bay of some sort, with ceilings at least ten meters high. Whole processions of Liberty Corps troops and techs loaded sleds and hovercraft.

The tram maneuvered through the gathering. It turned to the right, where one wall was open to the outside, and a glorious close-up view of snowcapped mountains could be seen.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Kol was already used to the early springtime and the cold bit at his face and lungs.

Below, along the spine of mountains, a flat plateau had been carved in the rock. A building stood there, one extended building. Kol had no scale for the structure other than the mountains themselves. It was massive, easily millions of square feet of metal and glass.

Several rail-lines led from the base and traced the sides of the mountains. Cars rose and fell, climbing from the roots of stone up toward the enormous base.

“Welcome to the Pinnacle, Mr. Maros,” the man without rank spoke again. “Welcome to your new home. Bring us forward.” The tram eased its way past the loading sleds and a series of green, tank-like machines that had sent what appeared to be zip lines down to the mountain, beside the base.

“Let’s take in the view.” The man stood when the tram came to a stop. Kol didn’t rise. “You may either stand or you will soon wish you did.” He didn’t raise his voice. His speech was polite, almost cheery. “Alright. Lift him.”

The guards did as they were told. They took Kol and pulled him from the tram. They pulled him the final few feet to the very edge of the cargo bay, until he looked straight down, stretched out over thin air.

“If you won’t stand for me.” The man shouted over the wind. “This is how your brother will spend his nights. When he isn’t in testing or eating, we will find him somewhere to enjoy the view. We’ll make sure he’s perfectly secured, but upright. It will almost be like standing again, but I’m sure he’ll tire of the wind and the cold. He’ll be very uncomfortable.”

The man without rank introduced himself. “My name is Sir Geber. I’m head of research and prisoner compliance at the Pinnacle. We will be spending a great deal of time together. You and your brother can either be relatively comfortable, or very uncomfortable… at least until the time of your plummet. That choice is yours, but if you don’t stand on your own, if you don’t cooperate or comply, you both will be uncomfortable. I know many, many ways to make people uncomfortable, and I will show every, single one of them to your brother. It will be all he knows until the Baron executes him, unless you do what I tell you. Now, say you understand.”

Kol forced his feet under him. He took the right guard’s hand in his prosthetic and crushed the fingers, shattering bone with one squeeze. The guard screamed and released him, clutching at his hand.

The left guard reached across Kol’s chest, grabbing at his other shoulder. The move forced Kol’s bound arms back down to his stomach, but also placed the guard’s weight between him and the edge of the bay.

Kol pressed his prosthetic digits against the bottom of the man’s breastplate. With the strength only in those robotic fingers, he pushed the guard from the open bay.

Kol was ready to follow him into the open air, to experience a plummet of his own making, but the guard released him in surprise. The man wailed and he dropped from the ship.

Kol turned back toward the knight. Sir Geber stepped from the tram and began to roll up his sleeves. Kol ran at him. He would tear this man apart. It wouldn’t save Max. Nothing he could do would save Max, or Duncan, or himself. But he would not be used in their torture. They would not be used to get to him.

Kol would die killing this knight, some last defiance. He’d already lost everything or would soon lose everything. A quick death, fighting, was almost welcome. It was his best option. Fight. Die, and die well.

He didn’t lay a finger on the knight. The room spun. A buzzing sounded in his ears. His legs refused to hold him.

Kol collapsed to all fours before he was even aware of the nausea or the dizziness or the numbness that spread across his body. Even in that position, he could barely stay upright, barely keep himself from sagging to the deck. He felt cold too, a deeper cold than the one from the wind, cold to the marrow. His heart pounded and the buzzing grew to a roar in his head, too much noise to think or to plan or to fight.

Kol fell the rest of the way onto his side.

“These actions will be noted,” Sir Geber said. “Your violence and this murder will be added to your Plummet Tally.”

The knight approached him. Beyond the cold and the dizziness, the nausea and buzzing, Kol heard Geber’s boots. The knight leaned down and touched his fingers to the side of Kol’s face, pressing them between strands of his hair.

The feelings intensified. He felt like he was going to retch, but his body didn’t move, like he was too weak even to convulse. The man removed his hand.

Then, all at once, the sensation passed. Kol was still too weak to move more than his head. He looked up at the knight. There, on the man’s left wrist, the hand that had touched him and intensified whatever Shaping had acted on him, was a familiar old wrist watch.

Sir Geber wore Duncan’s family heirloom. But Kol had no strength to attack a second time.

“Now,” the knight said again. “Say you understand.”

“I understand.”