Orion looked down the remaining height and jumped, landing with a thump; his entry was masked by a chorus of groans. The stifling stench dug into his nose, the smell of faeces almost palpable. There was only one point of light, it being a thumb-sized glubber’s wax candle in a lantern. Made visible by the dim light was a row of jails which filled the room.

Covering his nose, he stepped to the closest one and peered through the metal grid. Cooped inside were seven, no, eight slaves, their limbs scraggy and skin discoloured. They looked emaciated as if they were standing on death’s door. Beside them were a broken bench and a bucket filled with shit.

Anger and pity equally flared up inside Orion– it was the sailors he had been reluctant to kill who had done this! Gritting his teeth, he searched for the keys, and when he didn’t find them, he used his sword’s hilt to whack open the locks. Once, twice, and it came loose, clattering to the ground.

He opened the gate and looked in, only to see the near-dead people finally move. They scrambled back, or at least the few who could did, while the rest began to moan louder.

“It’s fine, they’re dead. Get out of here,” Orion said. He was lost for words when none of them moved. “Get out,” he roared, finally urging a reaction. The able few stood but waited. Realising how frightened they must be, the Seeker picked up the lantern and moved over to repeat the process.

The number of bruises, cuts, shit-crusted skin, and haggard eyes he saw soon calloused his mind and transformed his anger. Gone was the flaming tempest ready to kill and here was the cold monster ready to do something much worse to the sailors.

None of the slaves uttered thanks but he didn’t even consider them doing so, after all, the fearful looks they gave him verbalised their thoughts – another sick sailor playing a cruel joke. And how could he blame them when the only people who came down here were their slavers. But despite their well-groomed scepticism, the second he moved from their gate, the slaves stumbled out and pulled themselves up the ladder.

Having broken six locks and freed 40-something slaves, Orion reached the last jail. Inside, he was surprised to see a single man. Breaking the lock, the Seeker stepped in and raised his lantern. The unconscious man was just as shrivelled, if not more, than the others.

Orion had wondered why the Mage had been on this ship, especially considering how she seemed to hate it. And this man answered the question, more specifically, his skin did. It was etched with burns and crude cuts, as well as some pain-inducing runes.

The reason for his torture became clear to Orion. The man’s visible skin was dark brown, almost black, even darker than a Metole’s skin. And opening his eyelids, Orion saw dull-red irises. He wasn’t from the Empire, so where was he from? The only uncivilised people Orion knew of were the tribes to the west of his ruined house, but they had golden hair and sapphire-blue eyes, and the horsemen south of the House of Metole, but their faces were hawk-like and their skin and eyes were caramel-brown.

Finding no leads or hints from his mind, Orion decided to leave it until the man was better. He used Giah to whiten his eyes, then sucked the energy out of the runes, the work of a novice - no wonder the Mage had been an easy foe, she had been a runewright!

Once done, the man’s breath slowed but otherwise showed no signs of waking. Orion tapped him, shook him, shook him some more, then slapped him. This worked as the man stirred, gasping with widened eyes, the red and black moons rapidly scanning the room.

Seconds later, the man’s face steeled and the emotion drained out.

“Are you ok?” Orion asked.

No reply.

“Can you understand me?”

No reply.

Giving up, the Seeker stepped out of the jail and gestured for the man to follow.

The dark-skinned man faintly smirked, then studied Orion’s figure, especially his hips. The Seeker figured the foreigner was checking if he was a Mage, which he was, but not that the man would know though. Satisfied, or at least happier than otherwise with what he saw, the man pushed off the wooden wall and fell face first into his own waste. Realising the man had no hope of getting up, Orion picked up the weightless body and carried him, checking the remaining slaves on the way out. Nine of them were dead so Orion could only save an additional young woman.

Walking with the two bodies over his shoulder, he passed by the kitchen and pantry and saw both completely ransacked. Curiously, the Mage’s room was in a similar state. He carried on and eventually stepped up the stairs, coming to the lit-up deck. He saw Kora supporting Skitters, who had his arm around her shoulder. He saw the freed slaves herded into a group by Nanlong’s mercenaries. And he saw Ginger rapidly commanding the Sticky Fingers around.

“There yer are,” he shouted as he noticed Orion. “A few of the Saltrocks escaped. Their bastard friends gonna be ‘ere soon,”

Then, Orion saw a few Sticky Fingers, including Thimble, rolling barrels onto the ship.

“Alright, everyone off the ship now,” Ginger roared. “Boys, take them barrels down and break them. Quick!”

While the crowd went onto dry ground, the Sticky Fingers rolled more and more barrels up the ramp and down the deck. About ten minutes later, they joined the others, standing with a few molotovs in their sweaty palms. A few hurls passed before one hit the trail of oil leading down.

“Everyone run, including yer slaves. Anyone who can’t dies ‘ere,” Ginger said.

Orion was shocked when the slaves, as weak as they looked and as slow as they had been, suddenly found a spurt of speed, maybe from realising this chance at freedom was genuine, maybe their final spurt.

It was amid his sprint he turned to glance at the roaring flames. It looked the same as when he had ran away from his House, the plumes of rancid smoke exploding from the inferno.