Galadan story

The rising sun peeks through the small house’s windows, its slanted rays barely illuminating the modest kitchen. A man sits at the table, casting a long shadow over the tin cup he clutches in both hands. Though not visible in the twilight, his face bears a brooding scowl, but his green eyes betray a look of dread, for it was time for him to go.

The slight creak of floorboards, a subtle shift of the air currents. He looks up to see a silhouette in the kitchen entryway. She steps forth, a beautiful half-elven woman clad in a green robe. He smiles softly, sadly, and stands to caress her cheek. She smiles back, her eyes conveying what her lips could not bear to speak. Months they’d been whole, finally, a family like they’d always wanted. But now, tears well in her eyes, for it was time for him to go.

He steps past her into the rest of the house, heading for the small second bedroom. Inside, two little beds, and visible above the blankets, two little heads, both of curly brown hair, like his own, with little pointed ears, like hers. He bends down to plant a kiss on their foreheads, being careful not to wake them, lest their innocent charm tempt him, when it was time for him to go.

When he returns to the kitchen, she is there with a familiar bundle in her arms. The tools of a life now behind him, or so he’d thought. He wordlessly dons them— a cloak, a pack, and a leather belt of polished steel. The thousand miles of ash and dust and blood and wine bring a perverse comfort not unlike home. Scores of tortured souls lost to its argent-molten gaze scream at him. He screams back.

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Cold. Wet. Hunger gnaws at the prisoner’s stomach like the acid rain eats at the stones. As would he, had he the strength. Hands raised, manacled, chained to the ceiling, he strains to get to his feet. A new day, a new effort, a new failure, a new layer to his calloused knees. He had borne worse than this.

The iron door clanks and footsteps echo down the hallway. The newer captives cry out and bang against their cell bars. The rest are silent, the clatter of the bread-plates deafening in the enclosed space. Then the footsteps stop in front of the prisoner’s cell.

Metal grates against stone as the barred door slides open. A blinding flash of light, as the prisoner’s cloth is lifted. There stands the man, holding a plate bearing bread and cards. A key finds its way into the prisoner’s bonds. The prisoner collapses to the stone floor.

The man sinks down as well, assuming a cross-legged position and helping the prisoner to do the same. The bread is served. The cards are dealt. The tricks come and go in silence. As they reach to draw, the dim light reveals a brand on the back of the prisoner’s hand— a trident, glowing a faint blue. The man’s hand bears the same. Though the prisoner’s head remains bowed, a silent word of gratitude is given. The same as every other day, a welcome reprieve in this darkened pit. A respect earned, from young to old, warden to prisoner, soldier to hero, servant to master.

Another set of footsteps echoes down the stairwell, a break in the routine. The prisoner’s head raises, a sallow face, red eyes gazing through unkempt black hair. The man turns as well, though not abruptly, not in surprise. He secures the prisoner and locks the door.

A soldier enters the hall, clad in armor adorned with crimson, a mercenary badge at his lapel. The man is silhouetted against the doorway for only a moment, a flowing cloak, a wide-brimmed hat. The soldier breaks the silence.

“Sir? It’s time for you to go.”