Escape from Synthorn [March Short Story]

Hey peeps!

This short story is a little different. It's longer, and is more the start of a story, but should still be fun. Hopefully you enjoy!

Shami

Escape from Synthorn

            Cold steel shackles dug into my wrists as the guards shoved me forward, and with every step toward the courtroom, I knew—no matter what I said, no matter how hard I fought—this trial wasn’t about truth, it was about watching me burn.

            Doors yawned open before me, revealing the courtroom, a cavernous space filled with people who had obviously already decided I was guilty. Their eyes followed me, sharp as knives, cutting through flesh and bone, peeling me down to my worst moments. Not the truth, mind you, but the version of me they wanted to believe.

            Curtains were pulled over the tall windows, and only the lanterns kept the space illuminated. It felt like night, even though it was morning outside, the sunshine glorious.

            One guard slammed my shoulder, and I stumbled, catching myself before I could fall flat on my face.

            “Step lively, scum,” the guard spat.

            I lifted my head, forcing my breathing to steady. Act strong, even when you’re bleeding. My father’s voice echoed in my head, but he wasn’t here to see this. No one who mattered was.

            The guards marched me forward and dumped me into the chair next to my lawright, a woman named Victoria Fairholm. I barely had time to get comfortable before she straightened, adjusting the thin-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, her expression unreadable.

            Lawrights were supposed to be the sharpest minds in the city, trained to untangle the twisted mess of the legal system. Ms. Fairholm looked the part—crisp robes, hair yanked back into a severe bun—but she was younger than I expected. No deep lines from years of stress, no air of hardened experience.

            Fresh. New. A rookie.

            Perfect for a case no one wanted.

            I gulped down some of my anger and gave her sideways glance. “Let me guess… This is your first trial?” I whispered.

            She offered a tight smile. “Second.”

            Ms. Fairholm flipped open a book stuffed with papers, eyes flicking over the words like they could rewrite my future. I prayed to the good stars she was a progeny lawright unlike any had seen before. I needed all the help I could get.

            The courtroom doors swung open, and in waddled Mortigan Rathspar, my accuser. The man had enough money, power, and influence to ruin me a hundred times over. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was also a mage.

            Which meant he was untouchable.

            Mages were rare—too rare. Their abilities were prized, protected, worshipped. They could make crops flourish, heal the sick, even wipe out entire armies with a flick of their fingers. The Kingdom of Caldreath bent over backward for them, and why wouldn’t they? Magic was a resource more valuable than gold, and Mortigan had it.

            But here’s the thing about magic. Only people born with it could wield it, and it was shaped by the person using it. No two mages had the exact same power sets. Their abilities were molded by their mind, their soul, their desires.

            Which explained a lot.

            Because Mortigan Rathspar was one of the fattest, baldest men in town.

            His fingers looked like sausages. His robes struggled to contain him. His jowls shook when he breathed. And—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—his magic? It was all based on food.

            He could summon feasts out of thin air. Pull the moisture from a man’s body like wringing out a sponge. Make a full stomach feel empty, so no matter how much you ate, you were always starving.

            I clenched my fists as he lumbered forward, a smug grin plastered across his buttery face.

            He clothed himself in the finest velvets, silks, and jewelry, though. He glittered as he walked, his physique swaddled in enough expensive clothing it could be sold to feed a whole army.

            “Good morning,” Mortigan said, waving to some of the people in attendance for the trial. “How are you ladies?”

            A group of women tittered and returned his waves, their eyes on his gold bracelets and necklaces.

            Then Mortigan took his seat a table across the aisle from me and Ms. Fairholm. Mortigan leaned forward, his voice low and dripping with amusement.

            “Enjoy the show, boy,” he murmured. “By the time this is over, you’ll wish you never crossed paths with me.”

            I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

            But inside, I burned.

            The judge—a man with dead, gray eyes and a face carved from stone—glanced at me like I was a stray dog who had just wandered in and peed on his rug. He banged his gavel once, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.

            Silence.

            “Riven Wynters,” the judge announced, like my name itself was the crime. “Please stand.”

            I did as he instructed, standing at my full height. At seventeen years of age, I was just over six feet, my brown hair flat and disheveled. They had only given me a simple tunic and trousers for the trial, and I wondered if by looking the part of a criminal, it made it easier for everyone to hate me.

            All eyes were on me again, but I kept my gaze forward, on the judge in the long black robes, his wig puffed and bright white.

            “You stand accused of attempted murder.”

            Murmurs, whispers, and gasps flew through the room like a breeze through an open window.

            The words clawed down my spine, and even though I’d heard them before, even though I’d been bracing for this, my stomach tightened.

            “How do you plead?” the judge asked me.

            Before I could speak, Mortigan scoffed, drawing the room’s undivided attention. “This is a waste of time, Your Honor. The evidence is clear. That boy—no, that man—Riven Wynters, attempted to kill me.”

            Lies. Every single word.

            I clenched my fists, the shackles biting into my skin. With my chin up, I stared the judge down and said the only words that mattered.

            “I didn’t do it, Your Honor.”

            “Ha! What a disgusting snake.” Mortigan stood, his gut pushing the table as he got to his feet. “Of course this is what a criminal would say. No surprises. There is no honor among scum.”

            The judge gave a single, deliberate nod, then pounded his gavel once. The heavy crack of wood on wood echoed through the silent chamber.

            “Please, Mage Mortigan, explain to us what happened on the night in question.”

            The tension in the room thickened like smoke. Every person sat rigid in their seats, eyes locked onto the bloated liar in velvet robes. Even I leaned forward slightly, if only to hear what kind of grand fairytale he’d spin this time.

            Mortigan clasped his hands in front of his belly and sighed, as if recalling some tragic burden only he had to bear. He turned his body slightly, positioning himself so the entire court could admire him.

            “I was out enjoying a breathtaking evening,” he began, his voice rich and indulgent, like honey poured over rot. “Then I came across the lovely Alama, a local girl, returning home all alone in the dark.”

            My stomach twisted.

            “That’s not—” I started, but the judge was faster.

            Bang. Bang. Bang.

            The many slams of the gavel made my ears ring.

            “You will be silent,” the judge growled, “or you will be removed from this courtroom.”

            Ms. Fairholm’s fingers closed over my shoulder, firm but calm. A warning. Not yet.

            I swallowed my rage, locking it down for later. They’d let me speak soon. Whether they’d listen? That was a different story.

            Mortigan cleared his throat theatrically, enjoying himself.

            “I offered to escort dear Alama home,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “as any responsible mage would do. The people of this city are my people, and it is my duty to protect them. That was when—out of the darkness—Mr. Wynters emerged from an alley.”

            And then, the big reveal.

            He rolled back one sleeve with a slow, deliberate motion, exposing a ghastly streak of purple and yellow bruises trailing from wrist to elbow. They were so colorful, even the people gawking in the back rows could see.

            A gasp swept through the courtroom.

            Someone pointed, horrified.

            I clenched my fists so hard, my nails bit into my palms.

            Mortigan lifted his arm higher, as if presenting some sacred relic. “Mr. Wynters attacked me from behind, like a coward. Poor Alama was so frightened, she called for help.”

            Lies.

            “I could’ve handled him, of course,” Mortigan continued, pulling his sleeve back down as if tucking away some cherished war wound. “But before I could recover, the city guard arrived, and well—” He shrugged. “Here we are.”

            He settled into his chair, expression smug as a cat in a canary cage.

            Ms. Fairholm stood. Her robes swished as she strode around our table, heels clicking with a purpose I hadn’t seen in her until now.

            “Before Mr. Wynters gives his side of the story,” she said, addressing the bench, “I request permission to cross-examine Mage Mortigan.”

            The judge narrowed his eyes, then waved her on with a bored flick of his fingers.

            She turned sharply on her heel and zeroed in on Mortigan.

            “On the night you claim you were attacked, was Mr. Wynters carrying any weapons?”

            Mortigan scoffed, rolling his eyes like the question was beneath him. “No. I saw no weapons. But a boy like him—some street rat with no parents—probably wouldn’t know how to use one anyway.”

            Rage pricked at my skin, but Ms. Fairholm didn’t blink.

            “That’s probably true,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Which brings me to my point—how exactly was Mr. Wynters supposed to kill you?”

            The words landed like a boulder dropped in a pond. The murmurs started again, louder this time, rising into something just shy of chaos.

            Ms. Fairholm kept pacing, calm and cool. “Everyone knows your magic, Mage Mortigan. You’ve drained men of fluids with a flick of your fingers. Your abilities might not win wars, but they’re more than enough to handle a lone attacker. So let’s say Riven Wynters wanted to kill you. He comes at you. No blade. No magic. Not even a stick. He just shoves you.”

            She paused, letting that hang for dramatic effect.

            “What was his strategy? Or, doesn’t it make more sense that you overreacted? That maybe—just maybe—this entire trial is a bunch of noise over a bruise arm and a bruised ego?”

            Whispering turned to talking. Talking turned to arguing. Even the judge leaned back in his seat like her words had knocked him off balance.

            Mortigan had gone red. Not a little embarrassed red, either. Boiling. Incandescent. You could’ve roasted a pig on his forehead.

            But he said nothing. Because he had nothing to say.

            And for the first time since those chains had clamped around my wrists, I felt it.

            Hope.

            Ms. Fairholm wasn’t just some rookie after all. Could she really turn this all around? Would I be able to go home?

            “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” she as she reclaimed her seat.

            The judge turned his hard gaze landed back on me.

            “Mr. Wynters,” he said, voice thick with expectation. “You may now confess, or you may explain to this courtroom why you attacked a mage of this city.”

            Finally—my turn.

            I exhaled slowly, forcing the fury out with it.

            “Her name is Amara,” I stated.

            A ripple of confusion spread through the courtroom.

            The judge frowned. “What?”

            “I said—her name is Amara. Not Alama.” I let my gaze sweep over the gathered audience, taking in their suddenly uncertain faces. “She’s been my friend since we were babes. Born in the same month. Our mothers were close.”

            It was small, insignificant even, but the change in the room was visible. Before, I had been nothing—just another nameless street rat, accused and condemned before I ever spoke a word. But now I must’ve seemed more human.

            So I kept going.

            “I was returning home from the cliffs that night,” I said, the memory burning fresh in my mind. The air, sharp with salt. The wind, biting through my coat. The scent of damp earth and stone, mushrooms packed tight in my satchel. “I collect mushrooms from the ledges and sell them in town.”

            The judge scoffed. “That’s dangerous work.” His voice dripped with disapproval. “Your parents send you out there?”

            “My parents died six years ago.”

            A flicker of something crossed the judge’s face—surprise, maybe, but not regret. I didn’t elaborate. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me stumble. I had bigger things to focus on.

            “I was walking home,” I continued, steady, unshaken, “when I heard Amara.”

            The words weighed heavy on my tongue.

            “She was yelling for help. Screaming. I had never—” I faltered for just a breath, just a moment, before pushing forward. “I had never heard her shout like that before. I ran straight for her.”

            I forced myself to meet the judge’s eyes.

            “That’s when I saw them, Your Honor. Amara and Mortigan. He had her. He was twisting her arm. Hurting her. She called for help, but the windows on the nearby houses were shut. The doors were locked. No one wanted to get involved.”

            I let them sit with the knowledge that no one had lifted a finger.

            “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.” My hands clenched so tight, I no longer felt them. “So I rushed over. I pushed Mortigan off her.”

            The courtroom erupted.

            Mortigan shot to his feet, his face blotchy with rage. “How dare you!” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “Are you accusing me of harming an innocent girl? What a disgusting, slanderous, pathetic excuse of a—”

            The judge let him rant. No gavel. No call for order.

            Because mages were special.

            Mortigan swept his gaze over the gathered crowd, searching for support. “Can you believe this?” he spat, practically shaking. “A gutter rat, slandering my name—in a court of law!”

            The judge raised a hand, finally, and the room settled.

            “We will hear the end of his testimony,” he said, “and then there will be deliberations.” He gestured for me to continue.

            I took a breath.

            “When I pushed Mortigan, he fell. Hit the curb.” I lifted my shackled hands, motioning to his bruised arm. “He landed awkwardly.” I turned my gaze back to the judge. Made sure I didn’t blink.

            “I told Amara to run. She did. That’s when the city guards arrived. As they did, Mortigan pointed at me and said I had tried to kill him.”

            I waited a few moments before continuing. “I’ve got no reason to hate Mortigan. Or any mage in Caldreath. All I wanted was to protect my friend.”

            More murmurs. Then came the heated whispers. A low buzz, growing louder with each second, crawling across the courtroom like a slow-moving storm.

            “Mr. Wynters,” the judge said, his voice cutting through the hum, “is that all you wish to say?”

            I nodded once. “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

            Then Mortigan stood. Fast and sudden, like a spring released.

            “Your Honor,” he barked, “I wasn’t manhandling that girl. And I can prove it. I have a witness. Someone who saw everything!”

            The judge arched a brow. “Is that so? And who might this witness be?”

            Mortigan grinned, slow and sharp. “Amara. The girl herself.”

            The doors to the courtroom opened a third time.

            Amara walked through, her head down, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Amara’s auburn hair hung over half her face and all her shoulders, twigs stuck in some of her locks. Her dress, once green and white, was now browner with mud than any other color.

            Where had she been? Was she okay?

            She was so slender and short—and more than once she had broken her wrist while helping her mother with chores. I worried about her. Even now, when I should probably be worried about myself, I couldn’t help but fret for her.

            I held my breath, hoping she’d make eye contact with me.

            But Amara never looked up. If anything, she avoided glancing in my direction, her movements skittish and hesitant.

            “Amara?” I whispered as she walked by me and headed for Mortigan’s table.

            But she didn’t answer. She went straight to Mortigan’s side, as quiet as a doll.

            Ms. Fairholm’s voice cracked the silence like a whip. “Why didn’t you bring the girl in sooner, Mage Mortigan?”

            Mortigan draped his voice in syrupy sweetness—too sweet, the kind that made you gag. “I didn’t want to traumatize her, of course. Testifying is such a burden on delicate souls. But since Mr. Wynters is the most dangerous kind of criminal… well, it’s time we heard the truth from the poor girl’s lips.”

            He placed both hands on Amara’s shoulders. I could’ve sworn she flinched. Just a flicker.

            “She’ll tell you,” Mortigan said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “She’ll tell the courtroom everything. Won’t you, Amara?”

            Her breath caught, a too-long pause stretching between heartbeats. Then, quietly, she nodded. “Yes, Mage Mortigan.”

            The judge leaned forward, eager like the rest of them. “Very well, young lady. Please tell us, in your own words, what happened that night.”

            Amara stood still for a long second. Then another. She inhaled. Exhaled. Lifted her chin just slightly. And looked straight at the judge, as if he were the only person in the room. As if I didn’t even exist.

            “I was… walking home. Alone,” she said. “It was dark. I… I got lost.”

            My stomach twisted.

            Lost?

            She had lived in the Town of Reeba her entire life. The streets were etched into her bones. There’s no way she was lost.

            “That’s when Mage Mortigan found me,” she continued. “He was… kind. He offered to help me. But then…” She paused, blinking hard. “Then Riven—Mr. Wynters—c-came out of the alley. He… a-attacked. Said he wanted to kill Mage Mortigan. Steal from him. I—I was so scared.”

            A chill ran through my veins, ice water rushing through a body made of stone.

            She was lying.

            She was lying.

            I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. Why would Amara do this? Why?

            The gasps, murmurs, furious whispers from the audience that built like a tidal wave. My name passed through the crowd like a curse. A villain. A monster. A liar.

            I sat frozen, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. Of what she’d just said. Of why Amara—one of my oldest friends—had just betrayed me.

            The judge banged his gavel half a dozen times until everyone in the courtroom was quiet. He glowered down at me, his sneer something more than contempt now.

            “I’ve heard enough,” the judge said. “It’s painfully clear what happened that night—and what kind of person you are, Mr. Wynters.”

            Ms. Fairholm shot to her feet. “Your Honor, if I may—”

            “The time for advocating is over,” he said, his gavel already in hand. “Mr. Wynters is guilty of attempted murder, perjury, assault, and attempted robbery. For such heinous crimes, the sentence is life in prison.”

            My breath caught.

            “Life?” I whispered, barely hearing myself.

            It wasn’t a noose, I told myself. It wasn’t the guillotine. I was still alive.

            “Mr. Wynters will serve his sentence in Synthorn Prison.” He banged the gavel twice. “This trial is over. Prepare for the next case.”

            “Synthorn Prison?” Ms. Fairholm’s composure shattered. Her hands trembled as she took a step forward, her voice rising in disbelief. “Your Honor, Synthorn is for the worst of the worst—traitors, murderers, pirates, brigands! Not orphan boys with no weapon and a questionable motive! Most people don’t even last a year there.”

            The judge didn’t flinch. He just raised the gavel again, slamming it harder this time. Boom, boom, boom. Each strike had been louder than the last.

            “Synthorn,” he repeated. “Is the perfect place for a boy like him to learn regret.”

            “What is going on here?” Fairholm demanded, her voice cutting through the stunned murmurs. “You’ve sent five boys there this month alone. Even a blind lawright could see this is corruption! This punishment—it’s excessive and cruel!”

            The judge’s eyes blazed. His restraint snapped like a fraying rope. “Ms. Fairholm,” he growled, “how dare you speak to me like that in my courtroom. Question my rulings again, and I’ll see to it you never practice law in this damn kingdom again!”

            Fairholm stood frozen. Her jaw clenched. Her fists, white-knuckled. She couldn’t argue. Not without throwing her entire career on the fire.

            Both Mage Mortigan and Amara walked by me as they headed for the doors. Amara kept her gaze locked on the floor as she went, her steps quick, her arms still tightly crossed. I didn’t know if I should be angry or just sad.

            Why? Why had she done it?

            Had Mortigan threatened her? Paid her off?

            I wanted to believe she had no choice. Maybe Mortigan would’ve hurt her and her family, and that was why she did it.

            Because it hurt too much to think she betrayed me for no reason at all.

            When Mortigan came by, he got so close I smelled the garlic rolls on his breath. “What did I say?” he asked with a chortle. “I told you that you’d regret crossing paths with me, boy. I hope you enjoy rotting away in Synthorn.”

            Even sarcastically patted me on the shoulder before handing toward the door.

            Never in my life I had I wanted to bathe more than in that moment.

            And I just sat there, shackled and silent, as the world moved, preparing for my departure.

            A lie had damned me. And now I was going to Synthorn Prison. Where people didn’t just serve time—they vanished.

***

            I was taken by horse-drawn carriage for eight straight hours through the night until we reached the capital city of Caldreath—Ravane’s Gate. As the sun began to rise, the officers of the court took me to the harbor, where they shackled me to a thick iron post near the edge of a pier.

            My wrists had been rubbed raw and my ankles sore from all the chains they put me in.

            The morning breeze washed over the harbor, and it was refreshing enough. They were loading up the ship now. The one headed for Synthorn.

            The prison sat only three miles out. From where I stood, I could just make it out on the horizon—dark and jagged, like a fang waiting to bite. Or maybe a barb, already buried in the skin of every poor soul on their way there.

            Ravane’s Gate was a city of white castles and beautiful towers, yet the prison out in the water was the exact opposite. It was almost amusing.

            Two other guys were shackled to the same post. Both around my age. One was tall—just shy of my height, and narrower in the shoulders. The other one was small, wiry, like someone had compressed all his nerves into a single jumpy coil.

            The tall one had auburn hair that caught the morning sun, and for half a second, it reminded me of Amara. That was enough to make my stomach twist. His eyes were wide-set, almost too wide, like they were trying to escape his face. And still, somehow, the guy was smiling.

            He was an odd one.

            He must’ve noticed me staring, but he tilted his head in my direction. “The name’s Zane Lansford. Don’t worry, I’m not violent or anything. I just got caught stealing. More than once, sure, but it wasn’t like I hurt anybody.”

            “I thought you almost burned down someone’s shop?” the shorter boy asked, his voice so quiet, it was difficult to hear him.

            “That’s property damage,” Zane said, indignant. “No one was inside, and it was a complete accident. Who stores their oil next to their matches anyway, huh?”

            “Still…”

            The shorter one sighed, and pressed his forehead on the metal post. Dark rings lined his eyes. He had clearly seen better days.

            We all had, if I was being truthful.

            “My friend here is named Finn Starkweather.” Zane nudged the other boy with an elbow. “He was convicted of—”

            “Zane, don’t,” Finn hissed. He chewed on his bottom lip and glared at the ground. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

            Zane leaned over to me and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry. He’s not violent, either. That’s all that matters, right?” Then he nudged me with one of his pointed elbows. “What did they get you for?”

            “Attempted murder,” I replied, flat and cold.

            Both Zane and Finn snapped their attention to me, their eyes wide. Zane took a dramatic step to the side, putting as much distance between us as possible.

            Good.

            I wasn’t here because I was an actual criminal, like these two. I didn’t want to make friends with inmates. My life was over. All because of lies.

            And my mind wouldn’t stop going over every detail in the trial, every moment of the evening I saved Amara. I hadn’t even slept last night. I probably looked like an attempted murderer, what with my disheveled hair and dead gaze.

            “Riven Wynters?” someone asked.

            I turned as much as the shackles would allow. Ms. Fairholm stood a few feet away, her courtroom robes replaced with a heavy coat that went down her knees. Her blonde hair hung free across her shoulders, some of the strands almost metallic bright in the morning light.

            “What’re you doing here?” I asked, my voice raspy. It had been a while since I drank anything.

            “I rode in the carriage behind yours last night,” she said.

            “But… why?”

            “Before you headed to your destination, I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be coming to visit you in Synthorn Prison from time to time to discuss your case.” She offered a small smile. “I also came to the capital to discuss the case with some of the magistrates and judges.”

            “What about my case? What is there even to discuss?”

            Like Finn, I didn’t really want to think what happened ever again, even though my traitors mind wouldn’t allow that.

            “I want to appeal your decision,” Ms. Fairholm said matter-of-factly. “I think it was unfairly decided. It doesn’t sit right.”

            “How long will that take?”

            She paused for longer than I would’ve hoped. Something about her expression told me she couldn’t make promises.

            “Hopefully I can make it happen sooner rather than later,” she finally said.

            But we both knew it was a long shot. Why would anyone hear my case a second time? I wasn’t a mage, or anyone of importance. And once I was in Synthorn, there was little hope of ever leaving.

            Ms. Fairholm stood in silence for a long before half bowing her head. “Safe travels.”

            “Th-Thank you,” I managed to say. “For… trying.”

            I sounded so awkward, but I genuinely meant it.

            Ms. Fairholm must’ve sensed that. Her expression softened. “A proper lawright always seeks the truth. That’s what my professors taught, and that’s what I hold close to my heart.”

            Admirable. I had gotten lucky, clearly. Most lawrights I had seen in town were old and tired, and I doubted any of them would’ve seen their past client in prison.

            She turned and left without another word. I watched her walk down the pier, her coat catching the wind, her steps sharp and deliberate.

            “She’s kind,” Finn whispered beside me, just loud enough for me to hear. “Nothing like my lawright.”

            I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to.

            A horn blasted from the ship—deep, hollow, final. The guards started shouting commands, unlocking shackles one by one. It wasn’t freedom, not even close. It was just the next step toward the cage.

            Zane rubbed his wrists when his chains came off, still grinning like an idiot. “Guess this is it, huh? Synthorn is rough, from what I hear.”

            A guard shoved him. “Stop yappin’ and get movin’.”

            We were marched aboard in a sloppy line, the guards more bored than alert. To them, we weren’t threats. Just cargo.

            The ship was barely a ship. More like a floating crate with a sail slapped on top. No rails. No shelter. Just wet wood and sea spray and the stink of fear clinging to every inch of it.

            The guards pushed me over to a bench on the starboard side. Zane and Finn were sat on either side of me, and then are ankles were shackled to the deck. Afterward, they lifted the anchor and we set sail.

            It wouldn’t be long. This was the short, and most important, trek of my life.

            “I heard Synthorn Prison used to be Synthorn Castle,” Zane said, leaning onto my shoulder. “It belonged to the old royal family.”

            I jerked away and shot him a glare. “I’m an attempted murderer, remember? Keep your distance.”

            “Tsk. Don’t get like that. I saw you with your lawright.” He elbowed me twice, narrowing his eyes. “She wouldn’t have been worried about you if you were volatile and crazy.”

            I rolled my eyes and didn’t respond.

            “Synthorn Prison was built out of Synthorn Castle,” Finn whispered. “After the old royal family disappeared, they didn’t know what to do with everything, so it eventually turned into a prison.”

            “The old royal family disappeared?” Zane asked. “I didn’t know that part.”

            “Yeah. Mysteriously. All of them vanished in one evening. No one knows why—that was why none of the others nobles wanted to buy the island or castle.” Finn lifted his head to gaze out at the looming prison. “Everyone knows its cursed. Evil magic lives there.”

            The island of Synthorn grew larger with every second. Clouds ringed its peak like a crown, the whole thing steeped in shadow despite the rising sun.

            Zane leaned back beside me, hands behind his head, acting like we were headed for vacation. “I might not know the history of the place, but I’ve heard stuff about the prison version of Synthorn. Stuff about what they do to new inmates in there.”

            I stared at the waves.

            “Like what?” Finn asked, voice shaky.

            Zane smirked. “Like they make you fight. For food. For blankets. For fun.”

            Finn went pale.

            I felt nothing.

            Not because I didn’t believe him, but because I already knew. Synthorn housed the worst of the worst. Murders were commonplace within its walls. The guards didn’t care. Anyone sent to Synthorn was there for life. What did it matter if they died a little early?

            They were probably the lucky ones.

            I shook my head.

            No. I wasn’t going to be like that. I needed to focus—to plan for a way to survive this. I wasn’t a criminal. I didn’t deserve to be there. Maybe Ms. Fairholm would find a way to appeal my case, or perhaps I could escape.

            Something.

            I’d figure out something.

***

            For the first twenty minutes, the boat cut through the waves like a blade, clean and easy. The kind of sailing that lulled you into thinking this might not be so bad.

            But then the island came into view, and the sea turned feral.

            The waves didn’t just rock us—they lunged, crashing against the hull like they wanted to tear us apart plank by plank. Salt spray slapped our faces, the wind howled in our ears, and every groan of the wood sounded like a warning.

            Then I spotted a gate in the middle of the water.

            It wasn’t just big. It was wrong. Two twisted figures of blackened metal—knotted bodies of warriors, or maybe monsters—curved together to form an archway in the middle of the ocean.

            Beyond the gate, the water was unnaturally calm. A silver stillness that reflected the stormy sky above like a mirror.

            Outside the arch? Chaos. Inside? Smooth sailing.

            “Magic protects Synthorn,” Finn whispered. “Swimming near the island would be suicide.”

            I didn’t doubt it. The sea wasn’t natural anymore. It had been twisted and weaponized. Not just to keep us in, but to keep something else out.

            We sailed through the black gates, and the ship evened out. We were almost there.

            “What’re we going to do?” Finn asked, his gaze fixed on the prison. “We’re going to die in this place. I know it.”

            Zane reached around me to pat his shoulder friend on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t dwell on that. Think about those scones your grammy makes, all right? Think about the good times.”

            “The good times we’ll never have again?” Finn’s tone had turned bleak.

            After a long, nervous laugh, Zane shook his head. “No, no, no. C’mon. Chin up. Posture straight. You don’t want to look like fresh meat, okay? We’ll get out of this. We always get through sticky. Plus, I have a sweetheart back in town, and I’m definitely not going to let her bed get too cold without me.”

            I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if any of the guards were close enough to hear. Thankfully, they were all busy prepping the ship for landing.

            “I don’t know,” Finn mumbled.

            “I’ll get us through this.” Zane smacked his shoulder. “Just follow my lead.”

            The ship creaked as it scraped against the dock. The guards immediately went about securing everything.

            The island was huge, and the prison towered over us. This place was massive. Far larger than I had pictured, even from the stories I had heard.

            Synthorn didn’t look like a prison. It had once been beautiful. I could see it, if I squinted hard enough, if I looked past the rot and the way the sea clawed at the stones like it wanted the place gone.

            A hundred years ago, a royal family could’ve lived here. The massive, sprawling castle had probably been wrapped in mist and seafoam, with towers like spires of white stone and walkways trimmed with sapphire tiles.

            But now it looked like a nightmare.

            The stained-glass windows were cracked or missing entirely, patched over with iron grates. The air was damp and smelled of mildew and sorrow. Mold crept up the stone walls like ivy. Darkness lingered in every corner and crack, darker than it had any right to be.

            It was as large as three castles, each complete with their own towers and walls. They had been built together, as though someone didn’t know when to stop. Hundreds of windows, stairways, and gargoyles dotted the prison, and I wondered how anyone navigated their way through the place.

            But as I stared at the deteriorating husk of a castle, movement at of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned and spotted a deer down the shoreline of the island.

            Only it wasn’t a real deer.

            It was made of stone and metal, fashioned together like a master artist had sculpted it as his life’s purpose. At first, I thought it was a statue, something decorative, but then it moved. The stone and metal deer leapt away, graceful and fluid, moving like only a real deer could.

            “Did you see that?” I asked, breathless.

            “See what?” Zane asked.

            Finn, who had been staring at the same shoreline, nodded. “That was a golem. The old royal family used to make them. According to the history books, Synthorn Prison still had hundreds of functioning golems, in all shapes and sizes.”

            A golem?

            I had never seen something like that before. I knew mages could make magical items, but I wasn’t sure how.

            The guards barked at us to stand. We did. Even Zane didn’t crack a joke this time.

            Chains went back on. Heavy cuffs clamped around my wrists like Synthorn wanted to remind me I belonged to it now. We were marched down the gangplank in single file. Cold wind whipped at us, stealing what little warmth the sun had offered on the boat. The stink of salt and rot clung to everything.

            Finn stumbled once.

            A guard shoved him forward without even blinking. “Move. You get one chance to fall around here.”

            Past the rusted gates, the front yard was made of packed earth and broken stone. A wall of barbed wire looped over the fence like a crown of thorns, and the main entrance loomed ahead—an iron door with bolts the size of my fist.

            The wind blew colder here, sharp with salt and something else… something metallic, like blood on old coins.

            Zane leaned toward me, whispering, “You think they let us keep our shoes?”

            I didn’t answer. My attention was still on the shoreline, where the golem deer had vanished into the mist. For a brief moment, I imagined following it. Running. Escaping. But then the moment passed.

            Guards opened the two main doors, the strain and groan of the wood and metal irritating my ears.  A new wave of rot rolled out, damp and sour.

            We crossed the threshold in silence.

            Inside, the old marble floors were cracked and mismatched, like someone had tried to patch over something ancient with cheap stone. The walls still held fragments of murals—bright blues and golds faded to gray, faces of royalty staring down with expressions that had eroded into smears of sadness.

            There was also a gigantic furnace. It sat on the far wall, the flames inside roiling.

            My heart raced as I stared at it.

            Something didn’t seem right.

            The guards made us line up, and then they once again removed our restraints.

            Then a door opened and out walked a tall man with broad shoulders. He wore a blue and black uniform, with silver buttons and a badge. His head was shaved bald, and his face free from any hair.

            “I’m Dockmaster Lenny,” the man said. “I’m in charge of new inmates, the grounds around the ships, and docks. I’m here to welcome you to Synthorn Prison.”

            The guards from the boat left out the front two doors. The screech of the closing doors sent a shiver down my spine.

            Dockmaster Lenny motioned to the furnace. “Our first order of business is to get you ready. Strip. All your clothes go straight into the fire. No exceptions.”

            Zane blinked. “Wait, what? B-But my shoes…”

            Lenny didn’t repeat himself. He just pointed again, this time slower, like he was daring one of us to argue.

            That was when the door to the inner prison opened, and out marched six prison guards. They were the same blue and black uniform that Lenny wore, but theirs had brass buttons and badges. Each of them carried a baton that was strangely white and flickered with some sort of light at the tip.

            They lined up along the wall, their hard gazes devoid of warmth.

            Finn’s hands shook as he reached for the collar of his shirt, his face pale as milk. I could see it. He wanted to protest. But he didn’t.

            I undid my shirt buttons, each one harder than the last. Once I had pulled it off, I stopped. The only possession in the world I owned hung around my neck. It was a simple chain necklace with a square pendant.

            My mother had given it to me.

            All during her pregnancy, she had painstakingly crafted the necklace from discarded chain links from the nearby jeweler. Apparently, she had been hoping I would be a girl, but once I was born, she still wanted me to have it. She fashioned the pendant with a single note on the back—I love you.

            It was probably worth nothing, but it meant the world to me.

            The furnace crackled louder, brighter. The flames inside licked the metal mouth like a tongue.

            Finn’s shirt hit the floor. Then Zane’s. The pile of clothes grew quickly. My own boots thudded down last, soles still damp with saltwater. Dockmaster Lenny watched without caring, as though this was all banal. One of the guards scooped them our clothes and marched them to the furnace like an offering to some hungry god.

            The fire hissed and swallowed them whole.

            “The necklace, too,” Lenny said, motioning to me.

            I took a few hesitant steps toward him and lowered my voice. “Please. This necklace was my mother’s. Can I mail it to someone?”

            Lenny stared at me, his eyes searching mine. “It’s against the rules,” he finally said.

            “Can I give it to you? Maybe you could mail it?”

            But then someone grabbed my shoulder from behind. I was yanked back, and then my necklace was torn from my body.

            It was a guard—larger than most—and I didn’t have time to get my footing before he threw me to the floor. I hit on my side, my ribs flaring in agony, my elbow lanced with pain.

            “You’re so soft,” the guard said, his voice a guttural growl. “What did the warden say? No one gets to keep anything.”

            And then, unceremoniously, the man threw my mother’s necklace into the furnace.

            “No!” I reached out, but it was far too late.

            Enraged, I leapt to my feet, but that was when four other guards rushed over with batons. They surrounded me, and I froze, uncertain of what to do. My arm already ached, and I took several breaths before backing down.

            “He could’ve mailed it to his family,” Lenny muttered to the guard. “Your unchecked aggression will lead to disorder, Barddok.”

            The muscled guard, the one who stolen my necklace, just shrugged.

            But what was worse was that he didn’t look like a man who had lost control. No red face, no wild eyes, no trembling hands. He appeared pleased. Calm in the way only people who enjoy hurting others can be.

            His head was shaved down to the scalp, but what I saw was mostly gray. He had to be in his forties. A thick scar ran from his temple to his jaw, and his nose had been broken so many times it looked like it had given up on life.

            His fists were the size of bricks and calloused. Even his boots were heavier than they needed to be—reinforced, made to stomp more than walk.

            I surged to my feet, naked as the day I was born, but too furious to care. My mother’s necklace was gone. And Barddok had smiled when he tossed it into the flames.

            I lunged.

            The dastard didn’t even flinch.

            Barddok grinned, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He caught my arm mid-swing, his grip like iron, and twisted. Pain flared through my shoulder, sharp and blinding, as he wrenched my elbow so far back I had no choice but to turn with it or feel the bones shatter like glass.

            He leaned in, his breath hot and sour against my ear. “You’re not the first to think you can take me,” he whispered, “and you sure as shit won’t be the last.”

            Then he drew his baton.

            Not slowly. Not theatrically. Just one smooth, practiced motion—like he’d done it a thousand times before.

            All I could do was grit my teeth and pray my beating would end soon.

            “What about my ring?” Zane asked, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. He held up it high, and the gold band glinted from the flames of the furnace.

            Unlike my necklace, which had been made of broken and discarded accessories, the ring appeared ornate and expensive.

            Zane flipped the ring across his fingers. “I mean, I just had it, and I wasn’t going to say anything, because I thought I might keep it, but it looks like that might be against the rules.”

            Barddok shoved me away so hard I almost fell flat on my face. Thankfully, I stumbled and caught myself before I went down. Then Barddok stomped over to Zane and ripped the ring right out of his hand. Instead of tossing it in the furnace, he quickly tucked it into one of his uniform pockets.

            “You have anything else on you?” he asked. Then he smiled a sinister smile. “Or in you?”

            “Oh, it’s not like that.” Zane held up both hands, a shiver running across his naked body. “I don’t, uh, hide anything anywhere the sun don’t shine. That’s not my style.”

            “Feh.” Barddok turned and motioned with his hand. “You three will be trouble, I can already tell.”

            I gave Zane a quick glance and nod of my head as thanks. He probably could’ve kept the ring hidden and used it as currency inside the prison, but he had instead given it up to cause a distraction.

            Why would he do that?

            I didn’t know, but I still thankful.

            Dockmaster Lenny stepped forward, his glare hard set. He motioned with a wave of his hand and then a door opened, revealing another golem.

            This one was a dog.

            But unlike a real dog, its back it had been flattened and widened to create a table. On its back were three piles of gray clothing, each folded neatly, along with three pairs of black boots. The dog walked over, balancing the clothing with utter perfection.

            When it got close, I realized it had green glowing eyes.

            “These are your new clothes,” Lenny stated. “Your uniforms for the rest of your days here. You’ll be given two pairs, and you’re expected to keep them clean and tidy.”

            We changed into our new outfits. They were grey jumpsuits with a single pocket. Since I was so tall, my sleeves and legs didn’t quite fit. The golem dog stared at my clothing, examining the hems. I shooed it away, mildly disturbed by its curiosity.

            Was it intelligent?

            “You may have noticed the golem,” Lenny said with half a smile. “They are everywhere here in Synthorn. They clean the facilities, keep watch over the cell blocks, and even help with the cooking. Some are meant for decoration, while others are more intelligent and serve a purpose.”

            The deer…

            It hadn’t served a purpose at all. It was probably something the old royal family had made to improve a garden or something. But this dog was clearly a golem meant to carry and display things.

            Interesting—but still a little unnerving.

            Finn, being much shorter than me, had sleeves and legs that were too long. He had to fold up his cuffs, but as he did so, he asked, “How do the golems last so long? I thought magic imbued into objects stopped functioning after a few years? Haven’t these golems existed for decades?”

            “The inner workings of Synthorn aren’t public knowledge,” Lenny stated. “All you need to know is that they’re property of the prison. Leave them to do their tasks and they won’t bother you.”

            We all pulled on our new boots, and I was surprised to find mine fit so well. They weren’t comfortable, but they were something.

            Barddok whistled. “Listen up! I’m Sergeant Barddok, which means I supervise most of the guards around here.” He tapped his buttons, and his badge. They were silver, just like Lenny’s. “When I give you an order, you’ll obey, or else you’ll go straight to the Pit.”

            “What is the pit?” Zane asked.

            “You’ll see soon enough.” Barddok smiled as he gestured to the far door. “I’m about to give you a tour of the facility. Save all your dimwitted questions until the end. That’s when you’ll meet the warden. Understand?”

            We all nodded, though I had a terrible feeling about going anywhere along with Sergeant Barddok.

            He threw open the door, and we followed him. Four guards then followed us, trailing behind with their hands on their batons. I tried not to pay too much attention to them, but occasionally I found myself glancing over my shoulder, unable to shake their presence.

            We trailed Barddok through a narrow corridor lit only by flickering sconces, their magical flames cold and blue. Shadows danced over the walls, distorted and long, like they were trying to crawl ahead of us and escape.

            Our boots echoed across the stone, heavy and sharp. At first, no one spoke.

            “Is everything the prison?” Finn whispered.

            Barddok growled something. Then he said, “This wing used to house the royal servants.” He spoke as though reading from a script he had long grown board of. “Now it’s Block One. It’s full. You won’t be staying here.”

            We rounded a corner.

            The air changed. Heavier, somehow.

            Chains dangled from the ceiling like vines, swinging ever so slightly as we moved beneath them. Barddok turned to us suddenly, forcing us to stop. His grin came slow. “Synthorn used to string up disobedient inmates and leave them hangin’ here for all the new inmates to see when they came in.”

            “That’s barbaric,” Finn muttered.

            Zane stared at the chains, his mouth half open.

            I didn’t look. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of being disturbed.

            Sergeant Barddok didn’t like that, though. He glowered straight at me, challenging me to say something or do something.

            I held back my rage. Every time I saw his face, I thought about my necklace.

            But what was I going to do?

            When it became obvious that we had nothing more to say, Barddok led us on.

            “You’ll need to pick bunks tonight,” he said as we walked. “And you’ll soon get used to the bells. They ring when you need to wake, when you need to eat, when you get free time, when you have to work, when you need to line up for inspections—”

            “When we need to breathe,” Zane sarcastically whispered.

            Barddok wheeled around on his heel, and we all froze. “This isn’t the mainland,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “The only rules you follow are our rules. And we can change the rules at any time. For whatever reason. And the new rule right now is: say one more word, and I’m throwing you in the Pit.”

            None of us responded.

            My heart beat harder, my fight or flight instincts kicking in.

            Then Barddok smirked and resumed his walk. “The courtyard is the main hub. That’s where you can go if you get lost. Almost everything connects to it.”

            Get lost?

            As if asking my unspoken question, Barddok continued. “On your free time, you can roam the prison. There’s no real leaving this prison, so just get that out of your mind right now.”

            The corridor narrowed again. The walls looked newer here—no murals, no marble—just slate gray stone and the occasional golem, eyes glowing green. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe, but I could feel their attention, like a cold hand pressing the back of my neck.

            They were in the shape of dogs, all of them, their table backs carrying heavy boxes and chests. Where were they going?

            Then we stopped.

            A towering metal door waited at the end of the corridor. Unlike the others, this one was untouched by rust. Polished. Maintained. Two gorilla golems stood on either side, each holding a short spear. The moment they saw Barddok, they stood aside.

            He turned to us. “Time to see the courtyard.”

            The doors groaned as they opened. We stepped into the courtyard.

            It might’ve once been a garden. The bones of beauty still clung to it—arched stonework grown over with lichen, the crumbling outlines of tiled walkways, shattered fountains long since drained. Statues of former kings stood with their faces eroded away by salt wind and time, their crowns half-broken, their gazes hollow.

            The place was massive, with three stories of castle enclosing it from all sides. A town’s worth of people could be in this courtyard.

            The most interesting detail was at the center, though.

            There was a giant hole, at least fifteen feet in dimeter.

            Barddok strode forward, straight for the hole, chuckling as he went. He stopped a good ten feet from it, and then motioned with a wave of his arm.

            A thin yellow mist curled from the hole, rising in lazy, poisonous coils like smoke from a dying fire. When the wind shifted, the mist stretched toward us.

            It didn’t touch the others, but I was just a little too close—just enough for it to brush the side of my bare hand. A stinging sensation prickled me. I sucked in air through my teeth and leapt away, startled.

            A weird mark was already spreading across my wrist. Angry red.

            But then it slowly subsided.

            “Painful to the touch,” Barddok said with a chortle. “You fall in, you don’t crawl out. That’s the Pit. Old royal magic that was never fully sealed. We don’t know what the old royals did with this stuff, but we throw troublemakers down in the Pit if they don’t listen.”

            Finn stepped behind me, his hand clenched in the fabric of his jumpsuit. He wanted to ask a question, I felt it, but since Barddok had decreed we couldn’t speak, no one uttered a word.

            Perhaps Barddok was feeling generous, or maybe he just wanted to taunt us some more—whatever the reason, he motioned us closer.

            “Go ahead. Ask questions. Now is the time.”

            Had he forgotten his own new rule? Seemed he had.

            “What’s down there?” Finn whispered.

            “I told you already, ya sausage for brains. Inmates who didn’t follow the rules. You wanna join them?”

            Finn shook his head.

            “Then keep being good little boys and listen.”

            Barddok clicked his tongue and then walked around the Pit, giving it plenty of space. He talked as though this was amusing him. Like it was all some fun and games. But I saw the edge in his eyes—he feared that Pit.

            We moved on, the Pit behind us, but I couldn’t stop glancing back at it. The mist curled in ways it shouldn’t have, drifting against the breeze, reaching—searching.

            As if it was hungry.

----------

To be continued?