The tavern had been thoroughly picked through by the evening. A barrel of the better red wine, that the barkeep had kept in storage, was sequestered by the senior officers for themselves.

In the town hall that had once been the place where the villagers had broken bread together, Esra served the stolen wine to his captors.

They sat at his father’s long meeting table, talking in less serious tones of his village, its people, and many declarations of how the God King Balor would be pleased with the work they had done in subduing the traitors. The talk set his teeth on edge, not from insult, but from fear. That the reason they talked freely in front of him was because he wouldn’t be leaving alive.

One can spill all sorts of secrets before a dead man.

Of course he was curious about their mission, how could he not be? But he feared knowing too much. When it was his turn to be taken to the smithy for the knight’s questioning, he wanted to be able to say, with all his desperate honesty, that he knew nothing, of anything. To be seen as harmless, helpless. Not worth killing.

A coward’s wish, but he could do little else.

Of course, he couldn’t close his ears, nor could he close his eyes. Not if he wanted to please them.

Esra tried to make himself perfectly, silently, servile. The moment a glass started to look more empty than full, he was at the drinker’s elbow to pour them more. When he felt the temperature of the room start to drop, he went to stoke the fire back to life, or throw in more wood. Otherwise he kept to the corner of the room, and as out of the way as he could manage. Hovering out of notice was something he had practice in.

He knew his father would be ashamed of his obedience. With every goblet of wine he poured, Esra saw the red blood splatter into the earth like harvest slaughter. With every log he fed into the burning hearth, he saw his father’s ships crumble in the consuming flames of a bonfire.

Yet these images only tormented him. He could do nothing to stop the destruction that had been waged upon his home, nor could he fight back against the seabeast's soldiers he now served. In truth, that sort of resistance, that death wish for glory that seemed to define the men he knew, had never been in Esra’s nature.

He was not wholly ignored as he might have wished to have been. The soldiers looked at him, or rather, the shape of him, in a sneaky way, like they knew they shouldn't be. They were most bold when he was right beside them, eyeing his fae-like features, his slim figure, although they never grabbed him, or even said anything to him beyond, "Over here, boy." Compared to the rough treatment he’d been subjected to outside, it was almost respectful. There were only looks that were more than looks, like the men weren’t really looking at Esra as he was at all, rather, picturing him elsewhere, in other circumstances.

The knight lounged in his seat with the lazy mastery of a predator, drinking slowly. He talked little, but was always deferred to, a silent hush falling whenever he spoke, lots of nodding from his captive audience. They are afraid of him too, Esra noticed, this gleaming knight with a God’s authority.

He tried to keep his hands steady when he poured the creature wine, but he was unable to keep his eyes from that pale, perfect jaw, or the way his ash blond hair moved as he tilted his head, the smoky strands shining in the firelight.

The knight seemed to pause. He was looking at Esra. Even behind the mask, Esra was sure of it, feeling it prickle his skin.

“I think you might need to refill the jug,” sneered the captain, breaking his reverie.

Esra flushed red as he realised his mistake. He’d poured the last few drops of wine, and then had stood there like a fool with his empty carafe, too distracted to realise why the goblet wasn’t full yet. No wonder the knight was staring.

“I’m… so sorry…” he breathed, cringing backwards. The soldiers laughed, a nasty sound, and Esra scuttled away to get more wine.

On his return, they were planning the guard shifts for that night, and their duties for the next few days. The spoils of war (both slaves and other valuables) had to be sorted through. Warhorses needed to be fed and cared for. He tried not to listen too closely as he carefully refilled the knight’s cup, and then the other cups being waggled in his direction. Still, when he heard them speak of the mass grave, he had to turn away so that they wouldn’t see his terror.

The violent talk continued. Soldiers were to be sent out to hunt down refugees already on the road to their village, ignorant of its ruin, of what they would be walking into. Others would be sent further still, to the cities and towns where treasonous nonbelievers whispered messages into the ears of the desperate of an escape, from Balor’s glorious and holy rule, across the wide ocean to the Continent.

His father must have given up his contacts, Esra realised, a terrible sort of sick horror growing in him. A network of resistance that near spanned the whole of Fomoria would be brought down in a day. What had the knight done to break a man like his father?

Outside, the darkness was encroaching, and with it, the cold.  Esra threw more wood into the fire, and stood closer to it himself. He always felt the chill easily, and had been shivering more often than not, even on this summer night. From out the window he could see the smouldering bonfires spiral up into the night sky, and hoped that the plumes of smoke had alerted any travelling refugees of the danger, and would send them into hiding.

“... then we could contact the port authorities along the Continent,” one of the soldiers was suggesting. “Track down those who tried to escape Balor’s justice, bring back the slaves to their owners…”

“They’d want an equal exchange, or a favor,” the knight interjected tersely. “The God King has no interest in getting in debt to the petty kings of the Continent, no matter how slight. Especially in order to retrieve the dregs of society.” 

He waved a dismissive hand. “No, once they have left this land, they are out of our jurisdiction. And that, men, is a failure we must not allow ourselves to repeat.”

* * *

Evening turned to night, and the soldiers were dismissed. The knight was writing on a scroll of parchment, the pointed symbols indecipherable to Esra’s eyes. He had never learned to read.

The captain of Balor’s Fist rose to his feet, as did his men. “Any other instructions, sir?”

A neat dip of the pen into black ink. “That will be all for now.”

“We'll leave you to it then, Sir Knight,” said the captain respectfully, and gestured for his men to follow him. Esra felt their eyes on him and almost reflexively pressed himself against the wall he stood by, head lowered, shoulders rounded, trying to make himself as small as possible. He even held his breath as the soldiers passed.

It was no use.  A rough hand closed around Esra's wrist; the same soldier who had dragged him here now tugged him close. 

"Well," came the low, contemplative mutter, "since you're not wanted here..." A dark smile flickered at the edges of the man's lips. Esra didn’t dare look any higher, too afraid of what he’d see. He closed his eyes instead, a surge of hot fear rushing through him.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what the man wanted from him. Another reason why he hadn't been slaughtered in the invasion, perhaps. He was easy enough to bully, and some of them liked the look of him. It had only been a matter of time, really, before it was his turn to be taken somewhere dark and private and have a soldier grind him into the dirt.

Or two, three. Or more.

“Leave the boy,” the knight said in that imperious tone, not even looking up from his parchment.

* * *

The door shut behind the men of Balor’s Fist with finality.

The knight continued scribing black ink onto the parchment, seemingly ignoring the youth, but his presence took up all of Esra’s attention. There was nothing for Esra to do, so he just stood there, stupidly grateful, feeling like he should… do something. Say something.

His mouth was dry. “T-thank you, Sir Knight,” he stammered weakly.

That got him attention, the full weight of it. The knight stopped, lowered his quill, and stared quite directly at Esra for a long moment. Esra could feel the pierce of it, even behind the mask, and immediately regretted opening his fool’s mouth.

“Whatever for?” the knight inquired, and tilted his magnificent head.

Esra gestured weakly at the door. “For not letting him…”

He trailed off when the knight scoffed. The parchment was pushed to the side, and the knight’s armor clinked ominously as he relaxed his powerful figure back into his chair, beckoning Esra closer with a wave of his elegant hand.

Esra took a few tremulous steps.

“Closer,” the knight ordered. “Into the firelight, boy. Want a look at you.”

Esra obeyed, wishing he could see the man's eyes. The sharp lines of the mask gleamed orange in the flame, gave it the illusion of shifting scales. A dragon’s face. He felt like he was descending into some mythical lair.

“Closer.”

Now he was in biting distance. Esra remained unsure of where to look. Should he stare down at the ground or aside, at the wall? Would that seem rude, or properly deferential? He didn't know if he could withstand it to look right at him. He chose to keep his head bowed, every now and then chancing a glance up at the knight.

The knight extended his hand expectantly, large palm gracefully upturned, and waited. It took Esra a moment to realise what he wanted - it seemed such a strange request - and placed a trembling slender hand over the black gloves.

He’d barely touched the surface with his fingertips when warm leather and blackened steel closed over him with easy strength. He was tugged closer, just a little bit.

The knight looked at him a long while before he said anything. His close, silent attention was mesmerising. “What is your name?”

Had it ever before been so hard to speak?

The youth swallowed at the heat of the knight’s hand around his own, his tongue stuck in his throat. It took much of his willpower to merely stop himself from shaking. But still, he could hardly ignore the question.

“Esra," he said.