Months pass. It’s difficult to mark the passage of days. The season changes, but the days are so dreary and gray that they smear together. It’s a constant cycle of sleeping, waking, eating, standing, playing, and doing it all over again.

  It rains often, storms buffeting the island. The ship and lumber slaves rejoice on those days because they don’t have to work, but not you. You have to entertain Irminric and his raiders so they don’t kill each other. As winter approaches, it will likely become more frequent. Twice a week, he demands that you perform songs and tales while they feast. On those nights, you miss the food offered at the slave pens. When you ask if you can partake so you can perform better, he gives you some gristly meat, bread, and vegetables. He spits in it, his jarls laughing. You try to eat around the acid, but spend much of the night spewing from both ends.

  Boredom is your biggest challenge. Once, Irminric leaves for a week - to where you don’t know. Byra, maybe, or one of the other islands. No one seems to remember you while he’s gone. It’s agonizingly lonely. The slaves hardly talk to you. Maybe they don’t trust you, or maybe they hate that you have it easy. You don’t, you want to tell them. It’s hell being near him. You stay in the slave pens, trying to catch up on sleep. You can’t remember a time when you weren’t exhausted. Being rested only makes things worse, though. You have newfound clarity about your situation. You hate it with renewed vigor.

  You remain present yet out of the way for Irminric, playing or singing when demanded. It’s broken by sudden outbursts of violence and rage that leave you terrified for your life. But he doesn’t cause you overt harm. You’re a tool to keep the loyalty of his raiders, a treasure to display. When you play in the background, he doesn’t notice that you recycle songs often. It's easy, but there’s no challenge. It’s numbing. You could write your own songs, but when you try, there are no words to describe your situation, your feelings. Pretending otherwise is impossible.

  Like anywhere else, there’s art, history, and legends on these islands, and you slowly and persistently uncover them, studying the tapestries in the hall and prodding any Islanders who will talk with you. But you hate these people. You wonder if your name will ever be recorded as a scop in Irminric’s hall. Maybe the histories won't mention you were a slave.

  You can only access the mandolin in his presence. You poke and prod its magical capabilities, but they’re still beyond you. It holds its tuning irrevocably, at least, the strings showing no wear and the wood needing no polishing. There’s enchantment magic on it, you glean, making you more adept at influencing minds magically, which you’ve heard whispers is possible if you can grasp the right ley line. Coramine is surrounded by ley lines – a web of power that’s invisible and accessible to only those with uncommon magical ability. It’s thought that there are seven of them, each growing in increasing power. Beyond the seventh is magic that only the gods can touch – a possible eighth ley line.

  You know a bit of how magic works – you sought that knowledge wherever you could find it, speaking with wizards, arcanists, and others you’ve met along your path. It feels natural to you, poking and prodding at the underlying tenets, mimicking existing compositions, and fitting them to your own voice and style – like music, you’re entirely self-taught. There are places where, like music, they study its theories and algorithms, but you never enjoyed academics. You prefer the practical applications. You know what works and what doesn’t, even if you don’t know why.

  You haven’t performed magic since your capture. You don’t dare try. You itch for it, the satisfaction you feel when you sketch an illusion or perform tricks with nothing but your hands and mind. Maybe you’ll lose it without practice. You’re proud of those skills – you learned them through your own sheer talent. And yet, here you are, relegated to a simple scop. No one can know you’re a bard. You begin to doubt it yourself.

  You arrive at the Warlord’s quarters in the long hall, retrieving the mandolin. He promptly shoves you out the door.

  “It’s time to make yourself useful,” he growls, stepping around you.

  He’s wearing an expensive tunic and leg-wrapped, baggy pants with a tail hole, his leather band in place around his head. You gather yourself, hustling behind him. You’re not sure what he means. You arrive in the hall, and he takes his center seat at the high table. Kitchen slaves are hurriedly cleaning and setting out food and drink, Ingrid the lizardfolk sharply directing them. They don't acknowledge you. You move to sit where you normally do, off to the side, where he demands you play for his raiders and jarls. Instead, he points at the floor next to his shoulder – where a dog would sit at his heels, if he had one. You move there, standing and crossing your arms for warmth. He just obliterated the washroom again. Maybe it’s the scales that make it hard to clean. Or maybe he’s killed the only people who’ve ever told him he stinks.

  Erson and some jarls arrive a few moments later, taking their seats at the table.

  “You’re going to tell me what they say,” Irminric rumbles. You assume it’s directed at you. You remember his problems with diplomats from Byra. They must be here. You wonder if they’ll simply acknowledge the fact that you’re a slave and leave. You already know the answer.

  “Guild business?” Erson asks.

  “I don’t care,” Irminric spits. He turns to you. “Put this in my song. I have them wrapped around my claw. We take what we want from their shores, and they still buy our ships. They can’t afford to piss me off. Byrio won’t stand for it. And if they piss me off, I have the Guild to fall back on. We keep our independence. We don’t bow to anyone here.”

  There’s a certain impressive logic behind it – it’s intelligent maneuvering for being so cruel and brutish. It's another reason to wake gasping in the middle of the night, feeling like he's in the room with you.

  “Some of us certainly do,” you say. You don’t know why you say these things. Sometimes, you feel like a court jester, not a scop, and all you can do is laugh. Maybe he’s right, and you are an idiot. Maybe you’re unbearably tired of being ordered and demeaned. Maybe you’re bored. Or maybe it’s the last scrap of power you have.

  He scowls at you. “Careful, or you’ll be Six Oaks soon enough.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  You catch Erson giving a quiet laugh.

  Another slave brings horns of dark ale and a tray of cheese and smoked fish before ducking away. Suddenly, the hall doors open. A group of finely dressed people strolls in - a collection of high elves, a centaur, a couple fairies, and a fey elf. They all bow.

  The fey elf steps forward. She has curled hair threaded with colors like summer leaves of emerald and sage, and long, pointed brows of the same color. Her skin is a brown, earthy color, like soft soil, and has a faintly textured appearance, like bark. She’s tall and slender, almost otherworldly, and is wearing elaborate armor in matching colors. “Our sincerest greetings. Thank you, Warchief, for welcoming the noble houses of Byra to your hall.”

  Your throat wells. Her voice is airy, like a song. It’s one of the sweetest sounds you’ve heard in months – not the crashing of fighting, the screams of dying, or the growling of Irminric. It’s a taste of Byra and everything beyond, of freedom. It’s a night spent hearing honeyed, slanted music and intoxicating fey laughter ringing between homes grown from ancient trees, sharing finger plates around a spread of dishes, strange seafood, and exotic fruits, the sweet smell of citrus and pine wood drifting. You had friends there, once. Would they recognize you if you ever returned?

  You peer at her. Fey elves are descended from dryads, from the mingling of such fey creatures and mortals. It gives them unique magic. Fey elves are most closely related to true fey, something they take great pride in, especially in Byra. The fact that one of them is here means this is important.

  “What do you want?” Irminric asks. His black voice carries through the whole hall, rumbling and laced with dragon’s blood.

  The fey elf clasps her slender hands. Her fingers are unnaturally long and branching. “I’m of the Mesura family. I’ve been elected to speak on behalf of the Council. We want to discuss relations with Horonai and the Guild. We’ve received… inquiries into the possible expansion of Guild influence into our nation.”

  “And what of it?”

  She glances at the other representatives, then around the hall. The others sit at the offered tables, pouring drinks and eating. “After much discussion, we’ve determined that it’s not in Byrio’s best interest to entertain the Guild’s presence at this time. While we understand it might open opportunities for prosperity, we believe their motivations lie in profiting from the ongoing war between Hartland and Torgal, which could extend it significantly.”

  “That doesn’t concern me.”

  She pauses. She turns to the others, speaking more quietly. It’s in fey – ancient and willowy. “How frank should I be here?”

  They look at each other. “Does he understand what you’re implying?” one of them says.

  “Being more frank might be the death of us, from what I’ve heard,” another says.

  “Give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s smarter than he looks.”

  “What if he wants you to come out and say it?”

  “It’s a challenge. He’s daring you.”

  Irminric is stiff in his seat, his clawed hand clenched around his horn of ale. “Tell me,” he says in draconic out the side of his fanged mouth.

  You lean closer, near his ear hole. You can smell the ale. He’s been frequently speaking to you in draconic. You’re almost fluent already. You respond likewise. “They’re talking about the cheese. One of them is allergic.”

  He huffs. His clawed hand grips the chair arm, splintering it.

  You continue. “They’re wondering if you understand what they’re implying. Which is – I think – them telling us to quit dealing with the Guild.”

  “I’m no idiot, and I don’t need commentary from one. Tell me what they’re saying.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Your jaw clenches. You’re about to say something stupid. “All evidence to the contrary, needing a translator for the nation you belong to.”

  He whirls in his seat, black eyes cutting through you. You almost want him to hurt you, here in front of the ambassadors who will be forced to acknowledge what goes on here. But nothing will change. It’ll just be unpleasant for everyone.

  You speak quickly, summarizing. He turns back to the fey elf. Her eyes are fixed on you. They’re large and blazing - the color of an autumn sunset.

  “Don’t mince words with me,” he says, returning to the common language. His voice is even steelier than before. “If you’re telling me to quit dealing with the Guild, then say it.”

  The fey elf straightens, sharing a look with the others. “With all due respect, Warchief, we cherish the connection between Vasterholm and Byrio. We’ve lived in peace for centuries and have no desire to begin straining relations. We’re happy to continue to offer independence, despite the… concerns that arise.” The fey elf glances at you again. “That being said, you remain a part of our nation and must abide by the oversight of the noble families –”

  “I must do nothing,” he spits. He stands, the table screeching. You step back. “I’ll continue selling ships, and you’ll fuck off to your woods, to your arts and faggotry. And if you push this issue, we’ll talk about true independence.”

  The nobles stop, quailing. Byra’s might is nothing to sneeze at – they have fey warriors the likes of which could dance circles around the Isles. One of them is standing in front of you. But you’ve also seen what Irminric can do – what the rest of the Warlords and raiders can do. You’re not so sure Byra would come away unscathed.

  The fey elf holds her ground. She shimmers and shifts. Her skin becomes more textured, hardening like bark, rooting her in place. Her forest hair bristles like a stiff wind. Her brows quiver. Dryads are tied to a specific tree or area of land, and they protect it fiercely when threatened. It must be inherited.

  “Careful,” you say quietly in draconic. “She’s angry.”

  “Shut up,” he growls.

  Her eyes narrow. “Very well. I’ll report your… displeasure to the rest of the families, and we’ll decide our course of action regarding the Guild. We expect better cooperation from you going forward.”

  “Get out of my hall,” he barks.

  They give their bows and filter outside. The door shuts with a resounding boom. The silence is hollow.

  He whirls, his clawed hand clamping your neck. He hefts you up, slamming you against the table.

  Your back cracks against wood. The mandolin gives a discordant crash beneath you. Food and dishes clatter. His black hand remains gripped, his arm thick with corded muscle. Scales grate against your skin. You grab at his forearm. The air is squeezed from you. You choke, stars appearing in your vision. Your blood freezes. Erson and the jarls are watching. Irminric might finally kill you. At least it’s not in front of all his raiders. They’ll cheer.

  “Your mouth is becoming more trouble than it’s worth,” he growls. A knife appears over you. “Correct it, or you’ll choke on that tongue.”

  You’re shaking, your blood spiraling. You manage to pry his fingers away from your windpipe. “I’m not one to shame –”

  He pushes you against the table harder. It strains beneath you. He raises the knife. You go numb.

  “Wait! You need me,” you rasp out. “In one piece, too –”

  He grunts. “You don’t need your feet.”

  “You’ll be lugging me around all day, then.”

  “You don’t need your cock.”

  Cold shoots through you. “Bad form these days, assuming that’s what I’ve got –”

  You don’t finish. His fist lands. Pain explodes in your pelvis. Numbing waves radiate to your toes. You cough. Your stomach nearly comes up with it. Your vision dims. You curl around yourself as much as you can.

  “Now we know,” he says, something like amusement in his voice.

  You grab at words. You have to keep talking. “You’d not break your other treasures. I need all my parts for what you’ve got me doing. I’m one-of-a-kind. And you’ll not get your song.”

  He pauses. His dark eyes narrow. You can’t feel your fingers. The room is spinning.

  He releases you, straightening. You rasp in air, weak and exhausted. You wonder if you’ll be able to sing tonight. You’ll have to. You slither off the table, standing. You catch yourself against a chair. You can barely stand. The kitchen slaves are staring from behind wooden pillars.

  He sheaths his knife at his thigh. And then he gives a terrible, familiar snarl. “You want to stay in one piece? Fine.” He snaps his clawed fingers, beckoning to a nearby slave. “You. Come here.”

  The slave creeps forward. He stops before the high table where the nobles were standing. He’s human like you, close to the same age. He only briefly glances at you, keeping his eyes down. Your stomach is still churning. You know the look in Irminric’s black eyes. Something you'll never forget is about to happen.

  He splays his clawed hands on the table. He growls, then roars. His vast, muscled back arches like a cat. His draconic blood flares. You nearly dive for the floor.

  From his maw sprays black, sour acid.

  It splatters down the hall, into the slave. He screeches, thrashing and trying to scrape it from his skin. It steams and blisters, searing through to pink and then red. The other slaves scatter back to the kitchens. You stand, frozen, your heartbeat thrashing in your ears. Then, you turn and empty your stomach. The sound doesn’t stop. Maybe it never will.

  Irminric stops, acid still slavering from his maw. He turns and spits the last bits at your feet. You’re shaking.

  “You’ll keep all your parts,” he growls. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  He calls in two raiders to drag off the dying slave. Later that night, when you leave the hall, you look to the vast shore where you see a figure tied to a tall rock for the tide. It’s not moving. And you stand there for what seems like hours, crying.

  A year passes. It feels like a decade.

  After the incident with the Byrian nobles, you’re moved from the slave pens into the long hall. Irminric wants you closer and more available. In the cellar is a small room with lockable metal bars that might have once been a jail. A small bed is crammed in it. At night, you’re locked in except for when you’re needed because Irminric can't sleep. It’s pitch black except for the small flicker of light from a torch down the hall. When Torm is around, he and his raiders batter axes against the bars while you’re sleeping.

  But it’s privacy. You convince Irminric to let you keep the mandolin to practice. You spend most of your day with it, anyway. It would save room in his quarters. And it would save you a trip. You’re close to being done with his legendary song, you promise him. You just need to put in some dedicated practice, but you don’t want to spoil it for him. You think you see a twitch of excitement at that. In reality, you throw yourself into unlocking the instrument’s secrets. You begin to understand some of the spells embedded in its tiny ley line. You begin to understand what it would let you do if you had the right capacity. So, you practice magic when you’re certain nobody is down there. You begin to grasp at higher and higher ley lines, testing the boundaries of your vitality. Where grasping the first ley line once drew every ounce of breath from you, it begins to feel like nothing.

  You discover how to manifest a pink, arcane hand that you can slip through the bars and poke around the cellar. You pick at your illusion, pushing its boundaries and making it bigger, more alive. You create complex moving images and shape it into scenes, music, sounds, and even projections of yourself. Some nights, you shape people you once knew, see faces you miss. Sometimes, you play and compose music, providing accompaniment for yourself or simply listening. Sometimes, you watch Irminric and the Warlords face horrible deaths. Sometimes, you create company. And sometimes you create peace, laying it over the horror of your situation like a fa?ade—a busy Byrian street, a wildflower-lined road, a bustling inn.

  You push your magic in other ways, too. You pluck at the strings of your connections to the ley lines, testing their harmonics, finding their key, and discovering how to achieve an influential effect as you channel the energy. Sometimes, a cat wanders into the cellar. The kitchen slaves call her Raja. You practice on her, convincing her of your friendship, of your charm, so that she’ll stay and sleep with you. The mandolin hums in response when you do it. It seems to aid you somehow. It would be easy to do it to a person, but you don’t dare try it.

  With your affinity for illusion, you discover that the mandolin allows you to shape light around yourself, turning you invisible. It gives you a jolt of hope, but you have no means of escape. You’re on an island. It doesn’t last long, and then they would find you. The mandolin also allows you to propel yourself quickly forward, but only for a short time. It’s the same issue. You would only get so far. And you can only guess what would happen then.

  You look for any way to shut out the horror of being in Irminric’s presence day after day, watching him commit atrocity after atrocity, often on purpose. He tries to break you, and he’s succeeding. Most nights, you can only lie in bed and stare, hearing the building sound of simmering black water in your head, wondering if you’ll ever see light again. But he still doesn’t know what you can do. Nobody does. You have to keep it that way.

  You’re summoned by Irminric for a feast. You sit in the corner of the hall, close to the high table but out of the way. He spits in your food every feast, now. Sometimes, you push through. Other times, you simply go hungry. You hate the taste of meat, of ale. Last month, Torm and his raiders found you and held you down, shearing away the hair on the back and either side of your head, trying to make you look like you belong here. Now, you have to maintain it every couple weeks. You can only shave on the rare occasions one of the kitchen slaves – a dwarf – lets you borrow her secret razor. You barely recognize yourself anymore.

  You close your eyes against the roaring of raiders. You’ll play soon, probably. Then, only a few more hours before you can go to sleep.

  Someone slides into the seat next to you. You open your eyes. It’s Catherine.

  You hate her almost as much as Torm. She’s not obnoxious, but just as cruel and dangerous. You think she might be unhinged in some way. Although that’s not unique – everyone here is, including you. You find yourself tensing whenever she’s around, which is often. Earlier today, you were in Irminric’s quarters while he worked. She came in, and he promptly dismissed you with a growl. You know better than to go too far away. You sat in the hallway outside, hearing everything.

  Your stomach buzzes. She smells like polished leather. Her armor creaks as she shifts toward you. “Don’t look so miserable.”

  She cocks her head, examining you. Her white hair is in a long braid down her back, revealing pointed, dark elven ears. Her purplish-gray skin gleams in the firelight, her cheeks flushed black with drink. Her yellow eyes hold yours as she sips from her horn of ale.

  “You’re right,” you say. “What a wondrous occasion we’re having.”

  She smiles, lines appearing around her mouth. “You keep getting yourself in trouble. I like it.” She sets her drink down, leaning an elbow against the table. She’s close. You can smell the ale on her breath. She smiles conspiratorially. “You should come to For sometime. I think you’d like it.”

  You nod. “Sure, I’ll think about my next vacation there.”

  “Funny,” she says, looking you up and down. She lowers her voice and speaks in elven. “The Warchief says you’re quite the linguist. Is that true?”

  You glance around. Nobody seems to care that she’s talking to you. You wish she weren’t. “Yes,” you respond.

  She laughs. It’s deranged. “Oh no,” she says coyly, still in elven. She holds your gaze for a moment. “I like you all the more. But he says you’re the only toy I can’t play with.”

  Your stomach sours and lurches. “Leave me alone.”

  She shifts closer, her knees brushing yours. She puts a hand on your arm, moving toward your chest. The handle of her magical shortsword prods you. Your skin crawls. “You look so lonely over here, though. It must be terrible, being in that cold cellar. I’d let you sleep in my bed.”

  She’s drunk. Would anyone notice if you charmed her right now? But she might realize what you did. And they say dark elves can be more resistant to magic in the first place. With the mandolin, you have a chance. But not enough of one.

  You ignore her. She grabs your jaw, turning you to look at her. Her yellow eyes narrow. A mad smile crawls across her lips. “Irminric can’t shut you up. Now you won’t talk?”

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” you growl. You swat her hand away.

  Her jaw feathers. Then Erson appears, looming behind her. “Roosk. You’re a long way from where you’re supposed to be.”

  She whirls. She stands, grabbing her drink. She brushes your hair back, pulling your head against her hip for a moment. “You’d better treat this one better. He needs some company.”

  You pull away. “Fuck off.”

  She laughs, stalking toward Irminric. He’s about to call for music, now that everyone is finishing dinner. Erson gives you a long look, and you’re not sure what to make of it. He cuffs you in the head, then leaves.

  You turn away from them, humming to yourself and plucking some chords on your mandolin. You put your face in your hands for a long moment. You can’t cry right now. You’ll never hear the end of it. Someone will find a way to use it. And, of course, they want music. So, you have to give it to them.