In the Lord’s Mansion dungeon.
This place is pitch black without daylight, constantly permeated by a damp, foul smell. Those who err and are confined here do not last long. Just a few days, and even the hardiest man submits.
It is said no one endures a full month in the dungeon.
Few die here, but many are utterly broken in spirit. The stench, the gloom, the dampness create an environment as vile as imaginable. Eating, drinking, and relieving oneself all occur in the cramped space. Only a small window to the outside admits faint daylight each day. Food consists of mouldy bread and murky cold water. Spotting a rat counts as a rare treat.
Winter has now arrived, making the dungeon terrifyingly cold. The sewage on the floor has frozen into a layer of ice.
Jacob, leaning against the wall, slowly rose to his feet. He pulled his old leather coat tighter around himself. The coat had been given to him last winter by a fellow prisoner before the man left. That prisoner was no saint, but he pitied Jacob. When Jacob was first imprisoned, summer still lingered. Yet the first snow fell, and he remained locked away. Seeing Jacob shiver in the corner, the prisoner could not stand it. So he left his clothes behind out of kindness.
Thanks to that coat, Jacob had not frozen to death in this hellish weather, where the dungeon floor’s mud and sewage had all iced over. He straightened his frail body and drew a deep breath of icy yet fresh air through the small window above the cell. The faint daylight filtering in made his sun-starved eyes squint.
His dirty, gaunt face showed no expression, as if despair and numbness had claimed him. Yet faintly, other emotions stirred beneath. He picked up a sharp stone from the ground and carved a line into the wall with force. Now, right before him stood the marks he had scratched, one per day, densely packed. Two hundred and eighty-one in total.
They signified over nine months.
He had been confined in the dungeon for more than nine months.
Ever since Ye Dui and the others fled the Lord’s kitchen with Miss Windsor, Jacob, with his loose ties to Ye Dui, was seized at once. At the time, he was peeling potatoes in the storeroom. That very task proved he took no part in abducting Miss Windsor. Even so, punishment was inevitable. Several Lord’s guards beat him brutally and lashed him with whips, hoping to pry something from his lips. But he had nothing to reveal.
Back then, his mind stayed clear. Either the Lord’s Mansion would slay him in rage, or release him. After all, he shared no deep bond with Ye Dui and his companions. In truth, they had duped him.
He knew nothing of their scheme to kidnap Miss Windsor.
To his shock, however, they tossed him into the dungeon straight after. And there he stayed, right up to now. No more beatings came, no interrogations. It was as if they had erased him entirely, content to let him rot away in the depths.
This place outdid even the slum district’s streets in misery.
Winter rendered it unbearable, moment by moment. He fell feverish several times, convinced death loomed in the dungeon. Yet he endured each bout.
He could not name what sustained his life. Stubborn will? He never credited himself with such a trait. As a boy, he yearned to become a magus, or at least a skilled swordsman. But at sixteen, tests revealed no gift for magus. Swordsmanship demanded grueling drills, which he abandoned after mere days.
Better to remain a quiet cook, he decided.
Or perhaps he clung to hope of walking free one day?
Nine months of captivity had nearly drowned that hope in despair, though. The lord had surely forgotten him by now. His sole link to the world was the half-deaf, half-mute jailer head.
Each day, the man delivered scraps of food, his face sour. He muttered things like “Why linger on?” or “Die soon and find peace. Even hell’s fiends shun this torment.” At first, the barbs cut deep. Over time, they grew oddly comforting.
For chances to speak, or hear a voice, came all too rarely.
Now and then, fresh captives joined him in the cell, or the next one over. Thieves, brutes, even killers bound for the gallows. Those times gladdened him. He chatted eagerly, even as they struck or reviled him. Still, he beamed his warmest smile.
Lately, though, the bitter cold likely kept even criminals indoors. No one to curse him now. So lonely.
Jacob dragged his exhausted frame to the corner. He hugged his arms, squatting down. A shiver wracked him despite himself. Once more, he pondered what had kept him pressing on.
His gaze fixed on the pale gleam from the small window. A manic smile crept across his grimy face.
Ah, yes. He recalled it now. Hatred.
Not for Ye Dui and his lot. Well, their abrupt departure left him to this suffering. He felt a twinge of resentment, true. But he trusted it unintentional.
No, his hatred burned for the head chef.
Over two months in, he learned at last why neither death nor freedom had come for him.
The head chef appeared outside the bars then. The squat, plump man muffled his mouth with a silk scarf. His vile sneer laid bare the scheme to Jacob. He blamed Jacob for luring Ye Dui’s group, which earned him the lord’s scolding. He dared not cross Ye Dui. But a nobody like you? Fair game.
Thus, he bribed the jailers to hold Jacob indefinitely. Until his bones crumbled. Until he rotted clean away.
Jacob was mere slum trash. Who would mourn him?
If…
If I escape this.
I will kill him.
That fixation took root in Jacob’s soul unbidden. It buoyed him here.
He was no firebrand, kind and mild by bent. But that did not make him spineless.
In the chill, Jacob balled his fist hard. The gentle soul, amid this dank filth, quietly transformed.
Clink. Keys turned in the lock.
Footsteps followed.
More than one set, by the sound. Jacob twisted to peer beyond the bars. He spied the old jailer, and beside him, the squat plump man. The head chef.
This visit, the head chef brought no scarf to fend off the dungeon’s chill reek. A smile even played on his lips. Beads of sweat dotted his glossy brow.
“Ah, Jacob. Holding up? Such suffering. All my doing. Too swamped these months, I forgot you. Demon Emperor’s curse, what a failing on my part.”
Meek, quavering words spilled from the head chef’s mouth. He urged the jailer to fling the door wide. Then he stepped in himself, hoisting Jacob’s arm, guiding him from the cell.
Soon after, Jacob quit the dungeon at last, after over half a year. They bore him to a lavish chamber. A hot bath awaited, scouring away the grime. He donned clean, warm silk-lined garb. Still slender, he looked far more vital.
All the while, the head chef prattled at his ear. Broadly, he bade Jacob forgive the long confinement. To soothe his ire, the head chef offered half his fortune. Thousands of gold coins, enough for a fine home in Windrock City’s affluent quarter.
Jacob heard it all in silence, a puzzle gnawing at him. Yet his face stayed serene. From the dungeon’s threshold, he uttered no word. No delight showed. But he sensed the truth dimly.
And soon, proof arrived. The Lord’s chief steward led them both, Jacob and the drenched, quaking head chef, to the banquet hall.
Morning light bathed the hour, yet the hall buzzed as if mid-feast. Revelry reigned.
Jacob caught the undercurrent of oddity at once, though.
A swarthy girl perched on the table, gnawing a ham hock.
Eating atop the table?
Noble Lord Kevin sat nearby. He eyed the cross-legged girl gorging herself, his features resigned to a wry half-smile.
Jacob spotted Green, Lisa, the Fourth Prince too. And Ye Dui, holding court at the high seat, deep in talk with an unknown elder. That man’s rank gleamed evident. Lord Kevin’s deference toward him spoke volumes.
Jacob’s entry snared every eye in the hall.
Green, Ye Dui, Lisa rose in haste.
Joy lit their faces. Jacob’s stoic mask twitched faintly. Warmth kindled within him, alongside a fierce new surge.
He grasped not what befell Ye Dui’s band. But clearly, the lord now hailed Ye Dui as prized guest.
What more needed saying?
He wheeled about, fixing on the head chef.
“Jacob.” The man’s jowls spasmed. His gaze pleaded, fawning.
Jacob lashed out with a foot. “Screw your mother, you loathsome sack.”
The rasping tirade gushed forth. Slum-bred filth, words Jacob once shunned. Now, they thrilled like nothing before.
Nine months’ ordeal had sapped his vigour near dry, though. Fists and kicks landed soft on the head chef. Yet they floored him all the same. Wails rose, pleas tumbling out.
The chief steward blinked in surprise. He held back, though, watching with keen relish.
Then Ye Dui approached. He seized Jacob’s arm. “Enough.”
Jacob wheezed, turning to Ye Dui. Pallor clawed his cheeks, laced with feverish crimson.
The head chef spied Ye Dui’s intervention. Relief flooded his doughy face. He groveled toward Ye Dui at once. “Milord, my error. I merit death. Mercy, I beg.”
Jacob’s blows rang hollow, really. His shrieks had been theater, a vent for the lad. The head chef saw it plain. Dare he truly end me, before the lord’s own eyes? He was the lord’s chosen head chef. Deep down, he plotted. Once Ye Dui’s crew quit Windrock, a quiet knife for the boy.
Yet…
Ye Dui glanced back, beckoning Green with a flick. Green grasped it swift. He conjured his grimoire, delved the [Storage Space]. Out came a brick, ported to Ye Dui’s palm. Ye Dui passed it to Jacob. “Fists and feet smart too fierce. Brick’s better.”
The head chef’s pudgy visage locked in stun. “…”
Blood vessels burst in Jacob’s stare as he claimed the brick.
“Enchantments make this one sturdy. Swing free. Tired? Grab a bite yonder.” Ye Dui clapped Jacob’s shoulder, grinning easy.
So Jacob hefted the brick, eyes wild, pinning the head chef.
The head chef cast desperate eyes to Lord Kevin. But the lord, wine cup in hand, had looked away.
Thwack.
“Aaagh.”
