Erin was having a bad day. Scratch that - a bad life.

It had all been downhill ever since the moment the nurse had started to fill out the birth certificate with the name “Aaron” and his mother had corrected her. “No, you spelled it wrong. E-R-I-N. Erin.”

The way his grandmother had told it in later years, the nurse had tried to do him a solid. “Are you sure? That spelling is normally used for girls.”

But his mother had insisted the name was unisex, that she was determined to name her baby after her “homeland.” She was an Irish-American after all. The fact that neither she, nor her parents, nor even her parents’ parents had ever actually stepped foot on the Emerald Isle did nothing to change her mind. His embarrassment had only grown when, once he was old enough to wonder why he didn’t have a dad, Erin had discovered his mother had conceived him after getting drunk off her ass on green beer for St. Patty’s Day. Yeah, a classy start for a classy life.

Unfortunately, naming him “Erin” hadn’t been good enough for his mother. Most kids who have a bad first name, at least have the good fortune to possess a middle that they can use later in life but his mother, in her infinite wisdom, had seen fit to ruin that too, blessing him ever so greatly with yet another unisex name, Jessie. And yes, she spelled it with an i.

And thus, unable to budge his mother from her unreasonable demands, the nurse had finally acquiesced - it wasn’t worth getting fired over, after all - and that was how Erin Jessie had come to be cursed to a lifetime of being stuck with a girl’s name and all the crap that came with it.

Teachers who didn’t believe he knew how to spell his own name. Kids who - you guessed it - bullied and teased him. Hell, when he went to get his passport for his senior trip, even the clerk at the county office had given him a hard time, refusing to accept that that was actually his name until he showed her his birth certificate and social security card.

But as much as that had sucked, it paled in comparison to the situation he found himself in. Pressing himself so tightly against the wall his bones protested, he was just able to squeeze enough room in the tiny cell to straighten his legs. He let the feeling of relief wash over him, savoring it as long as he could, but it wasn’t long before the pain in his back outweighed the pain in his knees, and reluctantly he pulled his legs back up.

His eyes idly scanned the tiny room again. It was the same, of course, as always. The same as the day before, and the day before that. The same as tomorrow. Damn it.

Crouching forward, he leaned his head against the bars, peering out into the narrow corridor of cells. He couldn’t see much in either direction, save for his mate in the cell directly across.

“Psst,” he whispered. The guards didn’t pay much attention to them down here, save for the occasional crumb of food they deigned to give them, but every few days the guards would come down and make an “example” of a prisoner. The last one had been left with a face so mangled, Erin doubted a plastic surgeon could have fixed it. “Hey, Gūzu. What are you doing?”

Huddled over a small pit, he’d dug in the floor, the Djinn finally looked up. His large, black horns scraped against the confines of the narrow cell. “Getting us out of here,” he replied calmly.

Erin shook his head in disbelief. “You’re going to tunnel out of here with your bare hands? No offense, man, I know you’re pretty strong and all, but I don’t think that’s going to work. I know the guards around here aren’t the most observant, but I’m pretty sure even they will notice a hole large enough to fit you in.”

The scout ignored him, continuing to work on whatever hopeless project he had. After a while, Erin gave up, and leaning awkwardly against the wall, tried to drift off to sleep.

Despite the painful angle of his neck, eventually sleep came for him. When he woke up, feeling entirely unrefreshed, he had no way to judge how long he’d slept. He’d been knocked unconscious when they’d been taken prisoner, so Erin wasn’t really sure where they were being kept, but he hadn’t seen even a hint of sunlight since arriving, nothing but the dim and smoky light of a pitch-covered torch. But given that Gūzu was still bent low over his work, he figured that he had either barely slept or had been asleep a long time.

Shuffling awkardly in his cramped quarters, he cursed as his foot brushed against a hard roll, dragging it across the dirt. Crap. He brushed the dirt off the bread as best as he could, sighing in relief when he saw the small flash of water placed just outside his cell door. Reaching his bars, he dragged it in, and let the welcome liquid flood his parched mouth. At least they didn’t forget this time.

When he had finished off the last of his paltry meal, he pressed his face again against the bars. “So, if it’s not a tunnel, what are you working on?”

Gūzu flashed him a small object held in the palm of his hand. With a rather portly torso and four stubby legs, it looked like some sort of kindergartner’s pottery project. Erin stared at it, dumbfounded. I thought he said he was trying to get us out of here. Has he lost his damned mind?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

A touch of pity welled up in him, initially for Gūzu, although it quickly spiraled into self-pity. “That’s, uh, real nice, Gūzu. Are you going to try to bribe your way to freedom?”

“It’s a votive,” the man finally explained. “The goddess willing, it will bring aid to us.”

Erin frowned. Like a lot of people with his upbringing, he was vaguely Catholic. And by that, he meant he attended mass on Easter and Christmas, plus the occasional extra service his grandmother guilted him into. She was good at that.

He sighed, feeling the bitterness surge up in him again. And right now, I’d give *anything* to be able to go to mass with her one last time. Stupid freaking game.

Unable to do anything else, he once again leaned against the wall, leaving Gūzu to do his work unimpeded. Erin wasn’t quite sure what to make of these “gods,” but his brief time in Corsythia had been enough to convince him that there was something there. He didn’t quite understand them, he sure as hell didn’t worship them, but if Gūzu’s goddess, Umma-something-or-other, was able to get them out of here - well, Erin certainly wouldn’t turn down a rescue.

But Gūzu wasn’t the only one working on a plan.

The relative quiet of the dungeon was broken by a crashing sound further down the corridor. Quiet cursing followed it, and Erin threw himself against the bars again, desperately trying to get enough of an angle to see what was happening. It was too far down the hall to see. Damn it.

A moment later, though, the reason became clear. Footsteps raced toward him as a handful of Djinn dashed into view. Squinting his eyes, Erin could barely make out the leading man’s features. It was one of their own, he realized, one of the scouts of the Dorēsah Squad, but the name wouldn’t come to him. He hadn’t been with them that long, after all.

He stretched an arm out as they approached, beseechingly. “Take us with you!” The men didn’t even slow down, roaring past him toward the end of the hall. Aren’t they going in the opposite direction the guards come from?

The frenzied sounds of rock against rock soon filled the dark passage. He couldn’t see what the men were doing, but when the first rays of light filtered through the hall, he understood. He shrunk back as the bright light stung his eyes, but tried calling out once again. “Take us with you!”

A snort from the cell opposite him caught his attention. “Fool.”

Annoyed, Erin turned on Gūzu. “Some of us don’t want to rot down here until the days the guards decide to make an example of us.”

The Djinn huffed, his horns scratching again against the narrow walls. “The king will rescue us,” he said, with quiet confidence. “But he cannot rescue us from a grave. Only the goddess’ merciful touch can do that.”

A new sound filled the dungeon, as the thick iron doors creaked open with a whine that - regardless of what Gūzū had said - was loud enough to wake the dead. The Djinn had clearly never heard of WD-40. A moment later, the squealing of the iron was replaced by the angry shouts of the guards and the rapid thunder of footfall.

In a glint of metal, their captors charged past his cell.

About half a second later, one of the guards flew past Erin's cell again - this time going in the opposite direction, with a chunk of masonry the size of a boulder buried in his breastplate. Another joined him a moment later, his body somersaulting at an entirely unnatural angle before burying himself in the dirt.

But the escapees were outnumbered, and while the scouts were no pushovers, their chances of beating the heavily armored guards with no weapons were slim. Maybe if we had one of those mages, Erin thought bitterly. Or if I could just actually cast a spell.

It was a bit of a sore point. Supposedly, as a Summoned, he was supposed to have great magical potential. Erin didn’t exactly understand everything the priests had said, but from what he gathered this world was experiencing sort of a magical apocalypse where magic was slowly dying, but people from other worlds were supposed to be different. They’d even confirmed that he had gobs of essence. Too bad he hadn’t managed to successfully shape it even once. It just wouldn't listen to him, and none of the classes he'd been offered had come with any spells.

He snapped back to attention as the sounds of combat were replaced with bloodcurdling screams.

The scouts had lost.

A few minutes later, the guards passed by his cell again. A few of them dangled the severed heads of the escapees from their gauntleted hands, gripped tight by the long hair the Djinn seemed to favor. The others held one of the survivors firmly between them.

He was beaten almost beyond recognition. Blood covered his face and chest; long stripes ran down his back, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut. Whatever fight the man had possessed had been squashed; he hung between them limply.

The guards came to a pause in front of their cells. Erin shrank back, afraid for a moment they had come for him, but their captors didn’t even spare him a glance. Instead, suspending the escapee between them, they turned to face Gūzu.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” the guard captain sneered. “We’ve caught a few of your little votives, you know.” Reaching into his bag, he drew out a small little bird and crushed it between his fingers in a puff of dust.

Gūzu’s face didn’t flicker.

Perhaps disappointed at the lack of reaction, the captain spat at the Djinn. “You’re lucky the chief said not to harm you. But,” a savage grin spread across his lips, “he said nothing about this one.”

Turning to the captive held between the guards, he grabbed the man’s chin and swiveled his head to face Gūzu. Prying the captive’s eyelids open, he revealed the empty sockets. He raised his voice to a roar. “Take a good look, prisoners. Such is the fate of those who try to escape.” With a lazy backhand, he slammed his gauntlet into the captive’s face. “Take him back to his cell,” he ordered. “And have a mage is sent to attend him. I want to make sure he lives.”

Dismissing the other guards, the captain hesitated a moment before following them. His gaze turned to Erin’s cage, and he shrunk back, suddenly afraid.

Pleased by the reaction, a smug smile crossed the captain’s face and, turning on his heels, he finally left the dungeon. The grating squeal of the iron filled the corridor again and then there was silence.

Yes, Erin was definitely having a bad day.