The cold, dank cell went unnoticed by the shackled man. He’d lost his whole world without any way to recover it. His eyes were closed, a burning sensation filling them, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore. Other prisoners in the underground dungeon would holler and scream, for freedom, food or simply to harass the guards who kept them there. But the man in the corner cell, shackled by ankle and wrist, didn’t make a sound, save for the sobbing. Redven didn’t remember how he got there, nor did he remember what he did. The horrible memories he did have, played endlessly on the back of his eyelids. The blood that pooled under the doorway, reflecting the moonlight and foreshadowing horror. The dishevelled family home, cold and dark, and the bedroom that held captive the now lifeless bodies of the only people he ever truly loved. He had no need to holler or fight, he had no need to sleep or even wipe the snot from his nose. All he wanted was to die. He hoped that with his death, he would meet them on the other side, wherever that may be.

It had been three days since the slaughter in the eastern farmlands. Folk thought Redven had killed his family in a fit of rage which lead him to kill the farmers who’d attacked him. Three of the guards who’d been stationed nearby had taken him to the city whilst the others stayed back to question the neighbours and assess the crime scenes. Morhiem was informed that night, taking to the east to see the horror for himself, hoping to salvage Redven’s belongings and family memories before anybody decided to take them for their own. He had the guards set up some temporary accommodation in the field near Redven’s house.

The man in the corner cell, lost to the darkness of despair, heard footsteps echoing down the stone dungeon in which he was held. He sat there, slumped in a heap of bones and flesh, barely a man. The footsteps stopped outside his cell, a bright fire-lit torch illuminating the image of a broken man who waited for his death.

“Oh my friend… ,” said Morhiem, his whisper filled with worry.

"I’m doing everything I can to clear your name," Morhiem said as he gestured to the guard to open the cell. The large cast iron cage door creaked loudly as it opened, filling the dungeon with an eerie echo. A second guard walked out from behind the first and approached Redven, first undoing the shackles around his wrists, then his ankles. Still, he gave no response.

“I know you are going through the worst time right now, but you can’t blame yourself,” Morhiem said, sounding awkward and unsure of himself, “after all, you travelled home as fast as you could... “

Morhiem placed his hands on his hips and nodded at the the two guards. They picked him up, one guard under each arm, both of their faces looking very concerned by how easily he could hurt them in that position. but he made no such attempts, not even to tense his arms which would make carrying him easier. The guards took him up a long winding staircase, handing their lifeless prisoner to the next set of guards. After several baton passes, they arrived at Morhiem’s war room. They took him to a room that was hidden away behind a bookcase, a room filled with several barrels stacked up, some shackles on the wall and a freshly made bed. The room looked meticulously clean for what appeared to be a storage room, despite the shackles on the wall. Surprise came to Redven when he was not taken to the shackles, but instead placed on the mattress.

“Your toilet is the pot under the bed, there is a window with a view and meals will be brought to you from the kitchen. I won’t have you rotting away down there with the others,” Morhiem said with a tone that shifted from concerned mother to angry father. That day Redven ate what was brought to him, only moving from the bed to place the dirty bowl and cup at the door. He was only fed soup and water with some bread, and was given no utensils. The bowl and cup had to be on the floor by the door otherwise the maid wouldn’t have the guards open it, though he had no intention of harming anybody or trying to escape.

Five days after being locked up, in what Redven now knew was a torture chamber that was refurbished to house him as Morhiem’s personal prisoner, he was brought new clothes and a bath which was quickly filled with buckets of hot water. The clothes looked like they were more fit for a noble than a prisoner, something one would wear to court or to a dance. Morhiem entered the room dressed similarly, adjusting the cufflinks on his ornate black overcoat, adorned with intricate gold stitched designs and shiney buttons to match. His black hair slicked back as it always was, his socks were high and his shoes shone more than Redven thought black could shine.

"Come now, wash up and get dressed. I’d have a maid help you but they are all afraid you’ll eat them,’"Morhiem said, trying to get a smile or some sort of response from Redven.

"Where are we going,’ asked Redven, sinking slowly into the bath as to not overflow it, ‘to the gallows?"

"Hmph, the gallows! No, I’d hang you in rags. We’re going to see the King."

"And what does the King want?"

"It’s not what he wants, it’s what I want. I want you free and I don’t want some noble who’s never left the city to judge you."

"Why not?" asked Redven, folding his socks the way Morhiem had his.

"I want to clear your name and give you a second chance," began Morhiem, starting to pace the torture chamber as he stared at the floor, "many people think you’re a monster you know."

"I am a monster, I killed those men and their families," Redven said with an empty confidence, still not remembering all that had happened, only flashes of rage and blood amidst the looks of horror from the farmers and their wives.

"Yes, but they wronged you first. Multiple testimonies say they attacked you prior to that night. They even salted your fields, you can’t say they didn’t ask for it!" Morhiem said, trying to justify the case to a prisoner who didn’t want to be saved.

The walk to see the King was one filled with Morhiem lecturing Redven on how to behave, when to speak and other formalities that he would be confronted with during the meeting. Above all else, he insisted that Redven agreed with him should he be questioned and if he couldn’t bare to speak then to nod when appropriate. The guards brought them to a large wooden door before beating on it three times. A small window was cut into the door with a shutter opening behind it, a pair of brown eyes analysed the men at the door before a series of locks and bolts were shifted from behind to let them in.

Two men in wooden slatted armour and helmets that covered most of their head, fought in the middle of the open room. Their helmets had wide eye slits that wrapped around stopping just before their ears. Weapons lined the walls but most of them were wooden, meant for training purposes. Redven did not recognise either of them by their build or fighting style, knowing that the King that he knew had since gone into retirement and sailed south in search of new lands, hoping to die on an island of women, preferably whilst bedding them.

The men fought viciously, their styles completely different. The slim one fought with a long staff and chose to strike only whilst countering his opponent. The larger man, a good foot taller than the slim man and close to twice as wide, was relentlessly smashing away at him with what appeared to be two greatswords that he held as though they were merely daggers. A red aura pulsed from his large wooden blades as they came beating down at his sparring partner, each strike either dodged or parried by the staff that seemed to glow purple as it’s wielder dealt a counter to his opponent. Redven felt like he was seeing things, still unbelieving of the reality in which he found himself.

The giant sword-wielder continued to send a heavy barrage of blows with his oversized swords, each strike coming down as fast as the last. His opponent, parried and dodged without fail, taking small windows to smack his staff into the head of the juggernaut that opposed him. This went on for several minutes before the slender one dodged a slower strike from his opponent, slamming the staff into the side of his knee and pulling the staff back whilst in contact with the leg. The large man’s knee glowed purple as his leg followed the staff, losing his balance and falling to the ground with a loud thud, sending dust billowing from underneath the floorboards. His vision clearing to find the staff pointed directly at his face.

"Not today Brother," said the victor, removing his weapon from his opponent’s face.

"I’m like a fucking book to you, aren’t I?" yelled the large man, sore that he lost to his smaller opponent.

The victor removed his helmet as he walked to the wall, revealing a bearded face that appeared quite pale compared to the black hair that covered it. His eyes appeared blue from a distance, but reflected hints of violet in the right light, something Redven ignored once more. He replaced his staff amongst a selection of others that varied in size and thickness, even the type of wood seemed to vary. A few drops of sweat sat on his brow, which Redven thought was only because of the helmet. Otherwise, the man seemed unphased by the session. His opponent left his swords on the ground, tore his helmet from his head and stormed out of the room, barging past Morhiem and company. Morhiem stepped out of the way just in time, bracing up as the man left the room. Several servants rushed to the middle of the room to retrieve the swords and helmet, replacing the swords on the wall and taking the helmet back to the corner where they began to clean it and fix some of the damage.

“Your Highness, it would appear I’ve caught you at a bad time, should we—”

“I’ll meet you in my chambers, Chief Commander.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Should we give you time to change?” asked Morhiem.

“I’ll see you when I arrive,” said the King, pulling the chest piece of his armour over his head, “and not a moment sooner.”

“Of course,” said Morhiem, taking a deep bow as he backed out of the room, pulling Redven down with him. The door slammed shut just as their heads left the doorway, ruining Morhiem’s hair.

“That was the King and his brother, the army’s General and my chain of command,” explained Morhiem, fixing his hair against a heavily polished shield that decorated the walkway leading to the sparring room. Morhiem ordered the guards to take him to the King’s chambers.