The narrow alley was wedged between the baker’s and the butcher’s, so each morning, Holsley would wake to a mouth-watering scent not unlike sausage and bacon butties.

Sometimes, the proprietors would throw away scraps of fat or crusted bread, which went down surprisingly well together. The alley itself was just one of a hundred in the town. Holsley had picked it primarily because it was the only one filled with enough rubbish to construct a makeshift shelter. Two water-stained crates, a leaky barrel, and a few scratchy blankets were what he called home.

Inside of the shelter, there was a small tin full of hard tack and a half-deflated waterskin. Holsley took a nibble of the biscuits and drained the rest of the water. He winced as he drank. It had been getting quite difficult to breathe without provoking an obnoxious pain in his chest, but he needed food and water first before he could perform.

He hopped onto the roof of his temporary accommodation and pulled the bandaged lute around. Now, he had to concentrate. Holsley had been taught precisely six spells by the elves. Two were dead easy, like conjuring a simple light, but four were tricky and required good practice. One of these was the charming spell, along with a minor healing spell that could erase his bruises.

Fortunately, Holsley was very well practised with the healing spell. That’s what happens when you’re accident prone. His fingers immediately found the right strings, and he played a short but sweet tune accompanied by a few elvish words.

Any curious onlookers might only have heard fancy prattle, but anyone who spoke elvish would’ve perceived him singing a quaint prayer to Zandazarr — The God of Health. He smiled thoughtfully. It was the first spell the elves had ever drilled into him because he was constantly tripping up or falling over, but he could never tell if it was simply a nice gesture or because they thought he was using up too much of their precious magical resources.

A minute passed.

Holsley opened his eyes to see if it had worked. To his relief, he found that his right hand was now glowing with a radiant light that made the digits blurry. The next creature he intentionally touched would receive this magic and be made a little healthier. It couldn’t cure disease, mend broken bones, or help a person regrow limbs, but it was well-suited for minor ailments, pains, and cuts.

The bruise receded immediately. The feeling was warm and pleasant, rather like resting your frostbitten hands near a raging fire. It spread across his chest and left nothing but smooth skin in its wake. Once done, the young bard found that he could breathe again without issue, and let out a satisfied sigh.

Both of the circles on his little finger were now red. He wouldn’t be able to cast another spell like that until he had taken a long rest. Not unless he wanted to push his limits. Holsley leaned his head back against the butcher’s wall. That meant he’d better tread carefully for the rest of the day.

One of the crates standing opposite him depicted a lively painting of a young elf maiden cheerfully holding up a loaf of bread. It was half scratched and worn from the weather, but her smile still shone brightly.

‘Why can’t I play like that in front of people?’ Holsley asked her sullenly.

It was far too early in the day to head to bed. He supposed it may be worth looking into jobs again, although who to ask about potential work, he hadn’t the foggiest. Perhaps it was more prudent to take what little money Darynell had given him and spend it on something to make him feel better. A decent meal wouldn’t go amiss.

Resolutely, Holsley hopped off his makeshift home and made a beeline towards the local boozer. Enessa wouldn’t serve him as he was underage for a human, but he’d still be able to get a cold glass of milk and something to soothe his stomach. The young bard decided he would stay for as long as it took to start feeling anxious about his sojourn with the elves.

Only when the Second-Hand Boot was in sight did he realise he wasn’t alone on the dust-bitten road. The other townsfolk had come to a stop mid-bustle and were staring anxiously into the short distance behind him. Some were even hurrying away.

The carriage was an ornate beauty in gold, silver, and black. It was being pulled by two elegant stallions who did little work towing the magnificent vessel. There weren’t any trumpeters nearby, but Holsley felt as if a fanfare was following in its wake. It was the kind of vehicle too fancy for weddings or funerals but perhaps suited for both, like the sudden death of the bride at the altar.

Holsley didn’t much care about the overpriced cart, though. It was the rosy-cheeked boy he couldn’t take his eyes off.

The youngster stood in the middle of the road without a care in the world. Holsley didn’t know much, but he did know that a carriage like that wouldn’t stop for some stupid, stubborn boy like him. No one was doing anything, which meant he had to do something.

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The young bard sprang into action. Holsley was on the boy in seconds, pulling him out of harm’s way in the seconds after that. The carriage wheels found nothing but dirt as they kicked up dust on the ground together. They lay flat on their backs for a moment, both stunned by what had just happened.

The youth gave Holsley a hard stare, before swiftly delivering a cheap shot to the groin. The young bard doubled over as the boy ran into the nearest alley, leaving him crouching on the floor and nursing his aching area. Holsley didn’t know why he had ever expected a different outcome. Even the children were quick to throw hands in Petty’s Nest.

Four men, each carrying large maces and wearing identical uniforms, passed by Holsley. He recognised those uniforms. They were mainly leather, but their upper bodies were covered with something akin to plate armour, including uncomfortable-looking pauldrons, thick gauntlets, and fluttering capes. These men eyed Holsley as if he were something they wouldn’t care to tread in.

‘Tubheads,’ Holsley hissed.

There was no mistaking the infamous Tressan Guard for anything other than that. Although, the helmets were also a dead giveaway. Each wore a pewter kettle hat to complete their uniform, which was emblazoned with the heraldry of Tressa. This badge, like Darynell’s, marked their authority and allowed them to beat the crap out of anyone they disliked in the name of the law.

They were called Tubheads because, from what Holsley had heard, the instantly recognisable helmets they wore were made from reconstituted tubs that had been taken out of the many abandoned buildings of Tressa. These were lower guards, something that was made clear from their single-colour yellow cloaks, meaning that they were the lowest rank you could be in the city’s service. Grunts was a more appropriate moniker for them.

Usually, Holsley would avoid tubheads like the plague. They were a shoddy lot who were quicker to use their maces than their brains, but his gut told him he should follow. So, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and trailed the carriage at a short distance behind.

There were only two reasons the city of Tressa would concern itself with a small town like Petty’s Nest. The first was to collect taxes, which would explain why so many bystanders had been brought to a sudden, fraught standstill. The other reason had more to do with the town’s noticeboard.

About once a week, the tubheads would come through the town to put up a poster that explained a new law the city had just passed, or with an important announcement from the Council of Four concerning things Holsley wasn’t even the least bit concerned about or, even more commonly, to notify the populace of an upcoming hanging.

The carriage finally pulled to a stop at the town’s noticeboard, which was pitched up just outside the Second-Hand Boot. The horses snorted and whinnied their disapproval at being reined in, while the tubheads spread out around the carriage. Folks were gathering now, and they hadn’t missed it. Each one kept their hands firmly on their maces.

A figure stepped out, and bottles of half-drunk wine came clattering out with him. Even from a distance, Holsley could hear the swill of alcohol. The half-orc brusquely burped into his hand and cast his eyes over the crowd. He shrugged after a moment and reached into the carriage to grab something.

‘It’s a hanging,’ Holsley told himself when he saw the rolled-up parchment.

The half-orc stumbled to the board. What proceeded were three agonising minutes of him trying to nail the poster into the wood. Every now and then, he’d shout at the hammer as if it was misbehaving and promise it a new life as toothpicks if it didn’t tighten its act. Once he’d got it done, he was off. No stopping him. The carriage was long gone before any of the townsfolk had a chance to wave goodbye.

The crowd circled in like vultures.

For the majority of them, it would be the most exciting thing that would happen to them today. Something to talk about over foaming mugs later. It always was. Holsley had always found those conversations a little morose. That didn’t stop him from inching closer, though. He was a proud member of the most.

Of course, being a little shorter than the average height for his age, Holsley was forced to push through the crowd. As he did so, he caught their reactions to the news. Murmurs spread out amongst them like a chest infection and soon everyone was hacking up their opinions.

‘He looks a little too young to be a pirate?’

‘Aye, there won’t be an appeal for him.’

‘Handsome, though. Isn’t he!’

‘Let’s see ‘im come round ‘ere. I’ll make ‘im wish it twer an ‘anging.’

‘Oh, shut up, Mark! You tosser!’

You could populate a town with the amount of people Tressa had hung this year on that noticeboard. A small one that wouldn’t function well or be pleasant to live in, but still a town. For a moment, Holsley was lost in the thuggish faces, wondering which one was the latest. They all looked so blunt and murderous. A couple seemed sweet, which, for some reason, made them look even more sinister.

Then he found it.

The rugged teen was a little older than Holsley. He had bum fluff on his chin, which was perhaps the makings of his first beard. There was a small scar over his left eye. Also, despite the illustration being absent of colour, Holsley could tell that his hair was a vivid crimson. It was unkempt and wild, spiked up in some places and flat in others.

Holsley’s heart missed a beat, and he quickly read the accompanying words beneath the illustration.

“By order of Love Ravenpeak on behalf of the Council of Four, carried into motion on the fifth day of Dunalorn, 1116; the human, known exclusively as Roland Darrow, will be hanged for his crimes of piracy and desertion on the sixteenth day of Dunalorn in the courtyard of the Old Stone Keep. All appeals must be made before this day in accordance with Tressa’s governing laws.”

Holsley read it again. Then, a second and a third time, just to be sure he hadn’t got anything wrong.

Roland Darrow. That was the name. Roland Darrow.

Every other notice of a hanging had depicted some generic-faced criminal. Bland thugs, brutes, and ruffians. This time was different. The criminal on that poster wasn’t just some stranger. No, it was someone he knew. A friend. A close friend. Someone who, in many ways, had been like a big brother to Holsley in his youth.

Holsley spoke his following words aloud, involuntarily, and to no one in particular. ‘How quickly can I get to Tressa?’