The prison breakout attempt was nearly successful, but nearly was still insufficient. Of six would-be escapees, only four still lived to be recaptured. These four former Silver Militia members now sat at the entrance to the prison, flanked on both sides by soldiers. The Alchemist General paced back and forth before them, brows drawn together in a deep scowl.

“Who incited the breakout?” the Alchemist asked the prisoner at the end of the line.

The first near-escapee had been with the militia a decade fewer than the oldest surviving prisoner, yet decades longer than the other two. A practical man, he had endured countless skirmishes through careful consideration of when to retreat. He had been trying to squirm away from the other prisoners, but he straightened at the Alchemist’s question.

“Shiv started it, and the others followed. To be honest, I was against the escape plan from the start. I told them not to make trouble, but they forced me to go along. Just ask anyone here—if they don’t say the same, they are lying!”

“A man without a spine does not need his head either,” replied the Alchemist. The head was promptly removed.

Next in line was a senior among the ranks of the Militia. Bold in character, though silver of hair, age had tempered the passion of his youth. He knew what needed to be said.

“I am the one called Shiv. I led the escape. The others are blameless. Let them free. Punish only me,” said he.

The Alchemist considered this request, looking at the other two prisoners. They stared back wordlessly: one with his chin raised in defiance, the other slumped in exhaustion.

“Admirable words. Such dedication cannot be compelled to a new cause; nor should one try,” said the Alchemist. The executioner was called again.

The Alchemist turned to the third prisoner. “You look like a bright young fellow. Who is responsible for the breakout?”

This one had untied his bindings while the first two were questioned. Outraged by the direct address, he grabbed a sword from the nearest soldier. The soldier leapt backward and retaliated with the nearest weapon on hand: his drinking canteen. Now dripping, but entirely unfazed by this ineffective attack, the prisoner leveled his stolen sword at the Alchemist.

“You think I’ll talk? It clearly doesn’t matter what I say. You’d just have me killed.”

“Correct,” said the Alchemist. He snapped his fingers, and the insolent escapee burst into flames. The poor man dropped to the ground in screams. The Alchemist watched him writhe and burn for long minutes until the noise subsided.

The Fourth Prisoner suffered from wounds both old and new. He had been a Swordsman mere days ago, rightly proud of his skill and agility, but ever since his defeat, he had become just another injured Prisoner. Since he was too weak to sit unaided, the Alchemist’s soldiers had propped him against a wall. When he spoke, his voice was faint.

“How... how...?”

“‘How could you?’” the Alchemist predicted, affecting a tone of horror.

“No.” The Fourth looked up from the charred remnants of his former colleague. Hunger glistened fever-bright in his dark eyes. “How can I... attain such power?”

By all rights, the Alchemist should have struck him down on the spot. However, a thoughtful look came across the Alchemist’s face. To the astonishment of all present, the Alchemist spared this one.

Visitors to the prison were rare. In a fortnight, the Fourth Prisoner and only Survivor had seen no one except the three security guards responsible for feeding and watering the residents. The wounds to his body had healed, but he yearned for the blue sky and green meadows of his hometown. Flat grey walls and iron bars made a poor substitute for the free expanse of the countryside, even if the Survivor’s cell was more spacious than most in the prison.

Today, a new pattern of footsteps echoed through the halls. The Alchemist General, the legendary sorcerer and top commander of the Sun King himself, had come to visit the Survivor’s humble abode. He wore the light leather-accented cloth uniform of their last meeting, rather than the solid metal plate armor of their first encounter. The Survivor grasped the iron bars of his cage, hauling himself upright. He nodded to greet the Alchemist who had twice granted him the uncharacteristic mercy of life.

The Alchemist drew a sword that shone like starlight in the dim prison ambience. Contrary to the Survivor’s expectations, it did not spontaneously burst into flames. The Alchemist ran two gloved fingers down its length.

“An enemy soldier who fights is easily dealt with,” the Alchemist said. His blade sliced through the air in a complicated motion, flashing by a hair’s breadth away from the bars. The Survivor yanked his hands back into the cell before he lost a finger. This close to the sword, he could see a glossy, colorless coating over the pale metal.

“A villager who does not fight is easily let be.” The Alchemist flipped the sword over in another fluid motion. The blade now pointed back and upwards, nearly parallel to the Alchemist’s arm. The Survivor kept a sharp eye on it as he approached the bars again.

“What does one do with a villager who insists upon fighting?”

“Set free?” the Survivor suggested.

To his surprise, the Alchemist did just that. Still holding the sword in one hand, the Alchemist drew a key ring from his pocket. The cell door swung fully open, bounced against the wall, and wobbled in place.

Only the Alchemist stood between the Survivor and the corridor leading to freedom. The Survivor crept forward, searching his captor’s face for any sign of a trick. Finding none, he stepped out of the cell. Ten more paces would take him past the Alchemist; twenty might earn him true freedom.

“Here is the key to the front gate,” the Alchemist said, indicating a key slightly larger than the others. Removing the key from its ring, he tied it to a strip of red fabric as long as his forearm. The other end of the fabric was tucked into his belt, leaving the key dangling in the air by one knee. “If you take this cloth from me, you may leave. The guards will not trouble the one carrying it.”

The Alchemist offered his own sword by the hilt. The Survivor reached out for it, but the Alchemist retained his grip on the weapon for a moment longer.

“Remember: there is no shame in losing to a superior opponent.”

The Alchemist stepped back empty-handed.

The Survivor examined his new sword. The handle felt cool and metallic to the touch, and though the weapon was undecorated, the Survivor sensed that it had been forged by an experienced smith. It must have cost a fortune. He gave it an experimental swing. The weapon felt heavier than those he was accustomed to wielding, but its weight was well distributed along the axis. When the Survivor swung his arm, the sword’s momentum added strength to his strike; he nearly overbalanced in surprise.

The Alchemist watched while the Survivor practiced a few basic forms, but he soon stepped forward. The key dangled from his belt, swaying on its fabric tether. The Survivor’s gaze fixed upon his single path to freedom. With a sword against an unarmed opponent, the Survivor felt the scales tip in his favor. He stabbed forth with all the speed of a lifelong Silver Militia member.

The blade flashed like lightning, striking straight and true into open air. The Alchemist had vanished. The Survivor whirled around, spotting a flash of red in the corner of his eye. He swung at it, but the sword cut through air instead of cloth.

Fingers jabbed into the Survivor’s side—a light poke to the kidney, painless but sudden enough to make him flinch reflexively. The Alchemist loomed in front of the Survivor, well within arm’s reach. If the Alchemist had been armed with even a short knife, he could deliver a fatal gut wound from this distance. The Survivor backtracked, raising the sword between them as soon as he had enough space to move freely. The set of keys still dangled from an undamaged swath of red fabric.

The Survivor’s eyes narrowed. It would be much easier to cut the fabric if the Alchemist stopped dodging. The Survivor lunged again. This time, he aimed not for the fabric, but for the Alchemist himself.

The Alchemist had no time to escape—nor did he try. His arm flew up, striking the flat of the blade. Faster than the Survivor could correct course, the Alchemist twisted the sword from his hand. Steel whirled in a fan of light, ending in an abrupt jolt. Pain exploded through the Survivor’s head. He stumbled, but a foot appeared in front of him where there had only been open space. The Survivor crashed to the floor, palms stinging from the impact with flat stone.

The Survivor raised a hand to his scalp. A fresh bruise throbbed at the back of his head, but he felt no break in the skin. Clouted upside the head with his own sword, by an unarmed opponent, no less—the Survivor gritted his teeth. How undignified. He rolled over and froze. The tip of the sword hovered above him, mere inches from his throat.

“Freedom can only be claimed by those with skill and determination. You have too little of the former and too much of the latter.” The Alchemist flipped the sword around, offering the handle once again. “With practice, you could achieve balance.”

Behind the Survivor was a cage; before him, freedom called. An easy choice. The Survivor took the sword.