CH 1 : Prisoner 72

Prisoner 72 realized that his life was nothing but a fulfillment of an old crone’s tripartite prophecy. He saw no hope on the horizon; for he was a condemned blasphemer and an execrated witch-sympathizer. Thus, he was forced to wear a heretic’s branks—a wrought-iron muzzle that clamped around his head, lined with spikes on the inside that left pressure marks whenever his skin pressed hard against the frame—as punishment and humiliation for his crime of saving the last witch of Grandeloria.

He was facing a bleak reality.

Together with nine other inmates, he was crammed inside the fourth prisoner carriage. The guards purposely starved them. A frail body was a perfect deterrent to a jailbreak. He was slumped on the metal-reinforced floor of this butt-aching transport cell, sweaty and smelly in the scorching summer noon, brooding over his sentence. He groaned, “Death penalty, huh?”

But which death would get to him first: the death penalty for saving the witch, or a dagger to his heart as the second prophecy revealed?

Rattling his manacles, he laughed wryly at his cruel fate.

He had wandered far and wide in search of a way back home before he was drawn to Grandeloria, a powerful, church-controlled city-state in the Myergran region. It was here that the first prophecy awaited him—that of the one he would save.

When the carriage jolted as it rammed onto rough terrain, he slumped further against the hot metal grates, slamming his head against them. The jarring impact left a rhythmic throb at the back of his head. Once he settled down, he rested his arms on his bent knees, and his hands clasped together—rubbing the heels of his hands nervously. His eyes squinted from the brightness of the sun and focused on the dangling chains of the manacles. He brooded over why he couldn’t remember anything about his home.

His ears rang, and his head throbbed each time he concentrated on thinking about his home, as though something prevented him from remembering his past. It was as if he had come into this world out of nowhere, like a mushroom after last night’s thunderstorm. Then a faint memory of a child suddenly surfaced. He had heard those words before. But when? Who? Where?

“Damn, fucked up memories!” He grunted. Out of frustration, he struck his head with the heels of his hands. The manacles restraining his wrists clanked with every blow. He kept cursing. Perhaps a good shaking could put some sense into him.

“Hoy!” Prisoner 502 bellowed across the crammed space, kicking Prisoner 72’s leg, “Stop the racket, witch simp!”

The other inmates stirred from their miserable lethargy; their eyes gleaming with interest as they grinned. They expected entertainment. Someone acted like an impresario, calling for wagers on a bout of fisticuffs, drawing boisterous laughter.

They had been traveling for the last ten days in the most uncomfortable manner. They were starved, their skin was burnt from the sun during the day, and they shivered in the cold at night. A brawl would be a perfect respite from that misery—and of course, an opportunity to stage a jailbreak.

Prisoner 72 was well aware of their intention. He had no desire to take part in it. The jeering and rattling of chains became an accompaniment to the otherwise tedious journey. He ignored the taunting and stayed still. The noises intensified. A moment later, their carriage halted.

The transport warden came over to inspect the situation. He was accompanied by two guards. The guards were notoriously unforgiving bastards. For them, violence was discipline. But the rowdy inmates paid no mind to him.

The transport warden was short-tempered and dealt with peace using torture. His expression was deadpan. He didn’t give any warning at all. He simply raised his baton, slammed it against the metal grates, and ran it across the cell, metal against metal. He deliberately strolled around as the ear-splitting clanging deafened the inmates. The prisoners cussed at him. But he just looked at them with a steely gaze, spat disdainfully, and said, “One for the road, fellas.”

“God damn it!” Prisoner 72 muttered as he braced for another round of acoustic torture.

He retreated to his corner and buried his head between his arms, trying to think of something else to distract himself. His mind dredged up a faint memory: a monastery, an old crone uttering her visions, and a teenage boy ignoring her—for he was analyzing the complex middlegame of the chess match they were playing.

As the metal clanging pierced his ears and his head began to throb, Prisoner 72 mumbled, “Who fucking am I?”