Visrace weaved through the winding streets to places most feared to tread, even in the daytime. Muffled figures lurking in darkened alleyways and behind grime-slathered windows paid no heed to the bare-footed young man racing for his life. 

He was being followed, that he was sure of, but by how many was unclear. Pondering such helped him in no way as all that mattered was staying ahead. For years, he had meticulously considered his options if lucky enough to escape. Now that he had freed himself, he knew there was only one choice. With that in mind, he continued to work his way toward the nether regions of the area where, for a time, he would be relatively safe.

As Visrace progressed toward his destination at an incredible speed and without care for the shattered glass and filth he strode through, a small army was converging on all corners of the slums and beginning its sweep inward.

After an hour or so of maintaining a relentless pace, Visrace’s slowed as he entered a stretch of road. Despite being in broad daylight, the sun seemingly refused to illuminate this gloomy collection of rundown buildings. 

Haggard women sat on stools outside dimly-lit doorways, a man lay face-down unconscious on the floor, and a frightened child with blackened eyes and missing teeth huddled in a corner away from prying eyes. Visrace’s attention was not swayed by the jeers and questions posed by the frail, tired-looking woman, nor was his confidence shaken by the stern looks of passers-by. 

His eyes were fixed firmly on the building at the end of the street, which loomed ominously like a thunderstorm on the horizon and held a reputation known far and wide. Visrace’s attempt to enter was met with a sharp fist to the left of his mouth that sent him straight to the floor courtesy of the man standing next to the entrance.

“Who the hell do you think you are just waltzin’ in ‘ere? Be on your way or I’ll put those girly looks to work!” the man sneered.

“Graffsif,” Visrace muttered from the floor, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You what?” the man shouted back forcefully.

“Graffsif! I want to see him!” Visrace offered the same tone in reply.

“That’s Mr. Graffsif to you, rat!” The man replied angrily, thrusting his foot toward Visrace’s stomach before the young man caught it tightly.

“You better think twice about hitting me,” Visrace glared, twisting the ankle until a pop echoed into the dark reaches of the hallway behind the man.

Screaming, the man fell to the floor, and as others rushed to his defense, they were stopped in their tracks by the sight of a scruffy, scrawny-looking young man with fire in his eyes.

“Take me to Graffsif, now, unless you want your leg rearranged like the bellboy rolling on the floor outside,” Visrace stated calmly, to which the men replied with only silence and a gesture toward a room in the back. 

“Who let this street urchin in here?” Graffsif enquired as he looked up momentarily from the stack of money he was counting. The withered yet intimidating man with weathered skin, a full greying beard, and a jawline sharp enough to crack a walnut was by far the cleanest thing in the damp and dingy room. Visrace took it upon himself to reply while pulling up a chair to sit opposite.

“I may look it, but I assure you, I’m no street urchin, and I let myself in after almost twisting off one of your guard’s feet,” Visrace replied with a calm, collected cadence.

“The man outside the door, you got one over on him, did you?” Graffsif asked with a wry grin while leaning back. 

“Didn’t take much, you should invest in a higher caliber of worker.”

Graffsif broke into laughter. “What, exactly, makes you think you could get away with something like this?”

“I don’t mean to get away with anything, but I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?” Visrace replied, leaning back in his chair in a manner similar to the man opposite him.

“Well, you’ve certainly done that, what is it all for then?” Graffsif asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I need your help,” Visrace stated matter-of-factly, to which Graffsif again broke into hysterics.

“You’ve got a funny way of asking for help, boy, I’d hate to see what you do when you’re actually out to hurt someone!” Graffsif continued to chuckle. “Well, what, pray tell, can I do for you?”

“I need a job.”

“A job?” Graffsif smirked.

“In the castle, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, I just have to be able to get in there in an official capacity.”

“I see…” Graffsif replied, slowly taking a glance over the young man who sat opposite him. “Do you still have your shackle… prince?”

A moment of silence and held breath was cut by a stark reply.

“If you are asking me that, then I’m sure you already know that what’s left of it is embedded in the neck of one of the king’s guards, or at least it was when I left it,” Visrace replied as he leaned forward and placed his hands firmly on the table without blinking.

“Found out and you don’t even flinch, eh?”

“Well, news spreads fast, does it not? You’re a man who knows things, it was safe to assume that you could deduce who I was.”

“Oh, you flatter me, prince,” Graffsif replied sarcastically with a glimmer in his eyes, “I’m impressed that someone of your stature and, well, the longevity of your incarceration, would know of someone such as me.”

“Your reputation precedes you, as I’m sure you well know, even as a young boy I'd heard tales of your… exploits.”

“Well, I am honored to have caught the attention of the nobility. If you know my reputation, then you surely understand that I am not in the business of doing favors for grubby children hiding in the shadow of the monarchy. So, this begs the question, if I get you into the castle, how does this benefit me, exactly?”

“As I understand it, your reach extends throughout the city, so you must have plenty that needs to be done.”

“Very astute, as is to be expected of royalty,” Graffsif’s eyes widened, “well, I must admit your… shall we say, display, at the entrance there has me thinking. I do indeed try to surround myself with capable individuals, ones that would not easily be bested by a fluke, which leads me to believe you possess an ample amount of skill. Presumably, the old king placed great emphasis on training his son to uphold his family’s reputation as bloodthirsty battlehounds. So I think I may have just the thing for you. One of my many entrepreneurial pursuits, and, admittedly, one of my favorites, is providing a place where ladies and gentlemen of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds can come together and have a chance to increase their wealth, you see.”

“And where would I fit in?”

“Well, given that your skill is… masked by this frame you inhibit, I’m sure that betting on the prospect of you winning a fight against seasoned individuals would go against the inclination of the masses, thus netting me a nice profit in the process.”

“You want me to fight for you?”

“Not just for myself, little prince, but for the lowly and the highborn at the only places in this wretched city where the dregs and cream of society rub shoulders; my arenas. Let’s say three matches over the course of three consecutive evenings, each at different locations. If you win every match, I’ll grant you your wish. I’ll leverage the relationships I have with those within the castle walls to ensure that you can come and go freely without suspicion. If you lose, well, if you lose even once your time in this world will have come to an end, so let's just call that sufficient payment for your failure to adhere to the terms of our agreement.”

“Very well,” Visrace replied, attempting to mask his nerves.

“Splendid, the first fight will be tomorrow night, in the meantime and due to your circumstances, you will be kept here, out of sight. After that, you’re on your own.” Graffsif called one of his men, a wide-eyed yet burly individual with a large sword saddled around his waist. As the man drooped down, Graffsif muttered orders to him, all the while his eyes remained fixed on Visrace.

“Follow me,” the man said before leaving the room.

As Visrace rose to stand, he was stopped momentarily by Graffsif’s raised hand.

“Just one moment, prince,” he spoke, “I must admit, my curiosity is getting the better of me. What is it that you intend to do upon entering the castle? I presume it isn’t to fulfill some long-held dream of scrubbing toilets like a commoner? Is it, perhaps, to seek revenge on the king of this fair land, seeing as how he slaughtered your father and took his and what would eventually be your land and all?” Graffsif asked, grinning ear to ear.

“My intention is not to reclaim what is supposedly mine, and I am under no illusions about what type of man my father was, and his before him, and all the others who have sat on a throne and forced their subjects to suffer in the name of their so-called kingdom. He, like everyone before him, deserved the fate that befell him, just as the now-king deserves his. I intend to ensure that what is coming to him comes swiftly, not because he left a child without a father, but because I seek to put an end to the rotten system that would have people trodden underfoot. Power and having others fall for me are not things I desire. Putting people's lives in their own hands instead of at the whims of kings and queens is what I will achieve. Of this, have not an ounce of doubt.”