Ghelta opened her eyes into darkness and the feeling of immense pain tearing through her body. Every square inch of her flesh felt like it was on fire. Through gritted teeth, she tried to stifle back a scream, but it eventually got free as a series of whimpers and howls.

Once some of her wits returned, she could feel wet earth and cold stone beneath her rump and legs. She pulled back to feel the same against her shoulders and a tug against the sore flesh of her wrists. She pulled her arms to her chest, feeling the weight of shackles around her and the drag on her movements from rattling chains.

She tried to get to her feet and hit her head on stone just a few inches above her head. She slumped back to the ground and noticed the same shackles were around her ankles as well. She pulled on the chains around her wrists and after a give of several inches, she felt the tug come from her feet. Letting go of the chains, she ran her fingers across the low roof of this room she was in. She could feel hard stone just above her head, and a square of rusted metal a few feet wide on each side in the middle of ceiling.

The room was completely dark; she couldn’t see her own hand waving in front of her face, nor the full dimensions of the room she was in. She tried to slide from side to side to feel the walls of the place which were only two feet tall and no more than two yards to a side. She tried to lay down on her back but the chains on her wrists and ankles were suspended from bolts in the ceiling which tugged both sets of her limbs upward.

She felt a dry hoarseness in her throat and the taste of blood in her mouth. Despite the dryness and her cracking voice, she tried to yell out for someone beyond the confines of this prison. She shouted several times and waited, but no one responded. She shouted again and began to hit her hands on the metal in the center of the ceiling. She could feel and hear the echoes of her impacts resounding through a space above her, yet no one responded.

After several minutes of trying and her voice giving out, Ghelta slumped against the cool rock of one of the walls and sat in the dark. Her mind went over the strangeness of what had happened near the brodenskappf. She didn’t know how long ago the events had happened, but the memories were still sharp in her mind. Perhaps this was the ultimate punishment for what she had done, but she did not know who had put her here or for how long.

She went over the situation several times in her head, combing through the details to try and make sense of it all. She remembered wanting to be left alone to mope on the cliff-side as she usually did. She remembered the resentment she had for the other children in the broden group and how she longed to be back home with her adopted father. She wanted to be mad at Ylethus, to blame all of this on him and his neglect for her while he was on campaign. She couldn’t place the blame on him though, he had duties to perform and he couldn’t leave her completely alone at home, she was too young.

She remembered the unwanted kindness that Aethel had shown to her in retrieving his ball. He wasn’t someone that she wanted to associate with, even if she knew how, but he was nice enough. The possibility that she could belong with the other children and that Aethel would champion her was a warming though. She quickly dismissed it by shaking the idea out of her head. She wasn’t one of the broden, she didn’t belong with the children, and she had no place here.

The words and actions of Aesothel proved that she didn’t belong here and wasn’t welcome with the other Alsiran people. She remembered his cruelty, his harsh words and the cowardly way he commanded the other two children to bully her. She remembered the vulnerability and fearful exposure she felt being revealed in front of him. She remembered that sadistic curl to his lips as she watched her being beaten and her robe pulled off. She could see sharply in her mind’s eye the look he held like he was examining an animal being put to the slaughter for his amusement.

She remembered the rage boiling up in her, which soon took her over as she sought revenge against her harassers. The hollow thud of the rock against Paulk’s skull, the satisfying crunch of Vhaydra’s neck as she stopped on it, and the inhuman strangeness of her almost ripping Aesothel’s very soul from his body. She didn’t know what had possessed her in that moment; it was something dark, primal, and truly ancient. The presence felt like one of the gods had rushed into her body and used her as an instrument of wrath. The feelings and even just the mere memories were intoxicating as she mulled them over.

Perhaps the reason she was imprisoned now was because she had killed all three of those children in her rage. If that was true, then why wasn’t she given a proper trial or executed for her crimes. Ylethus had always taught her that the warrior’s sense of justice was based on a life for a life; a wound for a wound. Maybe it wasn’t justice that led her to this place but fear. Many in Alsira Thaenat called her ‘the Witchling’ and with the strange powers she had called upon previously, they might be right after all.

Ghelta continued to run through the thoughts in her head, going over and over the events that led her here and the fear that the others of the tribe must have for her. The more she focused on it all, the more she realized that she was a monster. The other children were right, the old women who used to spit on her and mark signs over their chests to ward off her evil were right, and the warriors who talked in hushed tones about her when Ylethus wasn’t looking were right. She didn’t belong here, she didn’t deserve to live. She wanted to be a warrior to slay the monsters of the world, but she was the monster, and maybe it would be best if she died here in the dark.

She began to sob openly, feeling the water from her eyes flow over her cheeks and patter on the stone below her. In between bouts of crying she would thrash against her chains or pound her fists against the walls. As the emotions mounted, she even began to tear at the flesh of her face and arms with her hands, desiring to spill her own blood like it might be some paltry penance for the lives she took or the evil the lived inside of her.

It was hard to gauge time in this place of utter darkness, but her sobbing and thrashing eventually took its toll on her constitution. She tried to lay down or curl up into a ball near the center of the small room. She pulled the chains over her head to get enough slack to lay down fully. She continued to sob until the merciful peace of sleep overtook her.

She opened her eyes as the sound of grating metal erupted throughout the room she was in. She looked at the ceiling to see a small slat in the metal cover slide to the side. Beyond that opening was flickering candlelight and a hand that dropped several pieces of stale bread through the hole. Behind these bits of food, they dropped some pieces of fetid meat and a stick of tolsen weed. The motion stilled for a moment as Ghelta heard a rustling of metal on metal from above. The hand returned, lifting a silver pitcher over the hole and then pouring cool water through the hole and down upon Ghelta’s face. She was only able to grab a few droplets before the water stopped.

“You won’t get more until tomorrow.” The voice was male, gravely, and devoid of any emotion. The man beyond the prison hammered his fist twice on the metal ceiling and then pulled the sliding metal slat back into place with a rusty squeal.

Ghelta pushed the pieces of food to the corner of the small room with her hand. She didn’t deserve food after what she had done. Maybe if she didn’t eat and refused to drink the water poured in, she might die and save the whole tribe her continued existence. She began to cry once more, this time withholding her fits of anger, and within a few more moments she was asleep again.

Time seemed to have no purchase in this dark place. Moments seemed like hours, and days seemed like lifetimes. The only measurement she had was her bouts of consciousness between crying herself to sleep or the rusty squeal that signaled more food and water would be wasted on her.

She continued to avoid the food and water for two more visits from the man above, but eventually, she gave in and began to drink the water he poured through the grate. After the fourth visit, she began to eat the food as well. The pain of dehydration and hunger were more than the pain she felt for her deeds. She would get mad at herself for her weakness and cry herself back to sleep soon after.

It wasn’t long for her to spend enough time exploring the extents of her dark confines and set up a system for herself to survive. She had found that although all the walls at first seemed the same, there was a small metal trough at one corner of the room that sloped down to a metal pipe. At first she didn’t understand what this was for, that is until the first time she had to relieve herself, then she knew why it was there. Some days the man above would drop a piece of soap through the grate and pour extra water through the hole. She realized after the second time this happened that this was her chance to wash herself as best able.

She thought she had worked out all the patterns to keep herself alive for a little bit longer, but eventually, her plans all fell apart around the sixth visit from the man above. Shortly after his visit that day, she began to feel extreme pains in her lower abdomen. At first, she wondered if the man above had given her bad food or was trying to poison her. She felt it was fitting that she might be poisoned as punishment for what she had done, but surely dragging her off to have her head liberated from her neck would be more efficient.

The pain started as a dull and persistent ache, but after a few more visits from the man above, the pain was intolerable. Eventually, during one bout of sobbing and clutching her stomach, she felt something warm dribble down her inner thighs. She dabbed at it with her fingers and sniffed it to find it smelled of blood. She didn’t know what was causing this pain and her constant bleeding. She didn’t know if she was being poisoned or if the monster that had crawled into her earlier had left some of its evil within her and this was the cost.

The next visit from the man above, she was able to request more water from him and she used that to clean up her nether regions. At first, it seemed to go away, but as soon as the grate above was closed, the pain came back as well as the blood. She spent the rest of that day screaming and clawing at her stomach, desperately wanting whatever demon was inside of her to finally emerge and devour her. She had constant nightmares of what the beast inside of her might look like and what her doom might be when it finally came into the world using her body as a vessel.

She awoke from a particularly vicious nightmare to the sound of rusted metal squealing against itself once more. As her eyes opened, she wondered what scraps of food she might be fed this day, or whether or not it was time for her to clean herself. She lifted her tired head up and looked at the hole in the ceiling. She could see the flickering candlelight above, but this time was different. She could hear the breathing of the man above, but also hear the scuffing of two other people’s feet on the stones next to the metal ceiling.

“The Vhollen is here, it’s time for you to be released.” The familiar and gravely voice of the man above had the same unemotional tone to it as always. It took several moments for Ghelta to understand what he said, but the words struck home when she heard a lock being opened and several chains being fed through bolts on the other side of the metal ceiling.

The metal above her groaned and then lifted away into the candlelit darkness above. Ghelta tried to lift herself up and grab at one of the metal edges of the doorway, but she fell back down to the stone below. Her arms and legs felt like dead weight, robbed of the strength to lift herself. As soon as she fell back on her rump, four arms reached into the pit and snatched up her arms. Two men groaned as they lifted her from the oubliette.

“The chieftain said she was supposed to be in there for several more months.” The gravel-voiced man was covered in black, leather robes and had his back facing Ghelta. He held a hand forward in supplication to a towering shadow in the dark. “A few scant days doesn’t seem justice enough for what she did, but if the chieftain said to release her now, so be it.” The man jingled a ring of iron keys with his other hand and clipped them to a leather belt around his waist. He stepped to the side as the large shadow moved closer.

“Look at you.” The voice was familiar and made Ghelta’s eyes well up with tears. “I leave for war, and I come home to find you in prison.” The shadow neared the flickering candlelight and was revealed to be Ylethus. He towered over the gravel-voiced man and the other two who held her aloft.

Ghelta lowered her face from her father in shame, she refused to make contact with his sky-blue eyes that took her in. The two men grasping onto each of her arms lifted her over the oubliette and held her above the floor. Her legs couldn’t hold her up, so they continued to strain to keep her standing.

“You look like shit.” Ylethus ran one of his hands through Ghelta’s matted and filth-clogged hair. He let his hand linger on her cheek and turned his gaze from her to the man who held the keys. “You couldn’t have put her in a proper cell, with proper food? The gods old and new, you treated her like an animal.” He turned back to Ghelta and let his hand fall. He looked her from head to toe, examining the stains on her flesh and the shackles still on her wrists and ankles.

Ghelta could see the muscles in Ylethus’ jaw tighten which made his beard quiver for a moment. She always knew this would lead to him exploding in anger over something. She lowered her eyes and prepared herself for the rage that would soon wash over her.

Ylethus turned and stomped toward the gravel-voiced man and without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the man by the neck with his left hand and slammed him against a nearby stone wall. The man struggled against the mighty fingers of the giant, but he his panicked clawing was in vain. He was lifted from the ground like a straw doll, and the air was being crushed from his neck with only a slight shift of Ylethus’ tremendous weight.

“You think I wouldn’t notice that she was raped?” Ylethus leaned into the key-master’s face. He tightened two of his fingers which made the man’s eyes bulge out of their sockets. “Was it you that did the deed?” Ylethus quickly flicked over his shoulder with his right hand and liberated one of his jhulken-blades. He swung it back over his shoulder and pointed the curved blade at the two men holding Ghelta. He turned away to stare rage at the men. “Or was it you two?”

The two men let go of Ghelta’s arms in a panic, letting her fall to the stone floor in a heap. She looked from Ylethus to the key-master, and then to the two men on either side of her. She looked down at her legs beneath her, seeing that the tattered shirt she wore barely made it to her waist. She could see long stains of blood and grime trailing around her inner thighs up to her crotch.

“It matters not. You dare treat my daughter in such a way. You dare exploit her innocence in this place.” Ylethus’ voice was building into a howl as he began to froth between his teeth. His eyes were wide with murderous intent. “You dare do such a thing to a girl.” He took two sharp breaths and squeezed harder on the key-master’s neck until his body went limp. “You dare do this to my girl!”

Ghelta teetered back and forth while sitting on the cold and damp floor. She looked up at Ylethus and then to another shadow that emerged behind him. It took a few moments for her eyes to focus, but as the figure neared, she could make out the familiar shape of Grandmaster Toulam in the flickering light of some nearby candles.

Toulam pulled his hood from his face and leaned down to Ghelta. He steadied himself with his metal staff and placed one of his withered hands on her head. He leaned further down and placed his hand on her thigh and pulled her leg to the side. He looked back up into her eyes and patted her cheek lightly like he used to do when she was younger.

“Don’t kill him, Ylethus. He’s done no wrong.” Toulam got back up to his height with some groans and snaps from his aged body. He gave shuffling steps towards to the side and looked up at the rage-filled warrior. “Ghelta’s virtue wasn’t taken. She was merely visited by Celanna, the goddess in blood. I think this is her first bleeding and it won’t be her last.” He gave a chortle and shuffled a few more steps to the side.

Ylethus released his grip on the key-master and let his body slump to the ground. He lowered his blade ever-so-slightly and turned to look at the aged oracle. From his side, the key-master sucked in two breaths and choked himself back to consciousness.

“You’re certain. I don’t want to let these scoundrels live if there is any doubt. I’ll kill the entire prison-guard retinue if I need to.” He looked at Toulam who smiled and nodded. He lifted his blade over his shoulder and sheathed it once more. He lowered his head slightly and made his way with just two striding steps to Ghelta.

“Grab her, my friend. Bring her home where she belongs. I’ll give her a once over, get her cleaned up, and give her some exilirs to restore her health.” The Grandmaster lifted his hood over his head once more, covering up the scraggly white hair that adorned his leathery head. “I’ll have Vhoggli fetch some clean clothes and a hot bath for her. It’s about time that little bastard got off his rump and did something of value.” Toulam cackled and tottered off into the darkness.

Ylethus looked to the old oracle as he wandered off and then back to Ghelta. She looked up at him with tears streaming down her face and a faint smile. He reached down and with only the strength in his arms, he snapped the chains around her wrists and ankles. He lifted her gingerly in his hands and draped her over his shoulder. He looked up and noticed her bare bottom and with a faint-hearted chuckle he pulled his cape of station from his shoulders and draped it over her. She snatched up the edge and tucked it around herself.

“I swear, by the old gods and the new, you’ll be the death of me, girl.” He began to walk away from the two stunned prison-keepers and over the wheezing body of the key-master. “If you don’t cause me to murder the whole world before that.” He continued off down the darkened hallway and towards a metal door ahead.

“You should put me back in that hole.” Ghelta’s voice was faint and parched. She felt the warmth coming up from Ylethus’ leather armor and could feel the hairs of his beard tickling her toes. She looked back to the candlelit section of the hall and the prison she was confined to. “I murdered three people in cold blood. I deserve to be punished.”

“You didn’t murder three people, you guilt-ridden slob.” Ylethus shifted her on his shoulder and tightened the grip he had on her side. “Well-” He paused for a moment of contemplation. “You did kill that fat one. That was stupid, but thankfully she was an orphan from the Vollti tribe. No one will miss her, but I had to pay quite a large wergeldt for her life to the broden-mother. The dumb and squirrelly one survived, although his eyes will never be straight again.” Ylethus laughed heartily which caused Ghelta to jump up and down on his shoulder. “As for that conniving little shit, Aesothel, he’s still alive.”

“I tried to eat his soul.” Ghelta slumped against Ylethus’ back as the words escaped her lips.

“Yeah, something like that. I don’t know what in Gehemol you did, but you’re not allowed to do that anymore. I’ve talked with Toulam and he’s going to do some rituals to stop that kind of fucked up shit from happening ever again.” Ylethus lifted one of his hands and threw the metal doors open before him. Evening’s light filtered in from outside, as well as the first breaths of fresh air Ghelta, had in what felt like a small eternity. “That pecker-head was the chieftain’s son, you know.”

“I gathered as much from his bad attitude, poor choice in clothes, and the fact he pissed himself when I almost killed him.”

“Well, the chieftain doesn’t take kindly to people using unholy powers on his children. Even if they are ball-less little twits. That’s why you were thrown in the oubliette.” Ylethus continued into the open air beyond the prison. He passed into courtyard that was surrounded by other metal doors that led to other criminals trapped behind bars in one form or another. “Aesothel is alive, but he’ll end up with a care-giver for the rest of that miserable life. Whatever you did turned his hair white, made him blind in one eye, caused him to walk with a limp, and apparently his health is dismal.”

“Like I said, papa, I tried to eat his soul.” Ghelta lifted one of her hands over Ylethus’ shoulder and began to fiddle with the hilt of his jhulken-blade. “I don’t want to go back to the broden.”

“You won’t. The broden-mother is scared shit-less of you; thinks you’re some spawn of blood-haired devil or some-such. The chieftain doesn’t want you anywhere near his children, especially Aethel, his oldest.” Ylethus gave a belabored sigh and pushed open a large metal gate that serves as the entrance to the prison. “I’m never letting you out of my sight, again. I made a mistake in leaving you with the broden. You’re not just some child to be shuffled off onto caregivers. You’re my kid. You’re my responsibility. From now on, your place is at my side, no matter what.”

Ghelta felt the tears welling up her eyes again. She was surprised her body hadn’t run out of them after all these days. She began to sob openly for the first time in presence of her father.

“I got your klaive back from the broden-mother. It’s waiting for you at home.” Ylethus patted Ghelta’s backside in hopes to stop her tears. “Don’t ever let someone take that blade from you again, you hear?” He lifted Ghelta up and held her in front of him for a moment as he walked. “Next time someone disrespects you like that, don’t use any of that strange magick shit to try and eat their soul. You take your blade that I gave you, and you slit their gods-damned throat.” He smiled at her and lifted her to his other shoulder. “No one disrespects the daughter of the Vhollen. Warriors don’t suffer cowards and bullies to live. Remember that.”

“I will, papa.” Ghelta reached around Ylethus’ neck and embraced him. She felt his beard flow over her like a warm blanket. The braids of coarse hair soaked up her tears.

* * *

“-And this is why it’s important to always measure your strength with restraint. Honor doesn’t come from a warrior blindly showing power over others, but rather the temperance a warrior has with their heart.” Ylethus flourished his great sword in several figure-eight swivels at his sides. He was growing tired and lifted his hand from his hilt. “Quell!”

Ghelta immediately stopped her barrage of quick attacks with her klaive and lowered her blade. She stepped back and gathered what air she could in hard puffs. The old man wasn’t as proficient with large swords as he was with his favored jhulken-blades. He endured the swordplay because it allowed her to perfect her strikes with her klaive.

Ylethus struck the tip of his sword into the stone of the cliff-side and leaned down on the guard while he caught his breath. He lifted his right arm out to his side and flexed his fingers while stretching out the strained muscles with some flowing movements. He looked over to Ghelta and lifted his bushy brow up in a dance.

“Tolesh’s brilliant fuck, girl, I told you before we left the barracks to wear your damned armor!” Ylethus rolled his eyes and slumped his shoulders. “What in Gehemol is wrong with you?”

“I’m wearing my armor, what are you talking about?” Ghelta tossed the hilt of her klaive from her left hand to her right hand and back. She looked down at herself and then back to Ylethus. She gripped her blade in her left hand and pointed to the fur-trimmed shoulder plates with her right hand. She leaned forward and swiveled her head to the sides. “I’m wearing it, ghah!”

Ylethus lifted himself from his blade and brought it up to slap the flat of his immense sword on Ghelta’s exposed midriff. He then let the tip of the blade trail down her hip and slap the exposed flesh of her thighs. His eyebrows continued their slow dance on his face.

“There is armor for these parts. They’re also the parts of your body an enemy will take full advantage of.” He leveled his sword at her and swung it from side to side while stepping toward her. “Maybe you want to get disemboweled or have the artery in your thighs severed to bleed out in mere moments.”

Ghelta reacted by stepping backward and then lunging into a back-flip from the oncoming blade. Once her feet were secure on the ground, she began to flick her klaive at the edge of Ylethus’ sword, making light contacts playfully. She looked to his eyes and shook her head.

“They limit my movement. It’s only leather armor anyway. Someone with a big enough weapon could penetrate it just as easily as my flesh.” She exposed her stomach at the tip of Ylethus’ swinging blade and then pulled back at the last second. “I’m better being quicker. I’m not a lumbering hulk like you.”

“This lumbering hulk has disemboweled his fair share of stupid idiots that didn’t wear all of their damned armor.” Ylethus lunged forward and lifted his sword into a high swing. “Besides that fact, I’m your Vhollen, you little git. When I command you to wear the armor I paid for you to wear, you will bloody-well wear the damn thing. Got it?”

Ghelta ducked under the blade and squatted on the ground like a gargoyle. She stuck her tongue out for a brief moment and then managed to parry another attack.

“Fine. Next time I’ll wear the damned armor you paid for me to damn-well wear.” She jumped into the air and grabbed the tip of Ylethus’ sword with her free hand, pushing it down and striking at the old warrior’s face with her klaive.

Ylethus dodged the attack by pivoting his head. “Okay, now that you realize you’re a dolt who won't live very long on the battlefield.” He paused and lifted his blade back up into a guarding stance. “Let’s move on to the next lesson.”

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