You play for Irminric while he works at his desk.

  He returned from a raid this morning and is in a better mood than usual. He hasn’t thrown anything at you or threatened harm or bellowed in your face. It must have been a good haul. That means a lot of people died. A lot of things were stolen and stuffed in the vault. The world was made a worse place for it.

  It’s been almost five years here. You’re unrecognizable to yourself, except for the inch you’ve kept hidden away – the inch that knows what you are, what you’re capable of. Despite it, you’ve gained a little more freedom. Sometimes, you sit lost among the fireweed in the hills and tell yourself color still exists in the world, even if you can’t see it. Other times, you walk to the rocky shore where slick cliff faces drop to churning, foaming seawater. It helps drown out your screaming. You wonder how long it would take to kill you if you stepped off it. Drowning is a terrible way to die, you learn from listening to raiders. Maybe it’s better to inhale a lungful of water and get it over with sooner. You wonder if it would feel cold inside. Maybe no colder than you already feel. How many more years can you do this? Will you spend your life here? Will it be cut short by some stupid comment? Which is worse? Which is better?

  At night, you sit in your cellar and ponder. What have these five years cost you? What paths never crossed? What circumstances did you miss? What kind of bard would you have been if not this? Would you have made it big in Byra? Would you have fallen in love, had your heart broken, called someone home? The crash of endless foaming waves is your answer. There’s only Irminric’s spiky face, the familiar scent of death, the feel of shortswords in your hands, the churning in your stomach at the sight of blood, the faint light of a single torch in the cellar. Some days blur together entirely. Others are painfully vibrant. The worst of it spikes into consciousness in the midst of your sleep. All of it is locked behind an impenetrable vault in your mind, plunged within the endless, dark black waters brimming ever higher. It’s the only way to survive. At least while you’re alive, you have a name to be remembered. At least while you’re alive, you mean something.

  You’re sore from the Pit yesterday. Irminric is reaching the end of his supply of people willing to fight you. You occasionally throw a fight to stave off the inevitability that he’ll send slaves at you. You know how he thinks. It’s not always you in the Pit, though. Occasionally, he gets challengers. That’s how it works here. Anyone can be the Warlord if they kill the previous one – you assume it works similarly for the Warchief. It’s a time-honored tradition to do it in the Pit, in front of everyone. Although backstabbing never goes out of fashion anywhere in the world. But everyone knows the Byrian Isles are paragons of style.

  You strum away on the other side of Irminric’s desk, boots propped up. He doesn’t scowl at you about it today. You stare at the ceiling while you play, as you often do, losing yourself in it and quieting the oppressive, deafening, swirling dark waters in your mind. You’ve had five years of practice with this instrument, learning the mandolin better than you ever played your fiddle. It fits your hands like the curve of a body. You work new chord progressions on the fly, coming up with new songs and weaving in old ones. Sometimes, you lace your music with themes of “The Biggest, Blackest Dragon”, but he doesn’t seem to notice. To him, your music is just background noise. To you, it’s the only art you’ll ever contribute to the world.

  The door bursts open.

  Erson enters the room. His face is only a little more lined after all these years. His grayed beard clicks with beads. His hard eyes fall on you. “Seven Oaks.” He jerks his balding head back over his shoulder.

  You glance at Irminric. He doesn’t look up from his letter. “Go.”

  You stand, your chair scraping. You don’t know what this is about. Maybe it’s a surprise party for all your hard work. You sling your mandolin behind you and follow Erson from the room. He doesn’t seem as broad as he used to.

  “We got one who doesn’t speak common,” he says as you walk through the hall. You continue outside and into the settlement. It doesn’t have a name, as far as you can tell. It’s just Jor.

  “And you’ve not killed them?” you ask. You have a terrible feeling. “Everyone’s in a good mood today.”

  He stops abruptly, turning. He waves a knife hand at your face. “You won’t be if you fuck this up.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve got an impeccable record,” you say with a casual smile.

  He glares at you, his lined eyes hard. Several months ago, you stood up to him just like this. When he smacked you, you broke his nose. It’s still a little crooked. Irminric beat another slave within an inch of her life for that.

  Erson’s wide, bearded jaw twitches. He holds your gaze a moment longer, then turns and continues on. You let out a held breath before following.

  You arrive at a familiar platform near the docks. Once, you were lined up here with the residents of Yakita, all of whom you’ve since lost track of. Your stomach begins to sour.

  In front of you is a chained line of fresh slaves.

  You cross your arms for warmth. Peitr the dwarf is writing down names and occupations, going along the line. Erson steers you toward one person in particular. He looks at you expectantly.

  She’s human, except for the strange white glow to her eyes. There’s something beautiful and otherworldly about her. She’s a half-angel, you realize. Fuck. You don’t know the angelic language. Elven, then? That’s always a good bet. It’s almost as widespread as common.

  “I hope you’re having a lovely afternoon, all things considered,” you say, stepping forward. “They’re telling me you don’t know common.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She doesn’t say anything, looking between Erson and Peitr.

  You turn to them. “Give me a bit of space here.” Erson glares and steps backward, bringing Peitr with him. You turn back to the woman, returning to elven. “Do you understand me?”

  “A little.”

  You blink. She responds in fey. You switch over. “They’re wanting your name and any skills – hang on. You only speak fey? If you don’t mind me asking, you’re…”

  She glances around nervously. “I grew up in the Heartwood. I moved to the Guildland Forest and was living with some centaurs there. I’m… a shapeshifter.”

  You freeze. You know of shapeshifters, even if you’ve ever met one. Or at least, you think you’ve never met one. They’re the descendants of doppelgangers. As such, they can become anyone, any species, any appearance. They can even look like you, speak with your voice. You’ve heard whispers of a community in Byra, but they keep to themselves – there aren’t many of them. They're feared and respected in equal measures.

  You step closer and lower your voice. “Listen to me. Don’t let them know that. Don’t shift – stay as you are. You’re dangerous. Do you understand? Stay exactly as you are.”

  She opens her mouth a few times. She’s shuddering. Tears tremble her words. “What do you mean? Please, I’m scared –”

  “I mean –” your blood hums. “You’re a slave now. If you’re too much trouble, they’ll kill you.”

  “Are you a slave, too?”

  “That’s not the point –”

  “Seven Oaks. We don’t have all day,” Erson cuts in.

  You turn halfway, returning to common. “She doesn’t know what’s going on here. I’m trying to get it out of her.”

  “Make it quick, then.”

  You turn back to the shapeshifter, speaking in fey. “They need your name and any skills you’ve got. They’re gonna put you where you’re useful. Before you say anything, don’t tell me you’ve got skill with lumbering or shipbuilding. You don’t want to go there.”

  You don’t want to go anywhere on this godsforsaken island. No occupation is better than the others.

  “Ren is my name,” she says. “My parent is a wainwright, so I have some skill with that. I worked in a kitchen –”

  “Don’t tell me that, either,” you snap. They’ll put her near Irminric. She was living with centaurs, she said. “You’ve been around a stable before, then?”

  She blinks, her glowing eyes winking for a second. “Yes. Why?”

  You turn to Erson and Peitr, returning to common. “Her name’s Ren. She’s a stablehand. Half-angel.”

  Peitr scribbles. Erson grunts, glancing over Peitr’s low shoulder at the register. “The stables have enough. Put her in the Pit. It’s shoveling shit all the same.”

  You go cold.

  “What are they saying?” she asks in fey. She looks at you, searching for your gaze.

  You speak in fey, swallowing glass. “They’re gonna have you work in the fighting pit. I’m sorry.”

  Her voice breaks. “Wait, what? Who – what’s your name?”

  “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks. It’ll be alright. Remember what I said – don’t change. And look for Samantha in the pens. She speaks elven. She’ll help you.”

  Erson’s hand falls on your shoulder, shoving you back toward the long hall. “That’s all we need. Get out of here.”

  “Please, wait!” she calls behind you.

  You hurry a small distance away, turning a corner down a worn road. You can’t turn back. You have to leave, or Erson will make things ugly. You don’t want the new slaves seeing that. There are enough horrors waiting for them. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shoving down a sob. You stop, leaning against a fence post. The sight of a small, thatched hut blurs. Something is bubbling up inside, like black, churning, foaming water from an endless void. It roars, cracks, breaks against rocky cliffs. It’s immense, threatening to swallow you whole, to flush away the last sane pieces of yourself, lurking closer each day. You know what’s at the bottom. You don’t dare look. You gasp for breath. You wonder if you’ll ever see her again. You know the answer.

  You have to get out of here. You have to – whatever it takes. If you don’t, you’ll step off a cliff face soon enough. If you die trying to escape, then all the better. Irminric can’t win that way. You feel like screaming. You’re trembling, unable to stop. But you have to. If he sees you like this, he’ll use it against you. He'll know he's doing something right. You have to get back before he notices you’ve taken too long. You straighten, take a breath, and cross your arms for warmth.

  And you walk back to the long hall.

  That night, you perform. You feel especially gray. Even music doesn’t stem the flow of the water in your head. You’ve sentenced another slave to an eternity of watching people die for entertainment. Maybe you’ll be one of them – the one friendly face she saw when she arrived. Maybe one day, she’ll scrape you from the packed dirt and haul you off to be chucked into the sea with a rock as your only friend.

  The night creeps on. You’re numb, hardly seeing or hearing the hall around you. Torm and his raiders lob pieces of food at you to get a reaction. Catherine tries to slide into your lap but goes away when you’re unresponsive. The raiders and jarls begin to stumble off to sleep or pass out at their tables. Irminric has left. You could go to bed if you wanted, but you can hardly bring yourself to move. Some nights, you simply drag yourself to a spot along the wall and curl up, your mandolin as your pillow, hoping sleep will give you the strength to make it through tomorrow. You cross your arms on the table, collapsing into them. You’re exhausted. You’ve been crushingly tired for five years and counting.

  But you can’t sleep. Soon, there are only snores around you. You glance around. Everything smells like ale, sweat, and musty wood.

  You stop. Left at Irminric’s seat is a bottle.

  You peer at it. It’s hardly been touched – likely a spoil from the raid. He doesn’t often drink anything but ale, and even then, it’s in small amounts. He likes having a clear head while he does unspeakable things to his raiders, slaves, and anyone he pleases.

  The water in your head crashes. If you move to grab it, someone might wake up and see. You pause for a moment, feeling the rhythm of the raucous snores around you. You wait. A massive orc splits the hall. You quickly hum under your breath and flick your hand out.

  Your pink arcane hand silently hovers over to it. It grasps the bottle and brings it over. It’s dwarven whiskey, and expensive stuff at that. You open it, upending it into your empty mug. Your hand slips. The bottle clatters against the table. You freeze, but no one stirs. Your arcane hand returns it. Then, it vanishes.

  You quietly stand, taking your mug and heading for the cellar. You take a deep swig.

  You set your mandolin down and flop into bed, leaning against the wall. The whiskey sears your throat, but you gulp it anyway. You can’t stop coughing. However, the numbness shifts after a few minutes. It becomes pleasant numbness. It’s manageable. The murky, dark waters subside a little. You start crying. It’s uncontrollable. You down the rest of it. It’s the first hint of beauty you’ve found here besides the searing pink sunsets some nights. You’re heavy, oblivion lurking swiftly just beyond your consciousness. You look into the blurry mug. You snap your fingers, removing any trace of liquor. You toss it off your bed. You’re protected now – the waters are leveed back where you can’t see or hear or think of them. Now, it just needs to stay there forever.

  Blackness begins to take you. You keel over into your bed. It’s going to be back in the morning. But for now, it’s gone. You can live a little longer like this.

  And you swirl down into darkness where no light can reach you.