Roland had a knot in his stomach, and it wasn’t from the days spent absent of a good meal.

Holly had come back for him. The idea both overjoyed and overwhelmed him in equal measure. Just when he was thinking that he didn’t have any friends left in this world, along comes the only person believable enough to come.

Was it a little too convenient?

Had Holly come to save him, or dare he think it, had the bard come for something else instead? Something concerning what he knew about the ruby. The rogue had learned a lot of painful lessons these past three years, but the most important one was that everyone was always out for themselves.

‘On your feet.’

Roland had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely noticed the door had opened. Kythos approached the bars with his hands behind his back, and he hadn’t come alone. Four other tubheads, each carrying maces and determined looks, came with him.

‘Put your hands on the wall and no sudden movements,’ Kythos snarled. ‘Gods help me do it, or I’ll kill you right now.’

There wasn’t much choice. Roland knew this. However, he still didn’t do as he was told, and the moment passed into a minute, ending with the tubheads rushing into his cell and beating a new lesson into him with their steel boots.

Roland choked up blood as they wrapped the chains around him. They weren’t amateurs either. These guys knew to wrap his hands and his feet separately. By the end of it, Roland was wearing a cocoon made of restraints. He could barely move, which was the point of these exaggerated measures.

‘You’ve got a meeting, Mr Darrow.’ Kythos stood a little straighter and allowed his upper lip to curl. ‘You’re really in for it now.’

Roland didn’t reply unless you could count a hard stare as a reply.

The other tubheads brought him forward for inspection. Kythos diligently placed his fingers in the chains at various points and gave his bindings a sharp tug here and there. No matter where he pried or what place he pulled, the chains seemed well and secured.

‘No escaping this time,’ Kythos warned and leaned in closer. ‘Otherwise, I might just have to think about breaking your legs.’

‘As if that would stop me,’ Roland growled.

The room went dark, and the smell of old potatoes assailed his nostrils. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that a bag had been thrown over his head. That’s good, Roland thought. A bag meant there was something they didn’t want him to see. It most likely meant that they were leading him out by a secret path.

Roland was a thief, a rogue, a charlatan. He had grown up learning everything there was to know about the fine art of pilfering. In one lesson, he learned that you could always expect old castles like the Stone Keep to be riddled with secret passages and doors.

Someone pushed him into a march with a rough hand, and Roland stepped as far as the chains would let him.

If Roland could concentrate, he might have a chance at retracing these steps later. Except he couldn’t. It was too difficult. His mind kept drifting to Holly and the bard’s true intentions. It should be enough that Holly had literally saved his life, but he knew that if he had changed, then that sweet and innocent boy probably had changed as well.

They took a left about thirty paces from his cell door. He catalogued that on an invisible list behind his eyes as strange. He knew for a fact that the exit was on the right. After all, he’d memorised that part of the fourth level’s layout.

‘You had a visitor today, didn’t you, Mr Darrow?’ Kythos was suddenly in his ear. ‘It was none other than that little grubber you used to hang out with. Holsley was the name, wasn’t it?’

Roland shrugged. ‘Never heard of a Holsley.’

The back of his knee exploded in pain.

The rogue’s leg buckled, and he instantly folded to the floor, grunting his pain through clenched teeth. By the Gods that had hurt. Kythos, the big bastard, had struck him from behind with the back of a mace. Not hard enough to break bone, but enough for Roland to get a little taste of the pain the tiefling could inflict.

‘That’s for lying,’ Kythos said. ‘Next time, it’ll be your head.’

Two thuggish hands pulled him up by the elbows, and he was forced to hobble on ahead. They stopped about three minutes later — though he couldn’t be sure of the exact time. Roland listened intently. Boots on the ground. Then, there was a strange squeaking noise, like something metal being turned, followed by a fierce grinding noise. It was rather like stone grating along stone.

Is a wall being moved?

Roland’s footsteps echoed through wherever they had come next. It must have been a large room. Something, he doubted, that had been built for a dungeon. A great hall? The kind you have for kings and queens. That was just a guess — for all he knew, this room could be anything from the kitchen to an oversized, squirrelled-away privy.

‘I’m being marched to see Love, ain’t I?’ Roland asked no one in particular. ‘Does her ladyship not want to pay a visit to my cell?

The first reply was his voice bouncing off the walls, and the second was Kythos’s. ‘You just know a little bit about everything, don’t you, Mr Darrow?’

Stolen novel; please report.

Roland shrugged.

‘S’pose it doesn’t matter.’ Kythos sniffed. ‘No, my mother would never grace the dungeons with her presence. As the High Warden of Tressa, we’re going to her instead. Now, shut up. We’re almost there.’

Some more walking followed by a sudden rise. Roland felt stone steps underneath. Together, he, the tubheads, and Kythos ascended in a circular pattern. The air was unbearable here — very humid and musty, difficult to breathe. In his experience, it meant that this staircase was in between the walls where ventilation was next to impossible.

If anyone had bothered to check beneath the potato sack, they’d have seen Roland grinning away. This was a secret way out of the dungeons. There was nothing else it could be. The fourth floor had a secret means of egress, which meant he had a secret means of egress. All he had to do was find it.

The rogue wasn’t sure where he was taken to next, but he knew it was done in silence. After the stairs, the ground suddenly squeaked underfoot with every slip of his soles. The air was fresh and fragrant, suddenly clean, and he inhaled it greedily. Roland couldn’t see, but he imagined flowers in vases stationed at reasonable intervals along the pristine corridors.

In all his years as a thief, he had never considered stealing from the Old Stone Keep. Not that he had never wanted to mind, but he already knew it was a fool’s game, and Roland didn’t play games he couldn’t win.

The keep was fortified against intrusion, well-stocked with vigilant guards, and had most of its valuables hidden or kept behind vaulted doors. And, if all that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, there were the grave punishments you received if you were caught.

The bag came off.

For a moment, Kythos’s ugly face obscured his blurred vision. Slowly, however, his vision returned as his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light pouring off the overhead chandeliers.

Compared to where they had started, where they were now was practically night and day in difference. Roland found himself in one of the opulent and ostentatious rooms of the Old Keep, and it was boiling. He’d feel cooler standing atop of a raging fire.

On top of the heat, this room was particularly gaudy. It wasn’t the furniture which, admittedly, made it feel like a church waiting room. Nor the pillars, high ceilings, or even the elegant stonework faces carved into every unnecessary keystone along the skirting. It was the paintings covering every inch of the wall, which he detested for their garishness.

They depicted a variety of elegant tiefling women in all states of fashion. They were beautiful and graceful and donned the strangest attire he had ever seen. The one immediately in front of him was of a tall tiefling stuffed into an oversized ball gown that, seemingly, had been made entirely from used parchments. When he squinted, he could just make out what the plaque beneath it read — “A thousand love letters.”

Kythos took a seat near a set of double doors. Roland watched him for a moment while also keeping an eye on the other tubheads that stood vigilant at the room’s only other exit. The warden fiddled with his thumbs but quickly stopped when he noticed Roland looking at him.

He guessed that Lady Ravenpeak must be busy then, and this must be the anteroom that joined into her…throne room. Can you even have a throne without a king or queen? Roland didn’t know; he wasn’t really up to date on the conventions of the upper class.

‘Holsley won’t save you.’ Kythos stated this so plainly, and out of the blue, Roland had no choice but to be a little taken aback. ‘I know he visited you. I know you two cooked something up together. He won’t save you. He can’t.’

Roland shook his head and took a seat on the marble bench opposite the bloated figure. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Kythos grumbled and crossed his arms. ‘I hope you did the smart thing and sent him on his way.’

That would’ve been the smart thing to do, Roland found himself agreeing, and then a wave of nerves hit him. He’d sent Holly to get the ring from what he knew was one of the more dangerous thieves in Tressa. Skilled, cunning, and remorseless — the three things any good thief needs to be. That’s what Holly was up against because he was getting desperate.

No, Holly would be alright. That bard had a habit of getting out of bad situations.

Minutes passed by with nothing to fill the air except the heavy breathing thundering out of Kythos’s nostrils. All it seemed they could do was wait for Lady Ravenpeak, the High Warden of Tressa, to be done with whatever she was doing now. Roland guessed this happened a lot — people waiting for her and never the other way around.

‘What was that thing the other day?’ Roland was eager to get his mind off his friend, so he brought up a question that had troubled his mind since his last interrogation. The animated rope that had appeared out of the shadows. ‘Seriously?’

Kythos swallowed but didn’t answer.

Roland pressed further. ‘You said it was my executioner?’

‘You’ve heard the legend of the Hangman of Tressa, yeah?’

Of course, he had. Roland didn’t know of anyone who hadn’t. The Hangman of Tressa was one of those particularly sinister bedtime tales parents used to scare misbehaving children into being good. It was a silly mistruth based on a fact, as all good bedtime stories were.

As the legend goes, an innocent man was hung for a crime he didn’t commit and swore with his last breath to get revenge on all criminals. Some now believe that this wronged man comes back to terrorise those facing the noose and ensure that they make it in time to their execution.

‘Yeah,’ Roland replied simply. ‘I’ve heard of him.’

‘Well, he ain’t a legend.’ Kythos clicked his jaw. ‘That’s what was in the room with us the other day.’

‘The Hangman isn’t real.’ Roland straightened. ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to get under my skin.’

‘I don’t need the Hangman to get under your skin,’ replied Kythos with a sniff. ‘You seem to be doing that just fine to yourself. Still thinking about that little bard, are we? The only person so far that hasn’t come to buy a front-row seat to your execution.’ Kythos leaned forward, his face twisted into a sneer. ‘Well, don’t worry, Mr Darrow, if I get my hands on him, I’ll make sure he hangs alongside you. I’ll even let you share the rope.’

Roland curled up his fingers into fists. If it hadn’t been for these chains wrapped about his body, he would’ve leapt at Kythos right there and then. Beat him to a bloody pulp if he could. No one threatened his friends. Well, friend. He may not know if he could trust Holly, but he did know that the bard had once saved his life. That counted for something.

‘See?’ Kythos laughed that cruel laugh of his. ‘I can get under your skin quite easily.’

The doors opened. They didn’t creak or moan; they gently glided across the marble floors with a soft sigh. Kythos’s face changed in an instant. Another tiefling of the pink-skinned variety stepped out and looked at the assembled force of guards. She seemed momentarily confused, but it quickly passed when she noticed Kythos.

She didn’t look like a guard. That was Roland’s first impression of her. She wasn’t wearing the armour, the weapons, or even the attitude, but she did carry herself with that same undeserved sense of pride that was present on all tubheads. The unknown tiefling was wearing a uniform, however, consisting of remarkable black leather armour with silver linings. A small raven logo was embroidered on the right part of the chest.

One of the house guards, Roland guessed — part of the personal force that protected Lady Ravenpeak.

‘Her Ladyship is ready to see you,’ she said confidently, glancing over at Roland. ‘Please step inside and do not speak unless spoken to.’

They moved towards the door together, but before passing the threshold, Kythos grabbed Roland by the collar and brought the rogue’s ear close to his lips with a growl. ‘Try to escape, and you’ll see just how real the Hangman is, you little grubber.’