Chapter 3

After leaving the bar, I decided to take a walk down the street and wander around this little town, waiting for them to arrive. The more I took in the sight, the more I realized—if the knowledge of this town could kill anyone who knew something strange, the buildings were actually pretty to look at.

I could see a hill, and right on top of it was a giant wall surrounding something.

"A castle," I thought.

That was where I needed to go.

Before deciding—

"Hey," a voice sounded out of nowhere.

I looked around, trying to find where the voice was coming from.

"You should hide," the same voice spoke again. I looked around me, not seeing a single soul. And yet nothing. The only thing I saw was a cat, sitting on a pile of boxes, licking itself.

Not a single soul.

Paying it no mind, I foolishly decided to ignore the random voice and continue toward my destination.

Taking a few steps forward, I heard the sound of metal—dozens of pieces clattering and shifting into position.

When I looked to my left and right, I found myself surrounded. A dozen or so knights had formed a circle around me, their swords and spears pointed directly at me. Their metal helmets concealed their faces.

"You there?" one of them barked. "You are under arrest."

That was faster than I thought.

I looked around at the circle of knights closing in on me. My hand drifted toward one of my blades.

"Don't move!" the knight commander shouted.

I didn't listen.

In one fluid motion, I drew my blade and lunged forward. The first knight didn't even have time to react before my sword pierced through the gap in his armor, right between his neck and shoulder. He gurgled, blood spraying as he collapsed.

"Kill him!" the commander screamed.

Two more knights rushed at me from both sides. I ducked under the first swing, spinning low and slashing across the legs of the knight on my left. He screamed and fell. The second knight thrust his spear toward my chest. I sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and yanked him forward—driving my blade through his throat.

Three down.

The remaining knights hesitated, fear creeping into their formation. They spread out, trying to circle me more carefully now.

I pulled my second blade free, dual-wielding now. The runes on both blades began to glow faintly in the dim light.

Four knights charged at once. I moved between them like water, my blades singing through the air. One lost his sword arm. Another took a blade to the gut. The third stumbled back, clutching at the deep gash across his chest.

Blood pooled at my feet. The street was painted red.

But there were still too many.

More knights poured in from the side streets—reinforcements. A dozen became two dozen. Then three.

I could fight. I could kill more of them. But eventually, they would overwhelm me. And if I kept fighting here, in the open street, innocent people might get caught in the crossfire.

I glanced at the castle in the distance. That was where I needed to go anyway.

With a heavy breath, I lowered my blades.

The knights tensed, weapons raised, expecting a trick.

I dropped my weapons to the ground with a clatter and raised my hands in surrender.

"Smart choice," the commander said, stepping forward cautiously.

Before I could even lower my hands completely, one of the knights—rage in his eyes, probably a friend of the men I'd killed—stepped forward and backhanded me with the pommel of his sword.

The blow caught me across the jaw, and pain exploded through my face. I hit the ground hard, tasting copper on my tongue.

"Filthy vagrant," the knight spat.

Rough hands grabbed me, yanking my arms behind my back. The rope bit into my wrists as they bound me tightly. Then, without warning, they threw a dirty, foul-smelling bag over my head, plunging me into darkness.

Like a pig being readied for slaughter.

I heard muffled laughter from the knights as they dragged me forward, my boots scraping against the cobblestone street. Around us, I could hear the whispers of onlookers—terrified, silent.

Just another nobody disappearing.

I didn't know how much time had passed. An hour? Perhaps a whole day?

It was dark, barely lit. I could feel the cold, hard ground beneath me, covered by hay and straw—a sad excuse for comfort. My hands were tied together with rope, and I could feel an extension of that rope leading somewhere above me, though I couldn't move far enough to see where it ended.

They'd stripped me down, leaving me with just my pants and shoes. What I'd heard the guards call "an easy pat down" had felt more like a brutal beating.

I looked around at my surroundings. The room—or what passed for a cell—had rusty metal bars covered with age and recently dried blood from former residents.

I tried to sit up. The pain radiating from my body and chest didn't make it easy, but I managed. I sat there, trying to gather my thoughts.

"It wasn't me, I swear I don't know anything!" someone screamed from another cell.

"Please let me out, I have a wife and son," a different voice echoed through the dungeon.

I could hear dozens of people screaming, crying about "crimes" they had or hadn't committed.

"MOMMY... I want my mommy," a child's voice sadly cried out.

The few light sources scattered throughout the dungeon were just enough for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and get a better sense of my surroundings.

At that moment, I felt the rope still bound to my hands begin to move. With a sudden force, the rope launched upward. My hands followed, then my arms. My entire body was jerked off the ground, and within seconds, I was hanging—suspended in the air like meat on a hook.

The rope bit into my wrists. My shoulders screamed in protest. My feet dangled uselessly above the ground.

I gritted my teeth against the pain, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

Still hanging like a fish on a line, I simply stared at the ground.

I heard the cell door open, along with the grinding screech of metal against stone. I glanced up to see who had entered. A man, large for his size, topless, showing off his muscles and scars all over his body. He wore a black hood with two holes cut out for his eyes.

He kept his gaze down, holding a metal rod in one hand.

Not showing any expression, I simply watched him.

He moved slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His boots scraped against the stone floor as he circled beneath me. The metal rod tapped rhythmically against his palm—a sound that echoed through the cell like a countdown.

"They tell me you're a curious one," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Asking questions. Poking around where you don't belong."

I said nothing.

He stopped circling and looked up at me, his eyes visible through the holes in his hood—cold, empty, professional. This wasn't personal for him. This was just another day's work.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," he continued, lifting the metal rod. "And you're going to answer them. Simple as that."

Poking and pushing the cold metal rod against my stomach forcefully, trying to get something out of me

"Let's start with an easy one," he said. "Who sent you?"

Not seeing me change my expression, like I was looking down on him, he placed the metal rod against my chin, forcing me to look up and meet his eyes.

I met his gaze through the hood, still showing no expression.

Having had enough, he pulled the rod back and lifted it over his head. With one fluid motion, he swung the rod right against my skull.

My head snapped to the side, and I felt my brain rattle inside my own head. Blood trickled down my face. If one swing wasn't enough, the man repeated his assault—swinging his tool against my chest, my stomach, my legs. What was left were bruises and cuts covering my body.

Despite all that, I refused to yelp, to scream, to cry out. My bones cracked. My ribs broke with sickening pops that echoed through the cell.

Blood covered me, dripping onto the floor below.

I stared at him. He was breathing heavily, like he'd run for his life. And yet I simply stared at him—unchanged, unbroken.

"Those eyes," he muttered, taking a step back. "I've seen those before."

Walking out of the cell, he approached something I hadn't noticed before—a wooden cart. He placed the metal rod on top of it. Looking closer, I could see different tools laid out. Tools meant for extracting information from people, I guessed.

Picking up a new instrument, he held what looked like a poker. He thrust it into one of the torches that lit this dark place, letting the metal heat until it began to glow.

He wasn't looking at me directly, but I knew he was grinning behind that mask.

"Don't worry," he said calmly, matter-of-factly. "I can fix that problem."

Stepping closer, he held up the now glowing yellow-red poker, bringing it toward my face.

He held it up right to my eyes, mere inches away. I could feel the heat radiating from it, waves of scorching air washing over my skin.

My eye watered from the intensity. The smell of heated metal filled my nostrils.

He moved it closer.

"Last chance," he said quietly. "Who sent you?"

I said nothing.

The poker touched my skin.

The pain was unlike anything I'd experienced before—white-hot agony that consumed everything else. The smell of burning flesh—my own flesh—filled the air. I felt my skin sizzle and char beneath the metal.

But still, I didn't scream.

I wouldn't give him that.

The torturer pulled the poker back, staring at me with what seemed like confusion, maybe even a hint of respect.

"What are you?" he whispered.

I met his gaze, blood dripping from my mouth.

"Meow."

The torturer and I both turned, trying to find the source of the noise.

A cat sat right in front of the jail cell, its fur black as the night sky. Its green eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

"Damn cat," the torturer said, sounding frustrated, like this happened often.

The torturer turned around, trying to shoo away the animal. The cat didn't react—it just licked its own paw as if that were more important.

He reached under the cart, grabbing something while keeping his eyes on the cat. He threw one of his tools toward it.

BAM! The metal tool hit the stone floor with a loud clang that echoed through the hallways. The cat looked unamused, then yawned, seeming bored.

"Damn it," the torturer muttered, blaming himself for missing his target.

He turned back to the cart, searching for another projectile. The cat's ears perked up suddenly, tilting toward the stairway entrance.

Footsteps.

Someone was coming down.

The cat's tail flicked once, then it stood and stretched lazily before padding away from the cell, disappearing into the shadows as silently as it had appeared.

The torturer straightened, quickly composing himself as the footsteps grew louder—measured, deliberate. These weren't the heavy boots of a guard. These were lighter, more refined.

A figure descended into the dungeon, dressed in white robes with golden stripes running down each side. The Sire.

He swept into view, his eyes immediately falling on the cart of torture instruments, then on me—hanging, bloodied, burned.

"My, my," the Sire said softly, approaching. "You've been busy."

The torturer bowed his head slightly. "Sire. I was just—"

"Leave us," the Sire commanded, his voice polite but firm.

The torturer hesitated for only a moment before gathering his tools and exiting the cell, the door grinding shut behind him.

The Sire turned his full attention to me, studying me like I was some curious specimen.

"You're quite resilient," he observed, circling beneath me. "Most men would be screaming by now. Begging. But you..." He paused. "You just stare."

I said nothing.

He stopped in front of me, tilting his head. "Tell me—what brings a traveler to our humble kingdom? Surely not just curiosity."

Looking at a table behind him, I saw all of my weapons laid out across its surface—my blades and other small daggers.

"Preparing for war, are you not?" he said.

He turned to face the cell where I was kept. "Why are you here?" he said, trying to be intimidating, but with a hint of fear slipping through. Still, he continued, looking me in the eye.

"We were called to capture you. You killed and injured thirteen of my knights, am I correct? We also received anonymous reports that you killed two of our knights who were off duty and assaulted a bartender." He paced left and right.

I remained silent.

"I'll ask again. Who are you? And if you answer, I promise we can forget this whole thing and go our separate ways." He smiled while looking at me, his face revealing the lie.

"If I answer, will I be another sacrifice?" I said calmly.

That once proud, smug face the Sire had painted on now looked startled and shocked.

I continued. "I heard stories, rumors about this little village. So I decided to take a long journey to reach here, hoping the stories were true. I just wanted to see if there was any truth behind those stories. I guess I was right." The light shone through the poorly built window in the cell, revealing my horns and a bit of my face. The Sire looked scared, unable to say anything.

"Enough of this!" the Sire screamed. "I have to return to my duties for our lord." He turned to the torturer. "Keep him here until I return. Then I'll figure out what to do with him."

The torturer pulled a lever, and suddenly I was dropped to the ground. I fell hard, unable to soften the landing.

"A warning would be nice," I muttered.

With that, the Sire and the torturer walked away, their footsteps fading into the darkness. Silence filled the cell. Battered and bruised, I collapsed onto the ground, my hands still chained like a dirty animal. The cold, hard floor, with tiny rocks poking at me, didn't matter. I just wanted to rest for a bit.