image [https://i.imgur.com/HTKhk3R.png]

Seven years later.

Durrin woke to the sound of rattling keys.

He snapped his eyes open, though in the darkness of his cell, that didn’t improve his vision much. He lay still, listening. Information had always been his most valuable commodity. Here, in this dungeon, it was his only commodity.

The rattle of keys drew nearer.

Durrin slipped off his cot, planting his feet on the freezing stone pavers. Through the tiny window of his cell door, a faint light was growing brighter. Durrin picked out seven, maybe eight sets of footsteps. Two squads of guards in the middle of the night? Strange.

The footsteps stopped outside his door.

“What do you think the magistrate wants him for?” a low voice muttered.

“Execution, I hope,” a gravelly voice responded. “About time.”

Durrin flexed his fingers as he recognized the voice of the warden. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest that the man wanted him dead. Foiling eleven escape attempts in seven years had that effect.

“Can’t be execution,” said another guard’s voice. “It’s the dead of night. The magistrate would never authorize that.”

“So?” said the warden. “Demons take that firebrand and be done with him, I say.”

So not only would the warden kill him without a second thought—if allowed—but he would gladly doom Durrin to eternal damnation as well. Durrin filed the information away with the hundred or so other reasons he hated the man. He didn’t let himself feel angry. The anger was there, of course, but he kept it buried under steely focus. Anger was a knife, best kept sheathed until it could be used.

Durrin crept to the door, careful not to clank the chains binding his wrists. He reached the barred window just as the warden’s face appeared in it. Durrin spat at him.

“Shadows!” the warden cursed, wiping his cheek. “I’ll have you—”

“That’s for three days ago,” Durrin said.

His defiant statement cut the warden short. “What?”

“Three days ago, for keeping me in the yard past dinner,” Durrin said, giving the warden a self-justified smirk.

The warden scowled. “That was for insubordination. You refused to work.”

“And you refused to get me a sharper axe,” Durrin responded. “How am I supposed to chop wood with a dull axe?”

The warden held up a finger. “I know you too well, Durrin Rendhart. You wanted the axe for a new escape plan.”

The warden was exactly right, but Durrin shook his head. “All I—”

“Shut up and get out here,” the warden said, shoving the door open and stepping back. The guards leveled their spears in a perimeter around the doorway. “And no devilry, Rendhart, or you’ll sleep with the shadows tonight.”

Durrin stepped casually into the circle of spears, eyeing the guards. Four of them, and the warden, were humans like Durrin. The other four were korriks, the stocky creatures each coming up to Durrin’s chest. Green, scaly skin glimmered beneath their armor.

Durrin raised an eyebrow at the warden. “Eight guards? Really?” Antagonizing the man had been one of his only joys the last seven years. “Seems a bit excessive.”

“Get moving,” the warden snapped. His air of bravado didn’t fool Durrin—not when the warden was deliberately keeping two of the beefiest guards between them.

Durrin fell into step, four guards in front of him and four behind with spears leveled at his back. The warden took up the rear.

As he walked, Durrin took advantage of the lamplight to study the shackles around his wrists. It wasn’t the chain that posed the real obstacle—it was the pure black stones set into the metal restraints. No light reflected off the black stones’ surfaces: they were as dark as a starless sky.

image [https://i.imgur.com/z53mbpC.jpeg]

Voidstone shackles. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

Voidstones they were called. They sucked relentlessly at Durrin’s powers, inhibiting him from wielding fire or any other pyromantic abilities. Their influence was like a cord wrapped around his heart, never squeezing hard enough to stop it, but never letting it beat freely. In a very real sense, those stones were his real prison. The walls around him only locked up his body. The voidstones locked up part of his very being.

For the thousandth time in seven years, he cursed those stones.

Durrin turned his eyes from the voidstone shackles to the guards, gauging their abilities. Though he lacked his powers, the hard labor of prison life had kept his muscles strong. Given the right moment, with the right distraction . . . Durrin mentally reviewed the passages ahead of them, thinking through possibilities. He needed more information.

“So where are we going?” Durrin asked casually.

“Silence!” the warden snapped.

They passed a tiny window set into the prison’s thick walls. In the middle of the night, it admitted no light, just a musty breeze and the constant murmur of the river. The Silvermoss. The second of Durrin’s obstacles. Two of his escape attempts would have worked if he hadn’t been caught swimming the river’s wide expanse.

Irongate Isle, this prison was aptly named. Perched on a hunk of rock in the middle of the Silvermoss, the prison had once been a fortress, built to protect Elandria’s capital city, Saven, from invasion. Now it protected the capital from the most dangerous dregs of its own populace. As a foreigner, Durrin was somewhat of an anomaly.

They passed through a guarded checkpoint and turned down another row of cells. A handful of grizzled faces peered out behind bars as they passed. Durrin ignored them. Most of these inmates—lowlifes and criminals from the bottom rungs of Elandria’s society—had tried to beat him up at one time or another. None had yet to succeed.

They entered a section of the prison Durrin had never seen before. By the looks of things, these were administrative offices. He scanned the area for possible exits. If he could access the outer walls, he could make a jump for the water, then swim to shore under cover of darkness . . .

The warden knocked on a heavy oak door. “We have the prisoner, sir,” he barked.

“Good work,” said a quiet voice. “Send him in.”

The warden hesitated. “Alone, sir?” he said, scowling in Durrin’s direction.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

“Alone, officer.”

The warden’s scowl somehow deepened. He jerked his hand, and the guards shoved Durrin forward until the warden could grab Durrin by the tattered collar of his tunic.

“One wrong move in there,” the warden growled, “and the Sun will rise on your dead body floating in the river.”

“Good morning to you, too,” said Durrin cheekily. “Officer.”

The warden yanked open the door and shoved Durrin inside, slamming the door behind him. Durrin stumbled for a moment, then stood and instinctively put his back to the door, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden light.

“Welcome, Durrin,” said the same soft voice as before. “Please. Have a seat.”

Durrin scanned his surroundings. Light from a half dozen lamps illuminated shelves packed with tablets and scrolls. This must be the prison’s archive room. Two windows were set into the far wall, but their small size ruled them out as potential escape routes.

At a large table sat an elderly figure dressed in long white robes. He was an avir, the same species as King Everborn. The king Durrin had slain seven years before.

The avir gazed at Durrin, neither smiling nor frowning. Durrin studied his face. An avir’s eyes and skin tone changed to match their mood, making them pathetically transparent in a conversation. This avir’s skin was a neutral olive brown, indicating calmness. His eyes were bright brown with keen focus, indicating neither hostility nor welcome. So this was the “magistrate.” He seemed . . . underwhelming.

Durrin ignored the proffered seat: remaining standing gave him far more tactical options. Could he hold this avir hostage? Use him as leverage to get to the outer walls? Worth considering. For now, he may as well see what the magistrate wanted.

A moment passed in silence. The avir kept his eyes locked on Durrin, studying him. For a few seconds Durrin stared back, then he let his eyes roam the room, taking in small details. A modest satchel. A stack of clay ledgers. Quills, styluses, ink bottles. Nothing truly useful.

A full minute passed. The avir continued to study Durrin, his face an unbroken wall of perfect composure.

“If you’re here to interrogate me,” Durrin said finally, “let’s get it over with.”

The avir shook his head. “I’m not here to interrogate you,” he said softly. He finally broke his gaze, looking down at a parchment as he dipped a quill in ink. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Cymer.” As he spoke, he began writing in flowing cursive script. “I am a mage in the Luminant Order, and by the appointment of the co-regents of Elandria I am the chief magistrate of justice. And you are Durrin Rendhart, of the Empire of Calamar. According to prison records, you have been imprisoned here seven years for the murder of a minor landowner.”

According to prison records. It was a deliberate hedge, one that Durrin decided to follow up on. He wasn’t in the mood for pretenses.

“I assume you know what I’m actually here for,” Durrin said.

Cymer paused, looking up. “I do,” he said quietly. A hint of color flashed across his face, too fast for Durrin to pinpoint the exact emotion.

Durrin gestured at the closed door behind him. “I take it even the warden doesn’t know?”

Cymer shook his head. “Only a handful of people in the kingdom know the truth.”

“Why?” Durrin said.

The avir blinked. “Why what?”

Durrin hadn’t meant to ask the question. But he had wondered for seven years, and this might be his only chance. “Why cover it up? Everyone I’ve talked to here, guards and prisoners alike, thinks that King Everborn died in an accident. Why did you hide what really happened that day?”

The avir studied him. “Are you angry about it?”

Was he?

“It probably kept me alive these past seven years,” Durrin conceded. If his true crime had been known by the prison guards—or even the other inmates—they would have lynched him in a matter of days.

“I believe it’s more than that,” Cymer said. The avir’s eyes had turned a darker shade of brown. That usually meant displeasure, or perhaps suspicion. “You feel robbed. You wanted the credit. The glory.”

“I wanted the results,” Durrin snapped. “Everborn’s death was supposed to be done publicly, in the name of Calamar. The whole world was supposed to see the consequences of opposing us.”

“So you are proud of what you did.”

“I—” Durrin paused. How did he feel? His past self, seven years earlier, had not exactly relished the assignment. And if he had known he would be captured, he never would have carried it out. But the old avir didn’t need to know any of that. Durrin cleared his throat. “I am proud to have been the one skilled enough to do it.”

“I see,” said Cymer. And Durrin couldn’t help but wonder if the magistrate had seen more than Durrin had intended.

Before the avir could pursue the topic further, Durrin turned to another question he had long puzzled over. “If you were intent to keep the assassination a secret—why did you let me live?”

It took the magistrate some time to reply. For almost a minute, he gazed at the wall, lost in thought. Finally, he wet his lips. “What is justice, Durrin?”

Durrin stared at the shackles binding his wrists. “Justice is when a man receives what he deserves.”

“What would have been just for you to receive, then, for your deed seven years ago?”

Durrin pushed the bracers up his forearms as far as they’d go, to let the raw skin underneath have a chance to dry out. “A life for a life. I slew your king. You had every cause to kill me in return.”

Cymer shook his head. “You are not talking about justice. You are talking about retaliation.”

“How is that different?”

Instead of answering, the avir asked another question. “You told me what justice would have demanded here. How about if you had escaped and returned to Calamar?”

Durrin straightened his shoulders. “I would have been hailed a hero. Richly rewarded.”

“Quite the opposite of facing the noose,” Cymer said. “But you still aren’t talking about justice. What would have been just for you to receive?”

Durrin shook his head. “Stop speaking in riddles.”

“Very well.” Cymer reached into the satchel beside him, pulling out a ceramic oil lamp, beautifully painted with dancing angels. He hefted it. “What is this, Durrin?”

“A lamp.”

“Is it important to you?”

“Not unless I could barter it for a warmer cell.”

“Well, it means a great deal to me,” said Cymer. “I’ve kept it close for forty-eight years. Does this lamp follow any laws?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Durrin shrugged. “What can it do, raid the treasury?”

Cymer dropped the lamp. It smashed into a hundred pieces on the floor.

“What did you do that for!” Durrin cried, involuntarily taking a step forward.

“You said it didn’t follow any laws,” said Cymer. “So I figured I could let it go without consequences.”

“That’s ludicrous,” said Durrin.

“No,” said Cymer. And once again he fixed Durrin with his unsearchable gaze. “That is justice.”

Durrin looked down at the shards. Half buried in the wreckage, the broken face of an angel stared blankly up at him.

Anger simmered deep in his heart. Justice? he thought bitterly, wishing he could shout his thoughts without revealing too much. Justice?! I was never supposed to be in this dungeon! I was to return to Calamar in triumph. I had a reward waiting, a prize that would make me the greatest pyromancer in Calamar—perhaps the greatest pyromancer of this age!

“The world is never just,” he spat.

“I know,” said Cymer. “And that is what gives me hope.”

For a long minute, they filled the room with uneasy silence.

“Back to the reason I came,” Cymer said. He re-dipped his quill and resumed writing. “By the ancient laws of Elandria, given to us centuries ago by Arnon the Wise, the punishment for murder is fourteen years in prison. As magistrate of justice, I am to review prisoners’ conduct. Depending on their behavior, I can reduce or increase their penalty by up to a factor of two.”

Durrin dug his nails into the pad of his thumb, staring at the imprint each left. The warden had repeatedly warned him that every escape attempt would lengthen his sentence. Durrin had figured that those who knew his true crime would never let him walk free regardless, so the threat hadn’t stopped him in the slightest. This “behavior review,” he knew, was only a formality.

Cymer kept writing. “Durrin Rendhart, by the authority vested in me by the co-regents to the queen elect, I reduce your penalty from fourteen years to seven. As today marks the seventh year to the day since your arrest, you have hereby fulfilled the extent of your term.”

What?

Cymer blotted the parchment with a wad of cloth, then rolled it up. He rose and walked around the table, holding out the scroll. “This will certify your freedom to any who ask.”

Durrin numbly accepted the scroll. His mind reeled in free-fall.

Cymer handed him a small but heavy bag. “You had about a hundred shekels on your person when you were arrested. This bag has that amount restored in full.”

Next, Cymer produced a key and fiddled with the bracers around Durrin’s arms, working the key past seven years of rust. “A supply boat should be stopping by soon. It will take you to the capital. From there, you are on your own. Without these.”

The shackles fell to the floor with a resounding clang.

Durrin stared at his pale and wrinkled wrists. He hefted his arms. Without the bracers, they felt unnaturally light. He rubbed his wrists, wincing in pain.

Then he felt it: a spark, deep inside him, freed from the voidstone’s remorseless vice. It started as a tiny flicker, so faint he feared he only imagined it. But as the seconds passed, it grew ever so slowly stronger. Durrin breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he reached inward. He had forgotten how it matched his heartbeat.

I’m free. Durrin barely dared raise the thought, as if thinking it would cause him to wake and find himself back in his cell. He fingered the scroll the avir had given him, then held it close to his chest.

Cymer strode to the door. “I will explain my decision to the warden and have guards escort you to the quay.”

“Wait,” said Durrin. His mind still reeled with a hundred questions, but one had risen to the fore.

The magistrate turned, meeting his gaze one more time.

“Why?” Durrin whispered.

Cymer’s eyes gained their distant look again. Finally, he refocused on Durrin, his face as inscrutable as when Durrin had first entered the room.

“We will see.”