You wake up in hell.

  The ocean roars and drones over the sound of slaves snoring. It’s constant. You’re cramped inside a small hut, ten of you stacked in tiny, hard beds. Some of them sleep together for warmth. The door was locked last night and still is. It’s barely past dusk. You shiver under a hole-ridden, rough blanket.

  Your ankle throbs. It’s home to a disgusting, bubbling blister, red and angry. A slave gave you a scrap of cloth to keep it covered. It’s probably fused to your skin by now. You’ve been left alone, otherwise. The villagers from Yakita have been scattered. You don’t know anyone’s name. You’ve heard them talking, though. They know you’ve caught the attention of the Warchief.

  They call him Irminric the Black. He’s the Warlord of Jor, but he’s also positioning himself as the Warchief of the Byrian Isles, uniting them. There are two others – Catherine Roosk, the dark elf, is Warlord of For, and Torm Hagelin, the half-giant, is Warlord of Reesh. It's called the Byrian Isles, but not always. Once, the Isles were called Vasterholm, and its people Vasterholmians. It's nothing like Byra. There, the upper echelons of society are run by fey noble houses who trace their blood all the way back to the court of the fey realm. Here, you kill your way to the top. Almost half a million people call it home, you overheard. You’ve never called anywhere home – or anyone.

  You shiver and stare at the small window across the hut. Outside, the sky is dark gray. You haven’t decided whether your quick thinking yesterday is a good or bad thing. You spent the night sitting by yourself, humming “Byra the Bastard” and searing it into your memory so you didn't think about your circumstances, the pulsing brand on your ankle. If you keep this up, you won’t be designated to the lumber camps or the shipyards, at least. The Byrian Isles are rocky and forested, meaning they’re ideal for making longships – you wonder who their customers are. Who buys slave-made ships? People who need them, of course. People who don’t care that the enormous blister on your ankle is in the shape of a black dragon head.

  Dark, gray daylight begins to creep in like utter dread. There’s a thick layer of clouds in the sky. It probably rains here often.

  A sharp bang jostles the door. Someone rattles it, knocking. You nearly jump from your bed. Slaves bolt upright.

  Then comes laughter and the jangling of keys. It opens.

  The slaves drag themselves from bed, shuffling out the door. You follow. You were given some new clothes last night, at least, before scrubbing yourself near the well with some other slaves in full view of everyone. You put on a rough wool coat with questionable seams. It’s not warm enough. You glance at the thousands of other slaves gathered, trickling out of their huts. They’re of all species, ages, and genders. You wonder how many slaves are on the other islands – if Jor is somehow the best one. Breakfast is passed out at a makeshift kitchen – it’s dense bread, almost stale, half an onion, and dried pork. You slug down the water offered. You’re hardly hungry, but you slump against a hut and make yourself eat anyway. You’re exhausted – it will help. Some slaves talk while eating, some even laughing. You can’t tell if they’ve been here for a very long time or not long at all.

  You’ve hardly finished eating when you hear brusque footsteps. You glance up to see some raiders led by the grizzled old half-elf from yesterday. His name is Erson Walstad, you overheard. He’s Irminric’s second-in-command. You also overheard that he’s good at making you think he’s your friend. He’s not.

  “Seven Oaks!” he barks. Everyone stops talking.

  Someone points toward you. You stand, approaching. He barely acknowledges you, turning and leaving. You follow, the raiders shoving you along. You emerge from the slave pens and into the settlement, the long hall looming over it. You’re not chained anymore. None of the slaves are. There’s no point – none of them would dare try violence against these notorious warriors. You overheard a slave joke that you’re not actually slaves at all – you’re free to leave at any time. You just have to swim for it.

  The raiders carouse while you walk. They mention something of a pit and names you don’t recognize. There’s also talk of the raid on Yakita. They compare kills. One of the raiders kicks your branded ankle. You stumble, pain firing up your leg. They laugh.

  Erson stops. A shortsword appears in his hand. It resembles the one Catherine has – single-edged and angular. He brandishes it at the raider. “Cut it out, or I’ll cut you out.”

  Silence shocks through the small group. You step back and bump into another raider. She pushes you off. Hands are on weapons. The raider who kicked you only grunts, releasing the grip on his axe. Erson turns, giving them all a hard look. He’s wearing a thick, fur-lined wool coat over his leather and chain armor. It makes him look even more sizeable.

  You continue toward a tall, massive structure you saw from a distance yesterday. It’s constructed of thick wood and decorated with torn banners, shields, weapons, and heads. You try not to look as you pass up some stairs and through a gate. From inside, you hear shouting and chanting. And fighting.

  You’re taken up more stairs where you emerge on a platform thrusting into tiered seats facing down into an arena. It’s filled with thousands of people. They roar and cheer. In the pit are two raiders, one with an axe and shield, the other with a longsword. The one with the sword slips around the shield, stabbing through armor. The sword comes up and rakes across the raider’s neck. Dark blood sprays the dirt floor – you can see it even from here. The raider collapses. Cheers go up. People – slaves, probably – run out to grab the body and drag it off. You’re shoved further. Your heart catches in your throat.

  Sitting at the edge of the platform is Irminric.

  He’s wearing fur-lined leather armor embossed with knots, a braided band around his scaled black brow. His spiked tail tumbles from the seat, shimmering rings clasped around it. In his giant fist is a horn of ale. A sheathed greatsword is hung from the back of his chair. Its crosshilt resembles a dragon's wing, coiling along the blade. Magic hums off it, and it glimmers with enchantment.

  He looks over at you and grunts. He tosses you the mandolin from the table beside him. You huff and catch it against your stomach. The thrumming, throbbing magic hits you again. It crackles in your hands. How does no one else sense it? You sling it on. The supple leather strap is stamped with intricate knots.

  “You’re late,” he says, taking a drink. “These limp shits are behind schedule. Play something.”

  You’re not given anywhere to sit. You don’t dare ask. You clear your throat. “Any requests?”

  He turns and narrows his dark eyes at you. “No.”

  Normally, you’d be happy to hear that – it makes for an easy set. Having just watched a person die for entertainment, you’re less certain that’s still the case.

  You begin plucking, halfway practicing as you go. Your fingers are cold and unresponsive. You make them work. He doesn’t seem to notice. You play nothing in particular, only pleasant-sounding chord progressions. You put the fingerings together in your head last night. You’ve been hurriedly constructing a list in your mind of the other Byrian songs you know. Once you’ve warmed up, you transition and begin to sing over the boisterous crowd.

  Brushes of softest grass and leaves stirring underfoot

  Glimpses between trees of all the time that you took

  Hand closed 'round mine, fingers intertwined

  Deep loam in autumn

  Emerald

  Sometimes, I hear your voice, it calls through the golden breeze

  I see you in the green whispers of the trees

  The wind says you're here, touches of time

  Like stirring of a chime

  In the time that has gone, you have been with me

  Emerald fey

  In the years that will come, I will look for you

  Emerald fey

  You once heard a dragonkin play it in Byra. She was a defector from Torgal in the far east of Vesh, where they’re caught in a stale war with Hartland. She taught it to you for a couple copper. It’s a shitty translation from the original fey. Considering nobody here speaks it, you have nothing to worry about.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  You almost pause when you spot Catherine sitting nearby. Her yellow eyes are on you. She’s attentive, not looking away. You remain the professional that you are, not missing a beat, but your skin crawls. Torm sits nearby, too, chanting and jeering with the rest of his raiders. You hate him.

  “I want you nearby,” Irminric throws in your direction. You stop. “You make a good point. Every Warchief should have someone to sing his praises. You’re going to sing mine.”

  You nod, testing the courses of the mandolin. They’re of exquisite make. It didn’t even need tuning after yesterday. You continue to strum through the chord progressions.

  “I can do that.” He wants an epic song about him – something legendary like Thorhild and the Titan. It’s an old epic song from the Byrian Isles – one of the most well-known in the world. You're lucky your sponsor once recommended that you master it. You nod toward the pit below. “I’m assuming you’ve been down there.”

  He grunts, taking another drink. “I killed Vegard right there. He wasn’t worthy of the title.”

  The former Warlord, you assume. You commit it to memory. The arena is stirring, people getting restless. There’s been no movement toward another fight. “Why do you want someone who knows fey?”

  He tilts his scaled head up, peering down at the arena with narrowed eyes. “Byra sends me nothing but twigs to talk diplomacy. I want to know what they’re saying about me.”

  Someone who looks like a slave appears, bending down to talk to Erson. Then, she skitters off, not even looking at you. Erson turns. “Rolf is the holdup here. He’s not… coherent.”

  Irminric suddenly stands, looming. He chucks his horn away, splattering ale at you. He growls. “Get him out here. I shouldn’t have to make this show myself."

  He turns and draws his vast greatsword. It sings from its sheath, warbling. He hefts it over a shoulder, plowing toward the stairs behind you. Your mouth is dry as you follow.

  He whirls at your movement. “Stay where you’re told, or you’re next,” he snaps, spitting at your feet. It hits your boot. You duck his greatsword as he turns, hulking down the stairs.

  You’re uncertain what to do. You return to the spot beside his chair. Nobody pays you any mind, except for Catherine. She’s watching you again. You sling the mandolin behind you and cross your arms for warmth. You’re shivering. Your foot begins to sting. You look down. A hole is slowly disintegrating through your boot.

  Irminric appears on the pit's dirt floor. A raucous cheer goes up from the crowd. He turns and drives the point of his sword into the packed dirt, then adjusts the leather bracers on his sinewy forearms. “This is what happens to those who make me wait,” he bellows.

  On the other side of the arena, a figure is hoisted out by some slaves. He looks human, but it’s hard to tell from this distance. He must be Rolf. He’s wearing armor and a belt with two shortswords in it. The slaves set him upright. He reels, obviously drunk. Then, they retreat.

  Faster than you thought possible, Irminric picks up the greatsword, charging toward him. He stumbles, drawing his blades. He only barely blocks in time.

  The clashing rings around the arena. The crowd explodes, deafening the thumping of your blood. You feel sick. You’ve never held a sword in your life, but even you can recognize something terrifying about Irminric’s vicious, efficient fighting. He slashes and clobbers, hardly allowing a chance to fight back. Rolf swipes with a shortsword, cutting across Irminric’s leg. Blood sprays. Then Rolf hits the dirt, splayed on his back, bashed by the pommel of Irminric’s greatsword.

  He stomps on Rolf’s shin. You hear the snap even here. He shrieks. Then, he begs. Irminric’s greatsword spears between his legs. He grasps the handle and roars. You turn away, revisiting the sour taste of your breakfast as Rolf is bisected. The crowd erupts.

  You laugh. You don’t know why. It catches in your throat. This is some terrible, elaborate nightmare.

  You stand, frozen, until Irminric returns a few minutes later. He thrusts his greatsword point into the wood near his chair, then sits. It stands, wavering. He smells like blood and sweat. You keep as still as possible, hoping he won’t notice you.

  “Get me a drink. And clean that up.”

  He gestures to his sword, still strung with thick blood.

  You retrieve his horn and fill it from the pitcher of ale on the table. He snatches it from you, drinking deeply. You grab a towel, wet it, and approach the sword. Magic simmers from it. You pause. It's... malicious.

  You grasp the hilt with both hands and tug. It stays fast in the wood. You heave, grunting. It slides an inch.

  “Don’t make me wait,” he growls. His voice chills the back of your neck. “I want a song.”

  You hurry, leveraging the sword back and forth, wiggling it free. It’s heavy and unwieldy. You lean it against a shoulder and begin wiping blood. The magic is off-putting, like a discordant tone. Your hand slips. A line of blood appears on your palm.

  It’s sucked into the blade. The magic hums slightly louder.

  You stare. You realize he’s watching you. You quickly wipe down the rest of the blade. You heft it up, fumbling and returning it to its sheath on the back of the chair. You quickly polish the hilt and pommel for good measure.

  You return to your place beside him. You bring the mandolin around and begin playing again. It’s all you can do to stop thinking.

  “Let’s go!” he barks. “Next!”

  A month crawls by.

  The first few mornings, you’re fetched from the slave pens and brought to Irminric, the mandolin thrust in your hands. Then, you’re expected to show up on your own. You don’t dare find out what happens if you don’t. You do as you’re told, playing, singing, standing, following. You remain by his side, trying to anticipate his whims, hoping he doesn’t find the end of your usefulness. Your days are strung with lingering terror. When you have a moment, you pick at the mandolin, feeling its magical ability. Much of it is beyond you. What else can it do? It nags you. And all the while, you watch him go about his day and his duties. He oversees the settlement and the Isles, grappling with missives and letters from Byra. You watch him wrangle his raiders, punishing some of them publicly and gruesomely. You watch him oversee construction in the shipyard, demanding higher output from the slaves to meet the awaiting orders. He may be hulking and brutal, but there’s a certain competence to him. He largely ignores you until he needs something. Sometimes, he simply says things in draconic, expecting you to answer. You answer as best you can, spending your precious time away piecing together sentences and parsing a new language.

  You begin talking to other slaves. They’re hesitant, unsure if you’re loyal to him or not. One of them is an old kobold who reluctantly teaches you some new phrases in draconic. You prod the others for songs, rapidly coming to the end of your repertoire of Byrian music. Sometimes, they sing around the fire at night, and you listen, greedily committing it all to memory, imagining fingerings and chords. Sometimes, they tell stories or legends – some from around the world and others from the Isles. None of them ask you to perform. You’re too exhausted.

  Your ankle heals. Each night for a couple weeks, you peeled away the cloth, cleaned it, then wrapped it back up for the next day. It made you gag. Then it became a scab of epic proportions. It’s become a purplish, raised scar. It’s oddly numb, yet it stings when you touch it. It itches maddeningly sometimes.

  You spend the day at Irminric’s side, most of it standing in his long hall quarters and playing quiet music while he shuffles through papers and talks with Erson and the jarls. There’s mention of the Guild in Horonai, one of the Isles’ biggest buyers of ships. They’ve been looking to fill out their navy for years, you deduce. They want more. You imagine Irminric won’t give them too many ships, because then they’ll outmatch the Isles. You’re correct - he trashes the room in a fit of rage. You and some slaves from the kitchens quickly clean up while he steps into the washroom.

  At the end of the day, you return the mandolin to the small stand in the corner, exiting. No one escorts you to the slave pens anymore. There are few places on the island you can hide. They’ll find you, and you don’t ask the other slaves what happens then. You already know, from the blank look in their eyes.

  You hear voices ahead in the long hall. You turn the corner. Torm sits at a table with some of his raiders, drinking and eating. A low fire crackles.

  He’s back after a few days away. You walk faster and keep your eyes down, hoping they won’t notice you.

  “Hey! Come here,” he calls out.

  You stop. You consider ignoring him. You’re not sure what will happen if you do. Irminric has loudly declared that you belong to him, and there are consequences for anyone who tests it. Two weeks ago, he maimed one of his raiders who attempted to see how well you can play without all your fingers. But Torm is a Warlord.

  He rises from the table, cocking his head and approaching. “I said come here. You deaf or stupid?”

  He looms over you. Like most half-giants, he’s completely bald. He’s smeared with plant dye, like war paint. It reeks. Underneath his armor are massive, muscular tits.

  “Well, you’ve saved me a trip going over there,” you say. “That’s kind of you.”

  Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say. You’re tired, hungry, and just want to get away from these people. You don’t know if Torm remembers dragging you from under a bed in Yakita. But you remember him. Your blood spikes every time you think of him. One of the raiders laughs. He’s another half-giant and looks like Torm. They might be brothers.

  He hauls you closer by a fistful of your shirt. He slaps you. It’s not a hard one, but it’s demeaning all the same. “Getting mouthy already, huh?” he says. His breath smells like rancid ale.

  “He’s prettier than Helen,” the other half-giant comments in his mug.

  Torm turns and glares at him.

  “Who’s that? Your girlfriend?” you say. “Or your dog?”

  More of the raiders guffaw. The other half-giant sprays his ale.

  You hit the floor. It was definitely the wrong thing to say. The point of Torm’s boot confirms it in your rib shortly after. You grunt, sharp pain cracking through you.

  “I should lay you out for the fucking tide,” he spits.

  “You’re skirting around it,” you heave out. “It’s sure seeming like the worse one.”

  He snorts. “You wanna be funny? Dance for us, then.”

  His uncoiled whip piles on the floor. Then the end snaps inches from your face.

  You scrabble backward. The sound splits the empty hall. The raiders cheer. You shuffle to your feet, your side aching. It snaps again at your feet. You dodge backward. Your heart pounds. It snaps again.

  Searing pain shoots through your calf. You screech and clutch it. It snaps your foot. You duck aside as it comes at you again. Torm laughs. Some of the raiders stand, beginning to form a circle around you.

  “Bet he’d sing real pretty on the pole,” one quips.

  “Hagelin!” a voice bellows.

  The whip snaps against your arm. You grit your teeth, hissing. You glance behind Torm. It’s Erson.

  The old half-elf approaches, a hand on his shortsword. “This one’s not yours.”

  Torm grunts, coiling his whip around his elbow, glancing you over. “You’re right. Wouldn’t let him talk half as much.”

  “Was it too many words for you?” you say.

  Erson turns and cuffs you across the face.

  You nearly hit the floor again. “Get the fuck out of here,” he growls. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  Your blood is humming. You feel hot. You’re angry, you realize – more furious than you’ve ever been. You’re going to do something stupid if you stay here. You already have. You shuffle around them. Erson’s boot nearly sends you sprawling. You catch your footing, hustling toward the door. Your body throbs. Behind you is a mixture of laughter and the sound of a fight brewing.

  You wish it weren’t becoming a familiar sound.