14 September 2026
Burron woke with a wave of cold water thrown at him.
He immediately shot up from his bed and dragged his hands over his face, wiping the water from his eyes. Just as he tried to take two steps forward to grasp the metal bars of his cell to protest, another wave of water hit his face. This second one was colder than the first and it seeped through his clothes and into his boots. He hadn’t even had time to properly wake up and his socks were already wet. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was wet socks. What a way to start the day.
“Away from the bars,” came a deep voice from the corridor.
Wary to not be hit with more freezing water, Burron obeyed and let go of the metal bars. With the water still dripping down his face and into his eyes, he stepped back a bit and sat back on the edge of his bed. If one could even call it that. A bunch of ripped up pillows and strewn blankets could hardly be considered a bed, and yet such were the conditions in the Tower. Burron supposed he should consider himself lucky to be deemed dangerous enough to warrant a lone cell, or else he’d be thrown in one with dozens of other inmates.
All night, his dreams had been haunted by the sounds of creaking wood and the smell of salty air. Tossing and turning incessantly, Burron had dreamt of being at sea, among the harsh waves of the Eskos waters and surrounded by open air with the light of the fresh dawn on his skin. He loved the sea. A lovely dream abruptly interrupted by a bucket of freezing water, yanking him back into the harsh reality of his small cell. At first he had almost thought that his dreams had become real and he was truly drowning. But no, it was just the Tower guards with their usual tenderness.
As he rubbed his eyes, Burron heard two distinct voices coming from outside his cell. They were too muffled for him to clearly understand.
“Get off your ass!” The same voice from earlier spoke in a loud and clear tone.
It was familiar to him and belonged to one of the guards that had been assigned to keep an eye on Burron, a strong yet older man who was surprisingly stronger than he seemed. Burron had caught glimpses of his conversations and learnt that his name was Abilart. The second voice belonged to a younger guard, more inexperienced and seemingly scared of the prisoners. His body always tensed as he passed in front of the doors, his eyes frozen in place, as if he was unsure what to do with himself in the presence of the criminals locked in that place. Burron had not figured out his name yet, mainly because the young guard was not much of a talker. Abilart spoke often and loudly. His voice, and laugh, were so loud that they echoed through the corridor and rattled the metal bars. But the young guard spoke little, and when he did it was short answers or grunts.
“Sit down.”
“You guys need to make up your mind,” Burron responded with a grin on his face.
“Watch your mouth young man,” the guard responded.
Something was off. Usually the two of them would tease and poke at each other, a small laugh here and there. But not today, an unusual severity was clouding the guard’s face.
“I’m just saying, you tell me to stand then you tell me to sit. It is tiresome,” Burron continued, unsure what to make of the tension that had started to build within those walls.
“Just… Stay right where you are, Garnean.” Abilart shot a wary look at Burron and gestured for the young guard to open the door.
If there was something that got under Burron’s skin like nothing else, was being referred to with his last name. It had always felt more fitting for his father for older brothers, not for him. And certainly not after what he had done. Burron felt compelled to obey Abilart’s words. He stayed on his spot, arms crossed against his stomach and head bent slightly downward. The second wave had drenched his clothes and he was shivering now. It had been cold in the Tower, the nights always near freezing, and now being soaked to the bone did not help the tremors running through his body.
He heard the lock of his cell snap open and looked up. Abilart was standing in front of him with the bucket still hooked to his arm, the same tightness over his face. The younger guard had stepped inside carrying thick and heavy chains, and made to step behind the prisoner. He took Burron’s arms and tied them with a small rope first, then began with the heavy chains. Burron felt compelled to try to get out of being chained up. No matter how much time one spends in the cells repenting over their mistakes, no one likes being chained up like that.
Trying to pull away from the young guard’s traps, Burron was surprised to be met with a great resistance. This guard may come off as young and inexperienced, but he was freakishly strong. He had judged him too soon. Surprise was so clearly written on his face that Abilart chimed in.
“The kid is full of surprises,” he said, shooting his eyebrows up. “Looks scared and nervous but he’s got arms of steel. Don’t ya, kid?”
The young guard grunted and tightened his grip on Burron, forcing him to stand up straighter. It seemed as if Burron had misjudged the young man. The tightness in his face and fear in his eyes and been hatred, distaste towards him and the other prisoners.
“Make sure they are tightly locked and wrapped multiple times,” Abilart added with a grunt, “This one has a knack for slipping through just about anything.” And with a harsh look he stepped out of the cell and held the door open for the others.
He wasn’t wrong. Burron had escaped from every chain and every knot they had bound him with, which could be the reason he was stuffed so deep and far into the Tower. But Burron knew better. No matter how much he deluded himself he knew that the reason for his imprisonment was far worse.
The young guard wrapped the chains around Burron’s wrists multiple times before circling it around his waist and finally locking it once more behind his back. The metal was cold and bit into his skin. Just when he thought they were done, Abilart stepped into the cell once more with another set of chains, smaller this time, which the young guard wrapped around his ankles and attached to the locks in the back.
It was almost amusing for Burron, the amount of precautions they used this time. They learnt from their mistakes, he reflected.
“You think that’s enough?” Burron asked with a slight smirk on his face.
“I don’t think any amount of chains is ever enough for you,” responded Abilart.
“Why don’t you use a couple of more. Just to be safe, you know?”
Neither of the guards said anything.
“Where are you taking me that needs this many?” He asked.
He’d been taken around the Tower before with a fraction of the precautions.
The two guards looked at each other, uncertainty lining their features. Again, Burron could not shake off the feeling that something was amiss. Shrugging it off, he let himself be lead out of the cell and into the dark corridor. Seeing as they were in the deepest and furthest corner of the Tower, the only light present was that of the occasional torch brought by the guards. And not many came this far down. This day there were just two, their light dimming with every step. They had clearly been there a long time. But still, they provided a warm and flickering light, not enough to clearly see everything but plenty to make out the path before them.
Then Burron felt something being shoved on his head. A hood made of rough material, itchy and coarse. It covered his face and gathered at his neck, scratching against his skin. That was bound to become irritated soon enough. Burron wanted to protest but his wariness had not subdued, a nagging feeling at the back of his head told him it was not the time for smart-mouthing. So he stayed quiet, biting back his protests. The two guards took his arms and held him up, forcing him to walk forward. It was the younger one who held his arms with a stronger grip, his nails biting into Burron’s skin. Burron’s patience was being tested and he hoped he had it in him to remain calm. Hells know he had failed horribly at that in the past.
As they neared the end of the long corridor, the three men sped up, as if there was something behind them they were trying to escape. Any faster than their current speed and they would have been running. The chains at his feet made each step harder than usual and Burron struggled to keep up. His strength had wained in the weeks locked in the dark cell.
Despite their best attempts at concealing their path, Burron was fully aware where they were going. He remembered all the twists and turns of the Tower, from the infinite turns and long staircases, he had it all memorised during his various attempts of escaping. All gone awry, of course. Burron had the tower all mapped out so he was not surprised to take stairs and go through heavy doors.
What surprised him the most was not the speed at which they were walking, or Abilart’s sudden lack of personality. Even the young guard’s rough grip was to be somewhat expected.
It was the sheer absence of sound that took him aback.
Usually the rest of the prisoners would be screaming, yelling. Banging on the metal bars of their cells, begging to be released. But it was quiet today, as if no one had ever been there at all. He had gotten so used to hearing the faint groans of pain and wails of despair that not hearing them at all unbalanced him. And now, as they rushed through the dark corridor, they passed by the cells and they were all empty. No prisoner was left. Through the small holes in the hood over his head, Burron saw that the doors were all open, the makeshift beds undone, and not a soul in sight.
Where’s everyone gone? He thought to himself.
At the end of the corridor there was a door that creaked as it opened. Then, with hands holding him tightly, Burron found himself being dragged up and missing a step. He tripped.
This was new.
Never in his many escapades through the Tower had he been through such a place. He was not aware of the creaking door, he did not even realise the corridor even had a door.
“At least tell me when there’s a step. I will fall otherwise,” he said. The chains around his arms and waist weighed him down just enough for him to lose his footing.
“I wouldn’t care if you fell down the side of the building,” replied the young guard with unexpected anger in his voice.
Burron supposed he could not expect them to treat him well after what he had done. The repercussions of his actions had been felt throughout the whole Kingdom, not just their city.
They got through four flights of stairs before stopping.
It was then that they decided to finally take the rough hood off his head, Abilart grabbing it at the top and taking hard, taking some of Burron’s hair with it. He silently apologised.
As soon as his vision was fully restored, Burron was met with a sight to behold. They were now standing in front of a massive wooden door. It was one of those things that you needed just one look to understand its importance, its weight. The history it carried. It was made of a dark, thick wood, intricate scenes carved and painted in bright colours. Horses, trees, mountains, castles. Countless epic scenes were depicted upon it. It was too large for Burron’s eyes to fully appreciate in one moment, he would need to spend hours deciphering every picture, every small engraving.
Abilart let go of his arm and stepped forward, the younger guard moving behind Burron to hold both of his arms. The older guard whispered a low command to the men standing at the door, who immediately straightened their shoulders and glared at Burron. With great urgency he commanded the door to be opened and the older guard gestured for the three to come forward.
The doors were so heavy that it took two people pushing each door to get it open, creaking so loudly that even Burron winched.
“You have got to oils your doors,” Burron said to no one in particular. Abilart did not appreciate his comment and pushed him forward, almost making him trip over the chains.
“You better stay quiet, especially when we walk into the room,” Abilart’s voice was slightly lined with what seemed to be fear. “No more snarky words or stupid comments on our doors. Keep your mouth shut in there, Garnean.”
As soon as they stepped into the room, Burron’s ears were overwhelmed by all kinds of sounds. While the walk through the corridors and up the stairs was quiet, this room was anything but. There were likely a hundred people, men, women, children, all crying and shouting at each other.
“Sit him over there,” Abilart instructed, pointing to a spot on the left side of the room.
They led him to the left side of the room. Pushing him down on the cold ground, chaining him to a hook bolted to the floor.
“Great. More chains,” Burron whispered more to himself than anyone in particular.
Through gritted teeth the younger guard responded. “Shut your mouth.”
He wasn’t surprised they were taking so many precautions against him. After the destruction he caused in the palace weeks before, Burron was surprised his limp body wasn’t already hanging off a cliff, his flesh picked at by seagulls, his bones bleached by the sun.
As the younger guard bent down to lock the chains on the ground, Burron took a look around the room. It was chaotic and loud, people crying and screaming on all sides. Men were being dragged by their feet out of the room, their hands scratching on the floor. Three men sat on large wooden chairs on a dais in the center of the room.
Along the walls were multiple rows of benches, guards stationed at the end of each one, and there sat people of all kinds, men, women, elders, even a couple who seemed young enough to be children. The inmates that were in the now empty cells. Burron tried to look at their faces and all he saw was cold, dead stares. Their bodies reflected this too. An older man was slumped on the bench, his head resting on the wall, eyes shut. In front of his was a younger woman, probably not much older than Burron himself, who held her legs tightly to her body and was biting her nails in a nervous frenzy. An older woman was clinging on to the person sat next to her, soothing hither hair and seemingly whispering something in their ear, trying to get them stop crying.
Though everyone was behaving in different ways, whether they were crying, praying, or staring into nothing, there was one thing that connected them.
Their eyes.
Every single one of them, old, young, male, female, had the same haunted look clouding their faces. The same despair and dread in their eyes, the kind that one only finds in the Tower. Days and weeks on end locked in a dark tower, barely any light coming through, just enough food to keep them alive but not enough to satisfy them, hunger and thirst always gnawing at their bodies.
He could feel this in the energy of the room too.
A dead and stagnant feeling of fear and sorrow, as if all those who stayed within the walls of the Tower were drained of their souls.
And they all knew what awaited them.
Being locked in the Tower was no small accomplishment. Only those who committed the most despicable crimes were sent to the dark cells of the Tower. Murderers, thieves, traitors, cheats, frauds. If one committed any crime to an extent unacceptable enough, you’d be sent to the Tower and your life would be at the mercy of the Red Mountain’s brutality.
The two guards secured the last lock around Burron’s chains with a loud click. He tried to pull at them. A futile attempt, he knew, but he had to assess if there was even the slightest possibility he could wiggle out of them. But this time they had chained him up so thoroughly that even Burron began to doubt his own abilities. A quick glance at the other inmates and Burron noticed that he was the only one that had been chained to the ground.
All these criminals, all these thieves and cheats and frauds, and yet he was the only one chained to the ground. Surely he must not be the only one to have committed such a crime to prompt being the only person so closely watched. The thick and cold metal of the chain around his ankles bothered him, his socks were still wet and the chains made it feel even colder than it already was.
With one last hard look at him, the two guards moved to either side of Burron, keeping a close eye on him.
“There, now you cannot slip away anymore,” Abilart said with a mocking grin on his face as he lightly slapped Burron’s cheek. Once they had stepped into the room, the old guard’s demeanour roughened, his grip was stronger, his eyes tighter.
On the far end of the room, opposite the door, there was a dais upon which three men sat.
The one in the middle was unmistakeable.
Tall and large, clad in thick red robes and a face mapped with scars and burn marks.
The Red Mountain, he was called. A name feared by most in the Kingdom, his reputation, stained with harsh punishments and violent executions, preceded him.
Burron had always heard stories of this man but had never expected him to be so… young.
From what he had heard he expected the man to be near the end of his life. Countless stories and battles, a career to rival that of Eskos’s highest generals. And yet, the man before him could not be more than ten years his senior. Similarly, he had never thought too much as to why he was referred to as the Red Mountain, until that very moment. He had grown a suspicion that the man was large and muscular because, after all, a nickname such as that was not loosely gained. But, hells, the man really looked like a mountain. A popular rumour had once spread through Eskos of his origins. A story beginning with a destructive fire spreading through the mountains, destroying everything and killing everyone in its path, and ending in a boy being the sole survivor, scarred for life. Though that rumour had died out quicker than it had spread. No one dared mention his origins anymore.
Burron had never seen the man in person, only heard vague descriptions which were always lined with a strange mix of both unsurprising fear and confusing admiration.
The Red Mountain sat in the middle of the dais on the biggest of three chairs, a desk in front of him lined with papers and files and boxes. On his back was draped a thick red cloak that fell over his chest and was clasped with a golden brooch on his right shoulder. It was decorated with darker red lines all along the fabric that almost looked like hundreds of bloody gashes. The Red Mountain was sat between two other much smaller men and, although the chairs were all the same, he fully towered above them. Although, Burron reflected, anyone would look small compared to him.
The robes worn by the two men were of black fabric of a less elaborate make, no decorations that resembled bloody gashes and certainly no shiny brooches.
The three men were deep in an animated conversation. Their hands were flying around, brows furrowed and eyes squinted.
Burron could not hear what they were saying. Hells, he wasn’t even sure they could hear each other. In just a few moments the room had erupted into chaos. Burron was too focused on the three men at the front to be concerned with anything else but he suspected that the young man being dragged away by his feet had something to do with the ruckus in that room. With his focus now shifted, Burron was able to capture a few words here and there and piece together that the young man had received a harsher sentence than he was due. The young man was begging for mercy, imploring the three men to be more lenient on him as it had been his first crime. But asking for mercy for a crime that granted imprisonment in the Tower was like asking the sun to not set at night.
The young man was on his knees with his hands together in prayer, futile pleas escaping his lips through heavy sobs. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the Red Mountain ordered the guards to bring him away. As they obeyed the order, the young man tried to wiggle free of their hold but the guards held tightly onto him and dragged him out by his legs. With his arms free, he scratched and held on to whatever he could find on the floor. His nails dug into the wooden floors, splinters surely covering his palms and deep marks becoming visible on the planks. The door closed with a bang and the hinge, once again, squeaked so loudly that Burron’s ears started ringing afterwards.
The men on the dais sighed and with a detached look, the Red Mountain glanced around the room, taking in all the other prisoners that were still seated on the benches.
Watching the young boy being taken away after countless ignored pleas caused the room to become more and more agitated. It was the final confirmation that their futures were sealed the moment they stepped into that room. It had settled into them at last that no matter what crime they committed, or how hard they begged for leniency, they were doomed. The silent tears had turned into heavy sobs, the private whispers morphed into rough conversations, the soothing habits of the prisoners became shoves and punches.
Even Burron, in his little corner, chained to the ground, had felt the shift in the room on himself. Agitation and desperation gnawed at him. But before he could attempt to pull at his chains, he saw something glint in the corner of his eye.
Then, three loud bangs echoed in the room.
Everyone crouched on the floor, holding their hands above their heads. Even the two guards with Burron in response to the shot.
“Order in the room,” he shouted. “Everyone settle down.”
The room fell silent in an instant, the smell of burnt metal wafting through the air. A line of smoke came out of the pistol in the man’s hand, a white swirl that ensued fear into the room. From the ceiling fell debris, pieces of broken bricks clinking on the ground and a thin powder dispersing through the air.
“Guards, make sure these criminals stay in their seats, as is your job to do so. And if you must drag them out, do it by their arms.” He looked at where the man from earlier had scratched the floor. “I don’t want them to ruin my floors any more than they already have.”
He spoke through gritted teeth, disdain and revulsion for the prisoners abundantly clear. He did not deign to look any of them in the eye, as if his attention was not worth it. As the guards pushed the prisoners back into the benches, and held the most agitated ones with strong grips, Burron’s eyes traveled to the ceiling of the room.
Throughout the ceiling were other holes. Many of them. Throughout the whole room, Burron could clearly see other spots where the Red Mountain had shot at. Ceiling, walls, windows. Even the door had a few splintered cracks across its frame.
But it was the area right above where he sat that was the most damaged, so much so that Burron could not tell how many times the man had shot at it.
The man sure liked his gunpowder, he thought to himself.
With the room now in a calmer state, the next few hours continued with rhythmic boredom.
Each time a prisoner was brought forward, the guards positioned them right in front of the dais. One of the two men wearing black robes passed a folded parchment to the Red Mountain and he read the sentence out loud.
Amongst the dozen of prisoners, only two who were given such severe sentences that everyone in the room stopped to pay attention. One man had killed his brother and set his house on fire with the corpse inside. And the woman was brought forward accused of stealing money from her costumers, overcharging them for the dresses and clothes she sewed for them, and in a kingdom where money ran scarce among the lower classes, stealing was considered almost worse than killing one’s brother. Both of them had received an unspecified amount of years of manual labour in the mines. A harsh sentence; everyone knew how brutal the mines were and spending even a couple of years there took a severe toll on the body, and spending an unknown period of time there was bound to irreparably damage their healths.
But anything was better than the infamous Dawn Ships.
There were stories of Eskos’s worst criminals being sentenced to such a fate. Their crimes were so horrendous that the King had not even wanted their presence on his lands and so he put them all on a ship, set out to sea. Over the course of the decades, these ships gained a reputation for being haunted. It was said that whatever soul stepped on the rotten floorboards was doomed to never see the light of day again. They appeared during the night to collect their new additions and disappeared right before dawn.
Burron was no fool, the crimes these two had committed were no match to what he had done, not even remotely, just as he knew that their sentences would be nothing compared to his.
One by one, every prisoner was brought forward and sentenced. Until finally it had boiled down to just Burron. He was the last one left.
As he was brought forward and pushed to his knees, the men in black robes passed the parchment to their superior and his name and crimes were read out.
“Burron Garnean. You stand before us today accused of unspeakable crimes, ” the Red Mountain spared a quick glance at Burron and continued with an amused tone. “Well, more like kneel before us today.”
That gained a round of chuckles from the men in the black robes, followed by the same by the guards in the room. He was the last prisoner left and so everyone’s attention was solely on him.
Burron’s blood began to boil. He had been humiliated enough with all the chains, the itchy hood over his face, and then even more chains. And now these men were actually laughing at him. One could only take so much before his patience was truly tested. But it was best he kept his wits about him, as the last time he lost control he had ended up unable to control himself and eventually thrown in the depths of the Tower.
Yes. Best to remain calm, Burron reflected.
His thoughts were interrupted by the infuriating mocking of the Red Mountain. “I have been doing this job for far longer than you have been alive, boy, and never have I come across such cruelty and violence.” His words carried more meaning than he let on. Without reading the details of his crimes, the man had made it uncomfortably clear to the whole room who Burron was. Or rather, what he had done.
With a simple look around the room, one that seemed to catch the eyes of every guard and soldier still present, the Red Mountain had condemned him and murmurs began to bounce around the room.
It’s him.
He’s the one that did it.
So much cruelty and violence.
A pained gasp escaped the lips of the young guard still standing next to him. Burron looked up and was met with eyes that held the rage of a thousand suns and the grief only found in the darkest of nights.
Burron knew that his crimes had traveled the kingdom, maybe even the whole Empire. Such a destructive and violent night was not to go unnoticed. The first few days after that fateful night weeks before, Burron had sat in his dark cell and
Not to be mistaken with remorse. Dear hells, no.
Burron held absolutely no guilt or second thoughts or ill feeling about what he had done. He had thought long and hard about what he wanted to do and once he had, a weight had been lifted off his chest. A weight that he had carried for years before even he could no longer handle its burden. And that is when he finally let go.
Up until that moment, Burron had planned to keep his tongue in check, remain silent.
And yet, upon hearing the murmurs of surprise and seeing eyes filled with rage and disgust, had once again awoken something in him.
And just like that night, his heart began to beat faster and faster. His skin tingled. His fingers began to twitch.
With his head still angled down, he shot his eyes up. Through his lashes he saw the face of the Red Mountain paling. The anger and indignation that dictated his every move was now replaced with worry and unease. The man shifted in his seat and swallowed hard, amusing Burron, who raised his head and angled his chin upward.
The two entered in a silent conversation. The Red Mountain, aware of Burron’s strength and destructive tendencies, and Burron himself, fully conscious that despite his reputation for violence, his fate rested in the hands of the man in front of him. The two stared each other down, unwilling to break eye contact. They both knew that the first one to do so would lose this unnecessary power struggle.
At last, it was Abilart who moved first, shifting his stance to soothe his aching legs.
It clicked a button in Burron’s head. A slight moment of distraction from the guards keeping him in place was the perfect opening.
He slightly shifted his weight on his knees and shot to his feet.
The weight of the chains still binding him had weighed him down more than he had expected but he still managed to get up. His knees wobbled, too sitting down and kneeling on the floor had weakened his stance. Immediately, the guards throughout the room had unsheathed their swords. Abilart and the younger guard remained in their spot and did not attack first, despite being the closest ones. It was the guards at the edge of the dais that came at Burron first. With their swords in hand, they changed at Burron. But they were unprepared.
Using the chains around his arms to defend himself, Burron quickly disarmed them and knocked them unconscious. It happened so quick that Burron unknowingly held his breath. He let out a loud gasp and braced for the next brave souls charging at him. Dents and scratches were scattered on the wooden floors, a bend broken in half where one of the guards had landed.
With the adrenaline from earlier still pumping through him, he was ready to meet them head on. Three guards now came at him at the same time. One of them was further ahead with his sword in one hand and dagger in the other, more prepared than the others.
However, just as he raised his hands to strike on Burron, his expression changed and he lowered his arms.
That was when a loud bang echoed in the room and a blast of sharp pain shot up Burron’s leg.
He immediately collapsed on his back and attempted to clutch his leg, but he couldn’t. The pain was coursing through his body so fast that it immobilised him. His clothes had finally dried after that morning’s buckets of water but he still felt cold nonetheless. His arms now felt the full weight of the chains, his ankles too. A chill vibrated through his body and Burron could no longer move.
From his position on the floor, Burron caught a glimpse of the Red Mountain standing from his chair and stepping over. As the man’s slow, dragged steps neared him, Burron’s earlier surge of courage mutated into shame. His short-lived burst of invincibility had been cut down by a quick bullet that not even he could escape. Should’ve kept quiet, he thought to himself.
Though his blood still boiled and his heart beat fast, it was now caused by fear of retribution rather than nerves for his impending sentence. He knew that his arrogance had gotten the best of him – wouldn’t be the first time – and the price to be paid would be great.
A man like the Red Mountain would not sit idly by while a violent, lowly criminal made a fool of his guards and wrecked room. He had made it clear earlier that he tolerated no disrespect to his space and with a reputation like his, Burron was a fool to have made such turmoil.
Burron was now laying on his side, his shot leg pulled up and a hand around the wound, trying to slow the rush of blood. He was the two leather shoes of the Red Mountain approach him and braced for whatever came next.
“Not so brave now, are we?” He said as he crouched down to Burron’s eye level. “Your crimes may speak for your spirit, your power, but you are nothing against me. It took one measly bullet to strike you down.”
The man took his large hand and pulled at the chains
Burron tried to breathe through the throbbing coming from his leg. The man seemed to smile at Burron’s suffering, proud that he had caused such pain with so little effort. Burron tried to speak but was cut short.
“Ah ah. I do not care to hear what you have to say,” said the Red Mountain. “Your breath is wasted here. Hells, it is a waste of air in and of itself.”
Between shots of pain shooting up his leg and his breaths coming in short, Burron was struggling to keep a straight mind. What he could understand, though, was that his situation had grown concerningly precarious. None of the previous criminals, despite their crime or their behaviour had caused such a reaction from the Red Mountain himself. And with a reputation such as his behind him, it was easy to recognise when his patience was truly tested.
The man reached down at Burron as held the front of his shirt with his hand, pulling him up with little to no effort, as if Burron weighed no more than a damp cloth. The man stared long and hard at him with his eyes scanning over his face, trying to read him, look for something beyond the violent crimes. It seemed, though, that the Red Mountain could not look past that and so he threw Burron to the ground with great force. He fell shoulders first and hit his face onto the ground.
“You have tested my patience, boy, and for that you are going to pay,” the man stood up, the vein on his forehead was pulsing with anger, widening with each breath the man took. “In addition to the sentence given to you for your unspeakable crimes, your utter disrespect for authority and disregard for the values of this kingdom are completely unacceptable.”
A wicked smirk appeared on the man’s face and he gestured to the two men still sat at the dais, one of them getting up to grab something from the cabinet behind them and handing it to the Red Mountain.
A red parchment. It was rolled up and had the royal symbol on it, sealing the inevitable doom trapped within.
Burron’s lip was so swollen now that he could barely open it, unable to speak, much to guards’ pleasure, he was sure. His shoulder, too, was sore and he dared not move it.
With his smirk now a full fledged smile, the man continued. “Men like you are detrimental for the upholding of our laws and, thus, are not welcome in Eskos anymore.”
Burron’s breath started to quicken, his chest rising up and down quickly. The pain from his leg was not his main concern anymore. It was the parchment of red paper in the man’s hands.
All the courage and cheekiness he had felt was now fully dissolved. Instead, it was replaced by pure terror and fear. Water had started to gather behind his eyes and he choked back a sob. His head felt tight.
“Because of that you are sentence to live out the rest of your years on the Dawn Ships.”
And with that, the world around Burron shattered.
His heart dropped. His eyes fell shut.
“One has just appeared at our port so it’s perfect timing for us. You will be put on it and just as dawn hits, it will claim you and your miserable little life,” the man continued with a hushed whisper.
He heard the faint murmurs going around the room.
The Dawn Ships.
Feared by everyone. Dreaded by all criminals.
They were not regular ships as one might think, handled by sailors and trained men. They were not ships that sailed off into the horizon and were welcomed at every port in the continent. Ships where one wished to work and travel the world with.
No.
These are ships everyone avoids.
Cursed by the Old Gods to travel only during night and disappear with the first light of the sun, these ships were a death sentence. No one that stepped on ever came out alive. They were never heard of again. Their families never received letters, unlike those of criminals sentenced to the mines who had allocated times each month to write back home. Their names were never spoken again, forgotten in the wind and treated as if they would bring a similar fate upon whoever merely whispered them.
Even the guards in the room seemed shocked by Burron’s fate. Despite their animosity against him, it was not a fate they would wish on anyone.
Whatever happened next came at a blur to Burron.
He felt Abilart’s hands wrap around his arms, hauling him up and dragging him out of the room. Someone else was holding his legs, and blood dripped onto the floors.
The last thing he saw was the Red Mountain’s face smiling down at him, a cold mischievous smile.
It was only a short while later that Burron woke up again, he was drifting in and out fit. Not fully conscious but also not fully asleep. He could tell he was in a cold and dark wagon being dragged by a couple of horses, the clip-clop on the cobblestones was a distinct sound that was very familiar to him. The wagon moved left and right dramatically.
They were rushing through the streets, hitting every bump and falling into every hole.
He was alone in the back and it was dark. The chains were no longer around his hands or his feet, they had completely removed them. The guards probably figured he wouldn’t be able to run away seeing he had lost a significant amount of blood and was currently still bleeding.
Burron could not hear what the driver and the guards were talking about, he only heard faint mumbles.
When the wagon came to an abrupt stop, Burron sat up and tried to look around. On the right side of the wagon two boards were slightly loose and he shifted one aside to attempt to peek outside. He could barely see anything. Through the small gap he could make out the outline of a dark ship.
Its presence loomed over the docks, as if its sails cast a blanket over the whole town.
It seemed to whisper to him. With one eye, he looked at it and could not stop doing so. Burron stared and stared and felt as if the ship was not just in front of him but all around him. Its presence held Burron’s shoulders and pushed them forward, urging him to get closer. His senses were fully consumed by the ship. So much so, that the pain that had been draining him had disappeared completely. He no longer felt the sharp sting of the bullet lodged in his flesh or the chill seeping through his skin. The ship’s presence hugged him like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night.
His attention had been so strongly captured by the ship that he had not heard the locks of the wagon unlock and the guards step inside to drag him out.
It was still dark enough and dawn hadn’t broken yet. There was only the faint whisper of the early morning rays, teasing their way through the cloud-filled sky.
“Quickly, we need to get him on the ship before the sun is up,” one of the guards at the dock shouted. “Bring him forward.”
They took him and shoved him forward, handing him to the three other men stationed by the docks. And there it was.
The Dawn Ship.
The magnetism of it was stronger than ever and Burron knew that he would walk towards it even without the guards’ helping hands. He could float towards it. As he looked at it, he noticed that it was completely dark. It was not just a trick played by the lack of morning light or the contrast with the ocean’s waters, the ship was fully blackened out. He could make out the outline of its sails, the shape of its hull, even the height of the crow’s nest, but looking into the ship was impossible. It was as if all light that hit its wooden frame had gotten absorbed and turned into a black abyss.
It was quite a beautiful sight to behold, despite the inevitable fate that awaited him. The sunlight sparkling on the ocean. The waves broken by the dawn reflected on the water.
At that moment, Burron gave up all fight. He was at the docks, the ship was in front of him. And he barely had any energy left.
There was no point in fighting it now.
He noticed that the soldiers at the dock were wearing face coverings. Their eyes were blocked by pieces of cloth tied around their heads or low hanging hats covering their sights. And he also noticed that none of them dared to look at the ship. They kept their eyes far away with their faces covered and heads turned away.
The soldiers shoved him on the deck and scurried away quickly, never even turning back to look at the ship sailing away. They shouted and ran as fast as they could, their hands waving at others to close their windows, hide wherever they could, to turn their eyes away.
As he stepped up the brow and into the ship, Burron saw no one on deck. Much like the absence of light on the ship, there was an absence of life. Behind him he felt the warm touch of dawn’s first light. With nowhere to go and no one to help him, he did the only thing that he could think of, he turned around and looked at the sunrise. The bright orange sun had just started peeking over the deep horizon, its rays of light touching Burron’s face in a soft caress. Warmth spread through his body.
He closed his eyes and waited for the imminent death that awaited him. As he expected.
As the sun rays became warmer and more intense, Burron burned his eyes as he looked straight into the sun.
Behind him, he heard the creaking of wood.
And the soft steps of someone walking towards him.
