Carlos was an adolescent now. The weight of his sword rested naturally in his palm. The balance of the weapon was perfect, his grip around its hilt adhering to the padded leather binding as if it were a glove. His feet glided seamlessly into a sword stance; a comfortable and confident triangle, his lead foot pointing directly towards his intended target.

Much had changed since his boyhood, both in terms of skill as well as wit. Gone was the hero-chasing visions of heroism and altruism that had filled his boyhood fantasies. These things had been whipped out of him at the hands of the headmaster and in the books of philosophy that had replaced his childhood delusions with cold hard cunning and a dogmatism towards the absolute morality of pragmatism.

This pragmatism was at the heart of the Wyrwoodian religion, a product of the life and death balance of the god and goddess of the woods who demanded logic above pathos and who had demanded that all men follow the principles of nature. Each man, it was said was to fulfill the role of their life. Each was a cog in the wheel of society, destined to fulfill their distinct purpose. Therefore, each man was beholden to their own set of morality within their status group. It was said that those who acted according to their nature were destined for rewards from the elder gods of the forest.

Carlos parried the flurry of blows that assaulted him from his courtly rival. They came at him hard and fast, stabbing at him with intensifying ferocity. Yet rather than panic, Carlos let his instincts guide his blade, easily deflecting the attacks to the left or the right in tight circular motions of his wrist. The increasing power behind the thrusts only lent weight to their deflection. Carlos leveraged them into the empty spaces pirouetting his feet, directing the flurry away from himself. He held his left arm rearward, gripping the handle of his wooden pistol, which he had positioned to his rear in comforting support and to keep his left arm from getting caught in the flurry of stabs and slashes.

Carlos remembered how much fighting was like dancing, how he had realized in his youth that footwork and measured breathing were the keys to success with the sword. It was a dance of death, beautiful and terrible. Yet Carlos’s opponent, a rival by the name of Kridash (a young duke from the eastern marshes) had none of the grace of a swordsman. Instead, he swung his sword in fast embarrass-fueled swings and stabs. His feet shuffled about haphazardly, often unbalancing himself with his own weight and momentum.

Back in the cave, Carlos danced the swordsman’s dance. His chains rattled to the rhythm of his feet as he mimicked the memory of the dueling grounds. His eyes were glazed in the half madness of captivity, perhaps also aided in part by the mystery concoction of ingredients that made up the slop for which they had been fed. The other prisoners, too, slept on despite the occasional tugging of the chains caused by Carlos’s dance and the words of his waking dream.

“Stop, relax, and concentrate. I’m not even swinging at you anymore. You can’t solve swordsmanship with brute strength” Carlos chided the young soon-to-be-Duke in a calm but firm voice. A voice that had been groomed for command and one that held high notes of haughtiness and superiority. “You’re such a righteous BITCH” Kridash bellowed, swinging even faster and harder and with even more reckless abandoned. “I don’t care if you will be the King soon, you can’t just get everything you want. People are not your TOYS.” Kridash continued to bellow out his anger, the tone of his yells occasionally squawking into higher pitches as was customary of boys who were on the cusp of manhood.

Carlos remembered what he had done next. The shame of it cutting through the hallucination and stinging him with the shame. He saw his young face slashed, the swing of Kridash’s sword leaving a shallow but crimson mark across his smooth bronze cheek. Blood had trickled down the gash dripping down from his square chin.

He saw the fire in his own teenage eyes, the dangerous and ruthlessness that laid beneath a deceptively calm and collected exterior. Eyes that bore the weight of neglect that only a lifetime of privilege and power could produce. The infantile drive to constantly flex his control and dominion over a world that (for the most part) bent to his will without resistance.

Here stood someone who defied that, defiance for which he had dreamed of, a real challenge to make him feel alive. Or so he had thought, but now his face was scratched and this lowly disgusting thing that was called Kridash had scratched him. It was going to scar but not as ugly as his pride would. Kridash was unrefined and a poor swordsman, but he had scored a hit on Carlos, not only the Kings heir but the most renowned fighter of his entire class. All the tutors had said so and all the noble’s sons had fallen in duels with him. Only the headmaster or the training masters could beat him in practice duels.

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Carlos had worked really hard at that. He had trained when others had slept, had forgone the pastries at the feats, and neglected the sweets at the harvest festival to stay light and to learn discipline. He had slept with his sword even when its metallic surface had sapped the very warmth from his skin in the winter and had cut him in those early days since he had begun training. Yet here was this brat of some backwater probably inbred Duke, a nobody with barely any training and who was chubbier than a squirrel’s cheeks in the middle of the harvest season. And still, he had dared to strike him, even when Carlos had chosen, in his arrogant benevolence to train him rather than straight humiliate him in this foolhardy “duel” if you could call it that.

The fires in his eyes, at this one thing in the world that wouldn’t comply with his whim, had to go. It was cancer, ugly, and blighting his beautiful lands. Or they would be his soon enough, he might as well call them his. In a swift leaping lunge, Carlos stabbed with his rapier, sliding his feet and guiding his sharp rapier directly through the heart of the young Duke’s son. The shiny steel of the rapier poked out through the back of Kridash’s simple tunic. The fabric was torn and frayed around the thin metal which dripped with crimson.

Kridash screamed or at least tried to but all that escaped from his mouth were pink foamy bubbles which foamed up around his mouth like a fish spawning as his body crumpled. Carlos remembered how those eyes had glazed over and the sickeningly wet suckling sound his sword had made as he had pulled it from the corpse of the Duke's son.

Something was being forced down Carlos’ throat, a warm stinging tincture that bubbled and fizzled as it came into contact with the saliva of his mouth. In seconds his body was jerking into convulsions as if it had been struck by lightning. He felt like his skin was covered in thousands of sharp needle points and his eyes swam with visions of little silver stars. But his mind had also returned to reality.

Hooded figures stood in front of him and his companions. The hooded man stood in front of him holding a small wooden bowl to his lips. The man lowered it and Carlos saw that his companions were retching from the stink of the bubbling greenish liquid which emanated a suffocating stench that smelled not unlike burning refuse.

“You were in the throes of madness, this cannot do. No, the scarabs do not like madness, they will not bind to the mad. This will not do, not do at all” Turning to face the room, the figure lowered his cloak revealing the smooth pale face of Mr. Kentwood. The other figures, along with the Brutish man who visibly shrunk as he passed Mr. Kentwood, his eyes looking to the ground and his shoulders hunching in a defensive and submissive fashion all moved forward, secured the chains of the other two prisoners through large iron loops that were set into the walls.

“There’s something about you, no don’t try to speak, I’m afraid the tonic I administered, while it will alleviate the more severe of your symptoms, will leave you quite speechless” He paced back and forth his hands clasped behind him; “you are special prisoner number 2277, worth quite a lot of money” his tongue clicked around the words which were clearly foreign to his tongue. He grimaced around the words as if he was embarrassed at their simplicity. He quickly recovered quickly readopting an air of indifference, which thinly masked his embarrassment. He shuffled about, his feet pittering and pattering to and fro with an air of superiority which was palpable amidst the air of embarrassment which exhumed from him.

“You seem to be made of heartier stuff than your comrades” he continued, clicking his tongue in agitation. “To be frank, this seems to be a sort of mixed blessing. For one you’ve managed to remain fit which means you’ll be able to fill some of the more unsavory positions within my mines. On the other, it could prove difficult to pacify you. I’ll have to think about what to do with you, I can’t have you losing your mind, at least not before I implant the scarabs. Yes, I’ll have a good long think on it before making any decisions. For now, you will retain your wits. All of you”

Kentwood’s face was contorted into a grimace, his lips curling back and upwards as he spoke as if the disgust, he felt for looking at his property gave him physical pain. He threw his hood back on, attempting to create a shelter from their countenance and preserve his superiority within the silk folds of his robe.

“Double rations for this group and make sure their rations contain meat this time. I’ll be needing this group ready to replace mining group thirty-seven after yesterday’s demise. I want them outfitted with a scarab by the end of next week. We can’t afford more than that in lost profits or the board will have my head. Oh, and unshackle them. The scarabs take easier when the hosts are more docile.” With that, he turned and strode towards the exit.

The hooded guards, however, remained. One slipped a bottle from his robe. He slipped off the cork that plugged it. It made a familiar thumping sound as it was pulled free, the fizzle of the bubbles and carbonation sizzling up in a rush as the pressure was instantly released. The hooded figure poured the contents into the mouths of each of the prisoners, the brutish man helping to hold back their heads. This proved necessary as each of Carlo’s companions were clearly still stuck in a sort of sleep-like stupor. Although they were clearly conscious, their heads drooped from lack of control and saliva dripped in stringy globs as the brutish man held their heads back.

Each man coughed and sputtered as the liquid ran down their throats. The life returned to them almost instantly, their lungs heaved and sagged in rapid succession as the brew did its work. When it was Carlos’ turn, the Brutish man elected to wrap one hand around his throat, increasing pressure on it in a clear act of revenge. Carlos Once again convulsed, but this time was met with the blissful darkness of dreamless sleep.