Our city's centerpiece was Lord Jordan's Castle, a grand monument.

I had only seen glimpses of its ornate build before that day. There were emerald floors with rich blue rugs that stretched down long halls. Sky high ceilings were painted to mimic the clouds beyond. Stone walls, smoother than a pearl, had sections cut open and replaced with fractal glass. And the decor was constructed from the bones of wild beasts in such a way they must have been destined to join the castle’s interior. In our island’s culture, we did our best to avoid the waste of animals or what we received from them. Be it the meat, bones, or fur, we tried to utilize everything out of respect, but also necessity. In any case, there were few who possessed the means to turn unrefined bones into cutlery, art, or furniture. Not only that, but having enough of the material to create complete sets was notably rare.

“Our Island is the most diverse of all the known world, not only for its consistent rotation of seasons but its placement. We are at the center. We are the eye. This is why we have the best trading and a growing wealth of opportunity like none other. If the divides between oceans ever shut, our island would meet the worst that war has to offer. Ravaged and torn would be among the sweetest dreams compared to what would arrive on our shores. Surely you don’t wish for such a heinous fate to fall upon us, do you?”

Peasants like myself could only imagine walking the castle grounds. Even my mother and her kitchen colleagues were restricted, not allowed to explore like proper castle guests.

Funny, to earn my way into Jordan’s home, I had only to survive near death. But more than that, I was brought into his dining room and made to sit like a guest. Still, I was no guest. Though he allowed me at his table made from the spine of an impressive long shark, I knew not to reach for a plate or bowl. Jordan, with servants at his side waiting to replace portions on his plate, ate while casually questioning my involvement in the Salt Barrel’s destruction. His tone was nonchalant at best and concerned at worst. Regardless, there was never any hint of rage. It might have been easy to feel safe, but under the circumstances, I was terrified.

“So tell us, how did you and your prisoner survive the fall of the barrel? Were you protected by the witch responsible? Did he save you? Do you know where he is going?” Jordan went on even while taking bites of bread that filled his mouth to a smack.

Our Lord was a well-fed man, and he ate like it without contradiction.

Perhaps my lord was not the threat I needed fear? After all, he and I were not the only bodies at his long table. While Jordan and I sat at the South end, there was a single man at the North watching us. I believed he was a knight, perhaps even a reeve. Though his colors were not aligned with our city. He was a representative of the crown of our king. In any case, he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. It was deceptively easy to forget his presence as I gave my recounts of the night in question till he spoke up.

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Jordan was in the middle of telling me," Well, I don’t believe you had anything to do with the miscreant," when the knight asked, “Are you a witch?”

His inquiry was sudden, so sudden it shocked Jordan and me. As our eyes sought out the source, he went on to repeat, “Are you a witch?”

Nearly choking on the words, I said, “No, sir. I am not a witch.”

Silence that overtook the room was enough to crush an egg while the red-plated knight stared me down.

“Right,” Jordan interjected and released us from the tension as he spoke past me, saying, “I don’t believe Bastien is responsible. His mother has worked in my kitchens for some years now. Taste of her bread. You’ll find nothing bitter or ill-prepared comes from that woman.”

He and the knight exchanged several glances, telling of their disagreement. Jordan, laughing with food on fork. Knight glaring with empty eyes. They were far from complimentary. Regardless, Gallow was called to escort me from the table. Relief began to set in as he pulled me to my feet. Had my body been petrified? I couldn’t feel my legs till I had to use them again. With his hand on my shoulder, we left the room.

Doors shut behind us, and I took my first honest breath.

“Is it over?” I asked in a whisper.

Gallow remained silent, and it took several steps before I repeated, “Is it over?”

It was far from over.

My uncle took me to the castle dungeons, where light was dim, if any. The air was humid, and the rough ground was moist with both mud and waters dark. It was much like The Salt Barrel had the Barrel been under negligent care. Piss, shit, and blood. I saw what they could make when left to fester in that place. It only made sense. Why would our lord care for the upkeep of his dungeons when he had a facility meant to hold prisoners elsewhere? He had another facility, but no longer.

The vast majority of cells were empty, yet covered in filth. Insects and rats had found a home there.

“Gallow,” I spoke a final word, his name, as my uncle put me in a cell among familiar faces.

“A week,” he finally answered while shutting the rusted door, then added, “do as they say, and you’ll leave this place in a week. I’ll see to that.”

He left me to commune with Brisk and Prim. We were survivors of the Barrel, yet we were held under suspicion of conspiracy. As my fate was made clear, I quickly noticed one survivor was missing from our bunch. With annoyance, I asked my fellow cellmates, “Where is Quill?”

Where was my prisoner? Where was my witch?