In the war between men and gods, there were acts of magic that could never be replicated. The gods were capable of fates unimaginably foul. One such curse was the touch of Umin. It corrupted bodies, turning blood into toxic oil that burned to be released. But its effect could take ages to kill a man, depending on his will.

My father was touched by Umin in the late stages of the last war. Mother gave birth to my brother and me years after that, utterly blind to my father’s struggle. We were all blind to our father’s illness. He hid it from us and lied when we noticed signs. He was old. Of course, he was slower. Of course, he couldn’t move like he once did. Of course, he couldn’t keep up with two growing boys. But he tried till he could no longer stand. When father lost his ability to walk without falling, it was only a matter of time before Mother noticed the purple in his veins.

My father’s will was strong enough to fight the oil till I was old enough to call a man by most standards. He fought a silent war after the fighting was done and protected me from the misery of life without a father.

What could I say after I lost the last instrument to prolong his life? What words could I spit to excuse life-threatening failure? I lost the injection. But we knew the day would come when father’s time might end. The poison in his veins had no cure. And borrowed time was always paid without remorse.

So I lied.

I told my family the medicine man hadn’t any drugs to pedal. Was it a soft lie or a hard truth I gave my mother? Though I was spared the sight of salted eyes, I heard her weep that night.

“What did you do with the wooden box?!”

My work. My profession. My duty. I returned to the Salt Barrel. I returned to my block. Like clockwork, former prisoners returned to their usual cells. Brisk was still nude, and Prim was insatiable in her lust. There was little reason to search for Quill. He, like all of us, was a creature of habit. He came to me without a doubt.

“The what?” He asked from the comfort of his cell bed.

The ways I could make his time prick were many and still not enough.

“The box in my satchel,” I explained while keeping my composure tame.

He was under my watch and at my mercy, but there was only so much I could do without earning punishment myself.

“Guardsman, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quill continued to play dumb, as he always did far too often.

Standing at his cell, my fingers rang a book till its leather tore, and tears came from my shut eyes.

In a hesitant murmur, shaken by my lack of control, I pleaded silently, “My father will die for what you’ve done.”

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“It was broken,” he answered. And stood to approach me.

Opening my eyes, I found him holding the cell bars.

“Whatever was inside had already been shattered. It leaked a green liquid. I cleaned it and sold the empty box,” he added with remorse I could do nothing with.

“I hate you,” I said.

“I would never take family from anyone. I swear to you, I wouldn’t,” he whispered to save himself the appearance of appearing to be my friend.

He wasn’t. Quill was not my equal, nor was he a friend.

I stepped away. Candles began to fade, but I let them as I searched the opposite wall for a unique tool. Among the chains, hung on display waiting to be bound around the limbs of a prisoner, one was most heinous. The Slaver’s Knot was a deceptively easy bind. It appeared to be an ordinary rope just thick enough to use as a belt, but thanks to magic, it could do so much more than the eye could tell. I took it from the wall, and before I turned around, I heard prisoners shrieking and pleading for mercy.

The only voice I cared to hear was his.

“Do you know how much that box was worth? What it cost me?” I asked in a whisper.

As I turned, I saw him witness me. I approached, and he backed away from his cell door.

“More than a few silvers. You owe me not just a finger, but your hand,” I went on.

“You can’t hurt me. I haven’t seen a judge, and your superiors haven’t scheduled further punishment," he spoke with far less confidence than before.

I opened his cell door, and he stood at a distance.

“You owe me,” I argued.

“Guardsman, Bastien.”

“Now you know my name?”

He could have fought and likely won, but only at the cost of his life. Why didn’t he fight? I needed him to further my rage, to still my arm. Did I not yet wish him harm enough to act with cruelty? What weakness lay inside me that I might have spared a thief before forgiveness? No, I couldn’t kill him. That was the price of attempting to escape.

“I can get you more of whatever was in the box!” He begged, and I stood in the doorway, paralyzed by what I meant to do next.

“Not without crossing oceans,” I answered his pleading voice and perhaps gave him a chance to save us both from cruelties not yet complete.

“I can cross them all,” he said, then dropped to his knees before adding, “I know what it is to lose someone close to you.”

“Stop talking.”

“I’ll save your father.”

“I said, stop talking.”

I was out of time. Down the lane, the corridor’s exit had opened, and from the corner of my eye, Gallow entered my view.

“Bastien,” my superior called out.

“I’ll save your father,” Quill repeated again and again even as I made a retreat and shut his cell.

The Slaver’s Knot, when tied around any aspect of a person’s body, could compel them to follow any order given. Cut a finger, bite a nail, slit a throat. It was compliance without mercy.

“Bastien?” Gallow called again.

What could I do? As always, my answer was nothing.