Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound of water hitting wet stone echoed through his mind, a constant rhythm from last night’s heavy rain. A profound blackness pervaded the room and hugged the walls, as if clinging to them might stop the occasional light from a torch marring its dominance. Sometimes, the night-guards would snuff out every torch and brazier just to laugh at the noise of someone crying out in pain and cursing from stubbing their toe, or when a young orphan, like himself, screamed and yelled, afraid of the darkness that threatened to swallow them whole.

It was cold in the cells, especially come nightfall. You had to wrap yourself up tightly with a wool blanket or suffer the freezing cold chill of the night’s embrace. The kind of chill that prickles your flesh and makes you curl into a ball, shuddering and shaking under the sheet, as you fought to keep your body warm.

A single cot of which he sat upon stood in a corner of the cell. A single barred window was set high in the wall, but even that brought little light into the cell as a line of houses blocked what sky there might have been. He had stared out that window many a time, standing on the bed and watching passers-by come and go like clockwork, trying to count the days since he had been confined. In the end, he decided it made little difference what day it was or how long he had been here.

Minutes turned to hours, hours merged into days. Each morning he woke with a start, his heart pounding and his skin moist with sweat. There were times when he was too scared to fall prey to sleep, but no matter how hard he fought back the waves of tiredness, he would always find himself drifting into its embrace, each time his waking dreams assailed by images of blood and the sound of screaming voices. He did not know why he had such dreams, only that they terrorized him each night.

Why do I get such nightmares? he wondered. Am I being punished for something? Are these truly my dreams, or have I been affected by some magic spell?

Derrec heard that crii were able to manipulate the minds of others – read thoughts, drive their victims mad, control them to do their bidding, merge memories as if they were their own. But it made no sense that they would target him of all people, so he pushed the ridiculous thought out of his mind.

He rolled over in his cot and stared blankly at the ceiling, wondering how long they were going to keep him locked away. Surely they’d rather hang me than feed me, he thought, as the jailor brought around another plate and pitcher of water for breakfast. Mouldy cheese and stale bread were all that he would get for each meal, yet it would be more than what the poor buggers living on the streets would get.

He had been caught on the street stealing a sweet cake from a baker, and dragged here to this fetid stink-hole of a prison. He smiled a little, remembering the taste of the sweet cake as it softened in his mouth before the guards took him away. They were his favourite food before he found himself living on the streets of Val Regias, with naught but his name and the clothes he wore.

Derrec was fourteen, an adult by all reckoning, yet, he could not help feeling like a powerless child. His brown hair was dishevelled and tangled, and his clothes tattered. He carried the plate and pitcher to his bed and took a bite from the stale bread, and then another from the cheese and washed it down with a swig of cold water. This time the cheese was less mouldy than before.

There was a loud creek of an iron door and light flooded the room. Heavy boots walked along the stone corridor. “. . . . I trust the boy is in good condition?” sounded an unfamiliar but deep voice.

“He has been . . . unharmed,” came the voice of another. He recognized it as belonging to the captain of the guard, Gayden.

The light moved closer to Derrec’s cell and he quickly looked away; the bright light burning at his sensitive eyes as they tried to adjust.

The rhythmic sound of the boots stopped and Derrec realized they were looking at him. Smudges of yellow marred his vision, but with every blink, they began to fade. He allowed himself to gaze at the edge of the light in an attempt to make his eyes adjust easier and the pain more bearable than staring into the light directly.

Yellow radiated around three figures standing at the barred gate of Derrec’s cell. One was the jailor, which brought him food and drink, and who stood holding a torch. Next to him stood Captain Gayden, wearing a sword at his hip, and armour engraved and painted with an eagle perched atop a pommel of a down-turned sword, its wings spread out as if to take flight. It was the sigil of the city guard and King Aloryn’s banner. Derrec could tell he took pride in his armour, for it looked to have been polished a thousand times. But the third, the third man he did not recognize. He stood with his arms crossed and with an air of impatience that hung around him like a mist. He wore a dark blue sleeveless tunic over a simple white shirt and a long-sleeved, hooded, dark grey coat, all of which looked to be weather-beaten. Thick leather gloves covered his hands. His hair was dark also and he wore upon his face a closely trimmed beard. A sword hung at his belt.

“The boy has been here four days, now,” said Gayden.

Four days? thought Derrec. Four days? But . . . but it felt like I’ve been here for ages.

“Well?” continued Gayden. “What do you think?”

The third man stood silent, deliberating. “Bring him closer,” he said in a rough, drawl voice.

The captain nodded once to the jailor, whom withdrew his heavy set of keys and unlocked the gate. Derrec’s pulse quickened and panic gripped him. He flinched from the torches’ burning light as the jailor roughly grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to the bars of his cell; his food and plate knocked to the floor.

The jailor hovered the torch over Derrec’s head so as the third man could examine him more closely. Derrec squinted his eyes tightly, but with every moment that passed, he was able to open them a little more as his eyes adjusted.

The third man drew nearer, then reached in between the bars and seized Derrec by the neck, turning his head this way and that and feeling the muscle of his arms and legs. For a long while, he stared into Derrec’s eyes. “I think,” he said, at last, “that the boy looks strong, despite his deprivation.”

Pleased, Gayden signalled to the jailor to come forward. “Good. Then we can come to some arrangement of payment. I assume you have the coin on you?”

Derrec swallowed hard. They’re selling me? he thought, confused. But I thought . . . I thought I was going to be hanged? In truth, he would have welcomed death if it meant he would have no more hellish dreams of death and blood.

“I would not be here if I didn’t,” answered the voice of the third man.

“Good. Shall we say . . . twenty silver.”

The third man’s eyes grew cold and hard, the furrow between them deepening. “Do you think me a fool, captain? The boy is worth nothing more than ten!”

“As you have said, he ‘looks strong’, and as such, is able to serve you for many years.”

The third man’s hard gaze flickered, but they lost none of their iciness. His eyes studied Derrec before saying, “Twelve.”

Gayden deliberated a moment. “Fifteen, and not a silver short.”

What is this? Derrec thought. Are they bartering over me like some piece of meat? His anger boiled within him, but he dared not let it show on his face.

The third man remained silent for a long while, before reaching into the thick layers of his clothing and withdrawing a pouch jingling with money. “Fifteen.” He counted out the coins as he placed them into the captain’s hand.

Pleased, the captain waved for the jailor to hand the boy over to the third man. The man, still staring with angry eyes at the captain, silently grabbed Derrec by the arm and roughly dragged him along as they walked down the corridor.

The man grumbled unintelligible words under his breath, but it did not take much to understand them to be curses.

As the man hauled him through the iron door, Derrec stubbed his big toe on the stone steps and bit down on his lip, grimacing. They climbed winding stairs, walked down straight corridors lined with similar iron doors and braziers sat either side high on the walls beside them.

They passed guards similarly dressed to Gayden, except they were less polished and shiny. They did nothing to bar their way; only stood with their backs straight and at attention, with spears or pole-axes and shields in hands and strapped swords at their belts.

“Listen here, boy,” came the familiar drawl of the man’s voice, threateningly. “You’d better be worth those coins, or you may just find yourself back inside one of those cells.” The man tightened his grip on Derrec’s arm, emphasizing his meaning. It was strong enough that he was sure to get a large bruise.

They walked out of the final prison door; the sun’s bright rays beating down on them from a mid-morning sky. Derrec squinted and threw up his free arm to shield his eyes. He never thought he would be so pleased to see the glowing orange orb again. The light, golden and warm, caressed his pale skin and cast their grey oblique shadows across the stone floor. White clouds skittered across the sea-blue dome from an easterly breeze.

Stone walls converged to house a wide open stone-built courtyard. To the left of them, guardsmen vigorously trained with swords and spears, crossbows and bows, and other such deadly weapons. They fought one-on-one or practiced their blows on straw dummies or targets. Archers stood at a sideward stance, then, arrows flew through the air, their bowstrings twanging, and thudded on their straw targets, making the sound as if a flock of birds took flight. Beyond them were tall stone buildings to house the guards’ quarters. To their right, a blacksmith hammered the glowing end of a sword blade, the ringing of the metal reverberating throughout the courtyard. Ahead of them was a large metal gate, guarded by two guardsmen standing at either side.

Their hard eyes befell upon the two, but were left to walk through without trouble.