You sit in Irminric’s quarters while he eats.

  It’s morning, and you haven’t touched your food. It’s stale bread, onions, and some gristly meat about to turn. Most notably, there’s a wad of acid slowly melting through it all. You’re so hungry, you can barely think. Instead, you absentmindedly strum chord progressions, staring out the window. Waves endlessly crash against sheer rocky cliffs and tumbled rocks. It’s the same as the churning, black waters in your mind that brim a little higher with each passing day. You don’t know what’s going to happen when they run over.

  It’s been five years. What’s changed in the world since you left it? Would you still recognize it? Every day since that night, you’ve been here, your boundaries the dozen or so miles of this island. Sometimes, all you can do is pace, outrunning the maddening need to go elsewhere. You can’t stay here. The thought has consumed you. You have to get away if you want to stay sane – if you want to retain any crumbs of yourself. You’ve found yourself wondering if you’re strong enough to swim to Varona, the closest settlement on the mainland of Byrio. Probably not, but your mandolin allows you to quickly propel for a few minutes. How much progress could you make in that time? Would Irminric hunt you down? You’re too valuable to let go. You’re his most prized possession, the gem of his hoard. You’re unlike anything a Warlord has ever boasted. If you get away, he’ll never stop hunting you. You’ll never be free. Is it even worth it?

  It's made you more bitter and angry than ever before. After the night drinking yourself into a stupor with a stolen bottle of whiskey, you’ve tried to get more. It lingers in your thoughts, like an itch you can't scratch. You’ve poked around the vault, looking for more after the raids come back, but had no luck. You can’t stomach ale. Liquor is the only way to quiet the rushing waters in your head, to make living bearable, to reclaim a little of yourself. Some nights, your throat aches for it. Some nights, you find yourself shaking, wondering if you’ll ever feel that blissful, merciful way again.

  Erson and a few raiders are here. Nobody in the room acknowledges you. You don’t have a single friend here. You’re beginning to think the problem is you. You sit out of the way, providing background music while they talk about relations with Byra and pick their next raid target. Irminric has continued to sell ships to the Guild despite Byrio telling him otherwise. The nobles have come back a few times over the years, and every time, you eavesdrop on their conversations. Irminric still hasn’t bothered to learn fey. You can't tell if the nobles know what you're doing. You find it hard to care when they sternly tell him to stop what he's doing, all the while you're standing right there.

  “Get a ship ready for Hulda,” Irminric says. “She’ll scout it.”

  They’re talking about Kuzumaki, a nomadic settlement along the coast of Rheda. They don’t know how lucky they are, being picked for the next batch of slaves.

  Erson nods. “I’ll get it going right away.”

  He stands, taking the rest of the jarls with him. They shuffle out, all shoulders, furs, and axes. You’re left alone with Irminric. He only grunts, quaffs some ale, and scribbles out a note.

  You pause.

  A ship. That’s what you need. It’s maybe a couple hours of sailing to the mainland of Vesh from here. Could you build one yourself? Absolutely not. You know nothing of shipbuilding or sailing. Could you get slaves to help you? Maybe, but who would you ask? And it risks someone finding out. Could you steal a ship? You know nothing of sailing. You hate it, even.

  A shudder ripples through you. Your eyes fall on Irminric. Maybe he would give you a ship if you’re convincing enough.

  He glances up, growling. You look away, continuing to play. You feign typical boredom, staring at the ceiling. But your body is humming. Your mouth is dry. You could grab some mail and swords from the vault, then leave before he knows any better – that’s if it works. Your heart is hammering. If it doesn’t work, he’ll know right away. He’ll know you used magic on him. He’ll find out you’re a bard.

  You’d only have one chance.

  And yet, what do you have to lose? How much worse could things get? Are you ready to die if it fails? You almost laugh. You’ve been ready since the day you last set foot on Rheda.

  You have nothing to lose but your chains. You have to do it now, before you lose your nerve.

  “How quick could you get another ship ready?” you ask. You stop playing. “Just a small one.”

  He pauses, pen poised over his letter. His dark eyes flick up to you. “Why?”

  You rub a finger underneath your eye – subtly, casually. The mandolin flares and hums with magic. In your mind, you finger a ley line connection, teasing power from it.

  You direct it.

  “It’s been five years. Isn’t it time we admit this isn’t working?”

  You wait, breathless. Pink flashes over his eyes. His face goes blank momentarily.

  He leans back in his chair, examining you. He strokes one of the black spikes on his chin. “Hmm. Where’s this coming from?”

  With godlike reserve, you keep yourself from laughing. Your insides are vibrating. You gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t doing it for me. It’s not you – I’m just flighty by nature. I’ve gotta keep moving to be happy. And being miserable’s terrible for creativity. I’m positive there’s a scop out there who’d be happy to stick around.”

  He narrows his black eyes. “What if there’s not? Why would I let you go?”

  You give a wry smile. “Because we’re not meeting each other’s needs here. Don’t you think we could spend a bit of time apart? Maybe it’s best for both of us.”

  Something close to sadness falls on his face. Then, it shifts into something else. “And you’ll come back.”

  “Of course,” you say. “Maybe meeting some other slavers will help me realize what I’ve got here. And I know that, deep down, you really, truly want me happy. That’s why you keep me around, right? But I need some time and space. So I’m just asking you for a ship to leave as soon as possible.”

  He grunts. “I don’t want to, but…”

  You point to him. “But you want to be the person I know you really are. And I see that – and appreciate it.”

  He stands, his letter forgotten. “Fine.”

  You’re quivering. You shoot to your feet. You have an hour before it’ll wear off. He’ll realize what you did. By then, you need to be far from here.

  “I’ve gotta grab some things. You’ll let me keep this, right?” You point to the mandolin.

  “Of course. You’ve earned it.”

  “That’s kind and certainly generous of you.” You open the door, holding it for him and gesturing him through.

  You sprint to the cellar, opening a hole in the vault. You shrug on a jacket of mail and stow two sheathed Vasterholmian shortswords at your belt. There’s no time for anything else. You run back upstairs and out of the long hall. Your heart thrashes. You sprint to the docks, where you find Irminric talking with Erson. You spot a small skiff waiting with an old human ferryman.

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  You step past them and board. It bobs in the water. You hate the feeling. You sit, clutching the bench.

  “Seven Oaks,” Irminric says from the dock. “You’ll be missed.”

  “Get going. Come on,” you hiss quietly to the ferryman. “South to Varona, as quick as you can.” He sets about unlashing the skiff from the dock and steering it toward the entrance to the port. “Likewise, my dear Ricky,” you say to Irminric. “I wish you the best, and I’ll keep an eye out for your mighty sails.”

  Erson only watches you, thick brows furrowed. He doesn’t say anything.

  You wave as the skiff pulls away. Irminric waves back. Raiders and jarls have gathered. They watch, muttering to each other. You’re shaking. They’re going to come after you. What will you do once you hit the mainland? That’s a problem for later. Right now, you have to get out of here.

  Irminric and the rest fade from sight, then the port. Your throat is jagged. You feel a little sick, too. The islands begin to become smaller. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see. Cold salt water sprays in your face. You barely feel it. You’ve gambled everything on this. You’re so close. You’re so fucking close.

  A half hour crawls by – forty-five minutes. You can hardly breathe. Your time is almost up. You soon see land ahead. It sprawls across the horizon. The island fits inside the tip of your thumb. You can hardly contain yourself. Your stomach is buzzing. The waves aren’t helping. It’s been an hour and a half. Someone probably died once the spell faded. How soon will they come after you? The sprawling landmass of Vesh creeps closer.

  That’s when you spot a ship following.

  The feeling guts you. You can only stare at it. The ferryman looks back, pausing. He pulls out a spyglass, peering at it.

  “Keep going,” you say.

  “That’s the Black Tide. Is it you they’re after?”

  You scratch underneath your eye. The mandolin hums. You tease another connection. “Yes, and you’ve gotta help me get out of here. Keep going. Faster, if you can.”

  Pink flashes in front of his eyes. He blinks, then nods. He lets out more sail, and you coast quicker toward land. You stand, hanging on to the rigging and watching the longship follow. They’re gaining. Irminric must have all hands hauling at the oars. You can see the small settlement and port of Varona ahead.

  “The port’s busy,” the ferryman says.

  You whirl to look. He’s right. There’s no time to dock. Irminric might just sink this skiff and you with it.

  “Fuck me,” you spit. Even here, you can see the spray of the Black Tide’s wake. They'll take shots soon enough.

  You bring your mandolin around. You strum three chords, igniting the mandolin’s tiny ley line. Air gathers under you. You sprint to the front of the skiff and leap.

  You rocket through the air toward land.

  You soar, bending all your magical will toward speed. Water flies beneath you. Spray whips in your wake. You veer further east, away from the settlement. You aim for the forest line – the wilderness between here and Byra. You push the limits of your spell, feeling it begin to fade. You’re almost to the shore.

  The magic cuts off. You tuck yourself together, letting yourself fall into a dive. You split the water. You surface, swimming with all your strength. Your feet touch bottom. You risk a glance behind. The Black Tide has caught the skiff. You can’t think about what they’ll do to the ferryman. It clogs your throat. You slosh through water, soaked and laden with your chain jacket and shortswords. You’re shivering and sweating at the same time, exhausted, fueled only by adrenaline. Soon, you stumble onto the gravelly beach.

  It's land. You’re free.

  You have only seconds to enjoy it. The Black Tide is coming for the beach. An arrow cracks against a rock a few feet away. Raiders jump off, crashing into the water and wading to shore. You scuttle to your feet, sprinting into the woods.

  You’ve never run so fast. Your heaving breath cuts above the quaint sounds of birds and rustling leaves. Branches slap as you barrel through them. You leap over rocks and logs. You have nothing – only what you’re wearing. You need food, money, and somewhere safe to sleep. You have to get to Byra. It’s the first place they’ll look, but it’s a big city, and you might still have friends there. Then, you need to find a ship and get off Vesh entirely. You need to get as far away from the Byrian Isles as possible.

  You stumble onto a road. You have to get off it. You hear shouting in the distance.

  An arrow glances off your mail.

  It’s like getting punched in the rib. You squawk, clutching your side. You whirl. Raiders charge toward you. They're wearing leather armor and carrying axes and swords. Your mouth is dry. You draw your weapons, fitting them in your hands. This is it – you have to fight. You flip them and meet the first raider.

  You slash three times, dispatching them. Blood seeps into the dirt. You leap at an angle, spinning, and slash down at the next one. You whirl underneath an axe. You plunge a sword through their gut. You rip it out, slashing across a throat. Your body is electrified. You can’t let them take you. You can’t go back there. You’d rather die. Irminric wants you alive so he can do the job himself. You punch a fist. A nose splatters. You gash open a thigh, blood flooding the road. You make three more slashes at the next one. You’re tiring. You’ve fought in the Pit, but only against one person. You’re going to be overwhelmed.

  An axe pummels into your clavicle. Something cracks. Blood pours down your front. You stagger, shrieking. It burns. You sink your blade through the raider’s neck. They collapse. Shaking, you work the axe free and toss it aside.

  They’ve stopped, you realize. One of the raiders shoves the other forward. “Go.”

  The second one steps back. “Fuck that. I’m not fighting him. You get in there.”

  The first one hesitates.

  A shaking laugh splits your throat. It sounds insane. They’ve spent three years watching you kill their friends. More arrive, tearing toward the commotion. They stop, seeing the bodies and blood around you. Irminric will be here soon. You can’t take them all – and certainly not him.

  You lift a sword and point it at them. You’re heaving. But some strange power surges through your blood. They have no idea what you can do, and you have nothing to lose by using your magic. You’re a bard, you want to say, and always have been. You hum and grab a ley line.

  Like a wave, pink flashes in front of their faces, sweeping down the road. They gasp and jump, muttering, scrambling backward over each other. Some of them scream. Weapons clatter to the ground.

  And they flee.

  You shove your weapons away and grab your mandolin. You strum the three chords. It crackles and glows pink. Your shoulder seals a little, the burning fading. You give a choked sound. You snap your fingers, removing the dripping blood from your mail. Then you rapidly pluck some harmonics. You craft an illusion from translucent pink energy, showing footprints continuing east along the road, concealing your actual trail. You sprint south into the woods again. Your limbs are like lead. There’s a small stream. You splash into it, running along the water.

  You hear more shouts. You stop. There’s a large tree drooping overhead. You jump, grasping a wide branch. You haul yourself up, climbing. You’re nearly sobbing, your lungs aching. You’re exhausted. You climb fifteen feet up, gripping branches with any strength you have left.

  You sit on a high branch and throw your back against the tree trunk. You grab your mandolin and shakily strum three chords. Magic pulses from it in a pink swirl. When you look down, you’re invisible.

  You have half an hour. You have to stay quiet. You clap a bloody hand over your mouth, quieting your heavy breaths. You don’t dare move and accidentally knock something loose. The voices get louder. You quietly sob into your hand.

  Soon, raiders careen past beneath you.

  They’re running like hell. Irminric will kill a few if they come back empty-handed. He’s incensed. You made him look like a simpering jackass. All this time, he never knew what you are or what you can do. You have that to your advantage. Your one chance paid off. You won’t get a second one.

  Raiders hustle down the road in the direction of your illusory footprints and bloodied bodies. Some peel off and scour the woods beneath you. They splash through the stream, searching for more footprints. You’ve made things infinitely worse for yourself. And yet, you’re breathing free air for the first time in five years. Maybe it was worth it, if only for that. If only so you can say he didn’t win.

  The raiders begin to thin. Their voices fade. They’re heading east, likely toward Byra. Will they risk angering the Byrian nobles by harassing the rural settlements that might be hiding you? You should stay here for now. And as soon as possible, you need to come up with a way to never be stuck on that island again. You need to be able to go anywhere, anytime. You need to make sure he can’t find you, even magically.

  Your invisibility fades. Hours pass. Your clothes dry. You sit and wait, shaking. You cross your arms for warmth. The black waters in your head are churning and brimming, threatening to swallow you. You can’t stop crying. You’re free. But maybe you aren’t. Maybe you never will be.

  Night begins to fall. You haven’t heard any more raiders. You climb down and splash into the stream. It’s quiet and pitch dark except for faint moonlight. You wade from the water, finding a still pool on the bank nearby. You glance down at it. You barely recognize yourself.

  You come to your knees and draw one of your swords. You grab your long braid and hack it off at your neck. You bury it in the riverbank, tying the rest into a knot, out of the way. Carefully, using the blade of your sword, you shave. You have a jaw, now. You splash water on your face, rinse the blood from yourself, drink from the stream. It helps a little.

  But that’s not the kind of drink you need. You’re still shaking. The black water in your head is crashing, cascading, pressing down. You feel like screaming.

  You stagger to your feet, gathering your things. And you stalk deeper into the woods.