Chapter 1

"Wait till you see this one," the older guard remarks to the younger as they walk along a dark, narrow passage. The basement is damp, located under a massive workshop, and the only sources of light in the corridor are small oil lamps flickering here and there, as well as the lamp the guards carry. They push a cart loaded with trays of food, stopping at every grated opening in the wall so the younger guard can hand a bowl of legumes and potatoes to the unfortunate souls stuck in the rooms behind.

As they roll up to the next chamber, the younger guard's eyes go wide. Inside a small cell, along with four emaciated people, is a burly figure in tattered burlap clothes. His back is turned towards them as he faces the barred narrow slit of a window near the ceiling of the cell, looking to a courtyard where a little light shines on him, tracing his muscular physique. But the young guard's eyes are immediately caught by the fact that the man grasping the bars in the window with his bare hands has no legs.

"What in the name of Holies?" the younger guard says quietly.

"That there is our distinguished guest," the elder guard remarks, chuckling. "None other than Renzo Hashima."

The younger guard approaches the grate a bit closer to have a look, a bowl of food in hand.

"What happened to him?"

"I wouldn't do that," the older guard says.

One of the inmates immediately springs up and snatches the food out of his hands. The younger guard steps back, scared.

"Hey, Renzo!" the older guard calls out. "We got some food for you. Aren't you going to thank us?" he says, chuckling.

The man near the window ignores them. He grunts, clutching the bars to lift his torso and lower it down in a series of pull-ups.

"What is he doing?" the younger guard asks.

"I wish I knew," his companion says. "Right now, the word is he's trying to practice until he's strong enough to bend those bars open with his bare hands, and then he can run away–or should I say, handwalk away very fast." The older guard starts laughing and punches the younger guard in the shoulder.

Renzo does not turn or even stop his exercise. His body is covered with sweat as he does another pull-up.

"Hey, Renzo, you should take a break," the older guard says, reaching for an apple. He throws it at him. It hits Renzo in the head. Renzo's hands slip. He slides down, loses his grip, and falls onto his back, hitting the muddy floor which knocks the air out of him.

He lies there, glaring at the younger guard, who shrinks away from the bars even more, and then at the older guard, who keeps laughing as he shoves bowls of food into the cell. One of his cellmates snatches the apple, and begins chomping down on it while the others try to fight him for a bite while at the same time scrambling for the bowls. Soon they are all occupied with their paltry meals, completely ignoring Renzo. The guards walk away to distribute more food.

None of them tries to help Renzo get up, and he understands why perfectly. Crawling on his arms and trying to reach a bowl of food left for him, he remembers that not long ago he would have been on the other side of the iron, when the old King was still in power.

He remembers the day very well – his personal day of infamy. As chief of the King’s Royal Guard, the Patrianes, he was returning from an assignment in the Western provinces, and as such had just missed the coup that took over the palace and deposed King Kenesin Larmont. People he considers fellow warriors, even friends, turn on the old ruler and throw him into prison. They surround and arrest Renzo. The usurper, a man Renzo barely remembers seeing at the court, crowns himself Kalandor I Neir, and has everyone – from the army up to guard Renzo lead – swear fealty. Everyone who refuses is to be summarily executed.

Renzo remembers the selection line standing before the throne, and how the witch Anatira Waugh, half-human and half-Elrankulai, with light-violet skin, leans over the usurper on the throne. Her long, dark violet hair with a silver strand flows down on Kalandor's clothes and her breasts nudge his shoulders as she whispers in his ear. Her yellow eyes scan around the room, and the corners of her wide mouth naturally curve up, making her look like she's constantly smirking. When his turn comes, Renzo refuses outright. He is immediately stripped of his rank, but before he can be hauled away to have his head chopped off, a man he knows well and respects intervenes. Ten years his junior, fair-skinned with silver eyes and blonde hair, Fabio is one of the first to join the newly-formed knightly order protecting the usurper king.

"Your Majesty, you will only make him into a martyr," Renzo remembers him begging, and scoffs.

But the plea works. Instead of being killed, Kalandor has his men cut off Renzo’s legs and sell him as a slave to one of the lower lords with big ambitions: Malarice Thredmore. Thredmore, in exchange, gives his full support to the reshuffle.

The original king is exiled, and eventually, from what Renzo hears inside Thredmore's dungeon, dies in exile. That was about a year ago. Time flies differently when you can't see the sun.

Just as he is about to reach for his bowl of food, another prisoner snatches it away and scurries off to the other side of the cell. They do not bad-mouth him, partially because of the fear of what he could still do to them, legless as he is, and partially because they have all told him enough. That Renzo was another cog in the wheel that enabled people like them to slowly die in prisons and labor over things they are never compensated for, like chattel. And like chattel they sleep, on small piles of hay covered by rags. The night is cold, and the stumps of his legs hurt again.

The next day, the guards come in the early morning. They open the cell door and hold out large handcuffs and a chain. The taller one smiles and says, "You have a new assignment, Renzo. You’re not going to like it."