Chapter 68

Nolan was wary as the guard turned the key to his cell, but he was warier of his cellmates. Rodian, the man who had comforted him earlier, whispered with him for an hour or so, during which he learned precious little, but precious nonetheless.

The man who had mocked him, whom Rodian called Demos, seemed pleased at the goaler's return, but the rest were either tense, asleep, or dead. To his disgust and pity, he had been resting his back against a corpse for an hour.

"Stew," the guard introduced their dinner, hefting the bucket he carried through the door. No sooner had he set it down than the tailor-turned-prisoner, who lay beside the door, grappled for the guard's legs with his left arm, his right thrusting a dagger aimed for his foe's back.

The guard didn't resist the man's tackle, and he fell to the ground, but he caught the tailor's wrist smoothly. He pressed the torch in his other hand into the man's face. In their struggle, the gaoler pushed the man off of him and had his knees on the tailor's chest. The prisoner's arms flailed for the guard's neck, torch, and anything they could reach, but it yielded naught. Choking the man with one hand and burning with the other, the guard patiently savored their altercation.

It would have been the perfect chance to strike the man from the back…if not for his shadow that paced around the cell, its featureless figure watching them all with a hand on its chin.

An Awakened, or a Sleeper at the very least.

The tailor's rasping was something between a scream and a breath, but that did not phase Demos. "I'm hungry," he pointed out. "Can you make it quick?"

No one else dared to move.

"I could," the gaoler said and withdrew the torch. Nolan could smell the burnt flesh, and hoping no one saw, he inched away. Even then, he was only a few steps from the guard. The tailor wheezed, the relief apparent in every gasp of breath he tried to steal through the man's iron grip. "But I don't want to," he declared and shoved the torch back into the man's face.

The living shadow stepped next to Nolan, and looked at him. It moved no further. Nolan's heart beat against his throat, and he kept his eyes fixed on the back of its owner. 

When the screams faded and the corpse stopped twitching, the gaoler rose. He dusted his hand on his tabard, black as a shadow, and turned. The torch light stung Nolan's eyes.

"Cups," he ordered with a click of his tongue.

Everyone reached for their bowls. Nolan had found his tightly pressed against his chest within the cloak. He raised it.

"The prince we've been hearing so much about," the guard mused. "Is it true you're a cripple?"

Nolan shifted uncomfortably. "Yes."

"That's 'yes, my lord' to you, princeling."

"Yes, my lord," Nolan got through his teeth.

The guard lifted a ladle from the bucket, dripping brown liquid onto the floor, and turned it over Nolan's bowl.

Demos inched closer with his bowl. "Two for me please!"

The guard did so without complaint.

Of course he did. Much of what Rodian spoke of were rumors about Demos. About how the man turned traitor, sold information about the Imperial Forces, and opened the postern gates for them in the night.

"Say, when do I get out of this shithole, Gaius?" the traitor asked.

The guard answered, "When we decide you do."

Nolan tipped the bowl over his mouth. The taste was not pleasant. For a moment, there was rage in Demos's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "But the king promised—"

"The king changed his mind," Gaius interrupted. "However, we plan on moving you to a nicer cell on the morrow, so dread not."

Demos muttered, "Would that I could."

Gaius stared at him for a moment, and Demos grunted away.

"You…do you not want food?" the guard asked the corpse that Nolan rested against.

Nolan told him, "The dead do not want."

The guard sighed. "How many of you are corpses?"

"Seven," Rodian answered.

"Right, carry them out when you're done."

When they finished eating, the corpses were thrown out of the cells unceremoniously. Gaius locked the door and stepped over them, returning to wherever his post was. Only five remained.

Rodian, Demos, Nolan, and two others remained. The newfound space was most appreciated, no matter how filthy.

"We can't remain here. They might kill us at any moment! We must flee," the man Nolan had 'forgotten' said.

Demos started, "Kill you? Yes. But they'll spare—"

Rodian sneered. "Spare you? You overestimate their gratitude, traitor."

"Please, Rodian, do not bother. If this man had half the sense of an apricot, your city would remain standing," the only woman of the lot said.

"...'your city'?" Nolan asked. "Is it not yours also?"

She laughed. "Oh, gods! It is true."

Nolan frowned.

"I am a royal hostage," she said. "Your father had me seized…five years ago. I never believed it. Those stories of all from your line going mad. They say that the lightning consumes your mind and drives you mad. I can't believe I get to witness it."

What? Just what kind of curse did he inherit?

Demos's voice cut through the silence, "It's true. I witnessed it myself, guarding his father. The man had not a wit for the last three years. Great boar he was, limbs all of silver or some gaudy metal, and what little he had left was red like sunburned skin."