Location — Kingdom of Vel'kharin, Blackstone Dungeon, un-numbered cell.
Giuseppe lay on the cold stone floors they dared to call a bed. The air was damp and rank, thick with the scent of rot and rust, and filled with the not-so-quiet snoring of the prisoners.
"Now as I mull it o'er, lad," came the gruff voice of Giuseppe's favourite cellmate. "Ne'er did catch what folk be callin' ye." Asked the alcoholic prisoner.
Giuseppe didn't bother opening his eyes. He took a moment, pondering over the question in the back of his mind.
'These people probably wouldn't be able to pronounce my real name anyway. Let's keep it simple and spare myself the annoyance.'
"Hmm… I guess you can call me Guy."
"Guy?" the drunk repeated, a light laugh in his voice. "A right dull name fer one wearin' garb like a bleedin' lord's wraith, innit?"
Giuseppe simply chuckled.
"Aye, well enough, Guy it be then," the drunk said, slapping his chest with a grin. "Name's Garvick. Folk say I'm a right trouble-stirrer in these parts."
He gestured across the cell, at the goliath that slapped the priest into paste last night. "Yon great ox is Darrow. Quiet as a mouse in a church, but he's got no devil in 'im."
"'Sides the crimes, I s'pose," Garvick adds with a laugh.
"Charming, I'm sure," Giuseppe says with mirth.
"Aye." Garvick nods.
He then waved a dismissive hand toward the wiry man laying down on the floor, snoring with a blissful expression. "That handsy wanker's Marko—done flapped his gob already, so I shan't waste breath on 'im."
"And there's that one o'er yonder."
He jabbed a finger toward the furthest corner of the cell. A lone figure sat curled up. Despite being wrapped in a dark, hooded cloak, Giuseppe could still see the rust-red hair leaking out from the hood.
"That shade in the corner's another odd one, like yerself—slipped in but two moons ere you. Ne'er says a word. Eats less'n a rat. Sleeps like a bleedin' spectre—if a'tall."
Giuseppe studies the figure for a moment before his brows scrunch in annoyance.
"What is this, a theme? Two people in dark cloaks. And here I am wearing all white, what the fuck, man?"
Garvick snorted. "Leastways ye'll be easy spottin' once they toss us into the bloody pit, as they always do."
"The pit?" Giuseppe turned back to Garvick with a questioning glare.
"A-"
Garvick opened his mouth to respond—but was cut off by the sharp clang of metal gates opening.
The distinct sound of multiple metal-plated footsteps echoed through the gradually quieting dungeon cell blocks.
"Hark—looks like yon jail-keeper's makin' his rounds again, he is," Garvick muttered.
Giuseppe couldn't see the source of the sounds from where he lay, but he listened. Heavy footsteps. Metal scraping against stone.
"Your blood still pumping in there, cunt?" came the gruff voice of the warden. "Don't make a sound, and I'll assume you're dead."
"And I don't bring food for the dead."
Garvick snorted. "Ain't like ye bring it for the livin' neither, ye half-rotted tin corpse."
The warden didn't reply. But the sound of metal footsteps began getting closer. Before long, a partially armoured figure emerged from the gloom, in dulled steel and black leather. The warden stood before the cells' black square bars, peering inside with a practised sneer.
He spotted Giuseppe's presence immediately.
"You," he said, voice low with disdain. "You're the lunatic who ambushed the king. At her highness's own ceremony, no less."
Garvick turned to Giuseppe, stunned. "Lad..."
Giuseppe shrugged.
Garvick burst into laughter, wiping tears from his grimy eyes. "Mad bastard! I reckoned ye just another braggart!"
The warden didn't mirror Garvick's smile. He stared flatly at the strangely-dressed prisoner before him.
"You have a visitor."
He turned and gave a single nod to someone out of Giuseppe's sight.
The sound of boots resounded again—this time softer, bereft of the metal-plated boots of the guards.
Before long, a figure appeared. He was tall and thin, cloaked head to toe in layered grey fabric. The folds of his robe were covered in faint dust from the prison. His hood hung low, concealing most of his face, but the pair of piercing, glacial green eyes that never left Giuseppe's could not be hidden.
"Stand, prisoner." The warden barked, "You are before Vaelen, the king's right hand."
The grey-cloaked figure raised a single, slender hand, scarred in horrid burn marks—and the warden fell silent in fear.
Giuseppe didn't move. He simply stared back at Vaelen's cold, green eyes, "Came to execute me personally, did you?"
Vaelen slowly took off his hood, revealing a rather young face, compared to what Giuseppe had previously expected. He appeared no more than thirty, with a cleanly shaven beard and curly blonde hair.
Giuseppe tilted his head, eyes glancing at the man from head to toe.
"Glad you took off the hood," he said, lips curling into a wide grin. "I had forgotten what a bitch looks like."
Garvick choked on his own spit, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. Beneath his hood, even Darrow raised a brow.
But to his surprise, Vaelen remained expressionless. He stared at Giuseppe—not with anger, not even disdain.
He simply unravelled a scroll in his hands, which he didn't bother reading. He already knew every word.
"By the command of Her Highness, Jocelynne Kaor — rightful heir of the Vel'kharin throne and daughter to King Maleth Kaor, Flame of the Iron Dynasty — I deliver this decree."
"Nameless wanderer," he said, voice as hard as iron. "For the crime of regicide attempt, incitement of panic, blasphemy and disrespect to the crown, you are stripped of identity and legacy."
"You are condemned to the Black Arena," Vaelen continued, "where you shall fight as chattel, no longer man, but beast. You will bleed for the empire's entertainment until your body gives way — to exhaustion, blade or madness. There will be no rest. No release. Nullus."
He let the words settle, staring down at Giuseppe as if he were no longer human. But a lesser life-form that dared stand in front of him.
"That is the will of the throne."
For a moment, even the dungeon itself seemed to hold its breath as silence overtook every cell block.
Then, a single sound escaped through the silence.
Giuseppe laughed, he laughed like he had never laughed before in his life. A violent cackle escaped his lungs as he finally stood up, laughing in the man's face.
"You're giving me an arena?" he said through the laughs. "I get a stage, and an audience?"
He leaned toward the bars, meeting Vaelen's empty gaze with pupilless black eyes.
"You just made the worst mistake of your fucking life."
Vaelen didn't blink, he didn't cower before the man in front of him. "No mistake has been made, boy."
He turned without another word, his grey cloak billowing as he moved. The warden followed behind him. "Let us hope you die quickly." He added, the dungeon's metal door closing behind him.
As Vaelen and the warden left, Giuseppe's grinning face abruptly changed into a cold expression. Despite his earlier taunts, there were still too many things he didn't know about this world.
He sat back down on the cold stone floor. Giuseppe understood something: if he was going to survive this, he was going to have to use something he didn't like to use often. His brain.
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Author Note
;)