The thing about dread is that it never asks for permission.
It doesn’t knock politely on your skull and ask if you’re available for a quick panic attack. No, dread barges in like an uninvited drunk at a funeral, stinking of piss and bad decisions, demanding everyone notice it.
That was exactly what my body did when the hulking shadow of the High Warden fell across the courtyard.
My nerves screamed, my stomach twisted into a noose, and my legs decided that now, after years of dedicated service, they wanted to be jelly. Proper, quivering, good-for-nothing jelly.
Why was he here? That question didn’t just enter my mind—it carved itself into the bone of my skull and kept hammering. Why, why, why?
Had he caught wind of our raid on Malrick’s wear house? Had he heard about the little incident we’d just orchestrated in our makeshift drug den? Was he sniffing after us specifically?
My brain flooded itself with possibilities, each worse than the last, until I was practically drowning in my own paranoia.
Saints above, if the Warden had come because of me personally, because of us, then I may as well have stripped naked, painted a bullseye across my ass, and bent over in the courtyard. At least then I’d die honestly.
But no answers came.
Just more pounding boots, more heavy breaths, more whispers across the courtyard that dried the air in my throat.
And then—because fate is a cruel comedian—the moment was interrupted by movement. One of the guards, hooded, cloaked, with that stiff little uptight gait that screamed "I iron my underwear," broke away from the patrol line.
He strolled right up to the Warden, his head bowing so low it looked ready to pop off his shoulders like a cork.
The Warden spoke.
Gods. His voice.
It wasn’t just a sound—it was a vibration, a grumble of rocks grinding against each other at the bottom of a pit. Rough. Gruff. Vulgar in a way that made the air around it stink.
He didn’t even need to curse for it to feel like filth dripping down my ears. And the first thing he did with that voice? Commented on the stench of the place.
"Piss," he said, sniffing the air like a dog hunting scraps. "Piss and fear. Same bloody smell everywhere I go. This courtyard reeks like a tavern gutter. I’d almost be impressed if it weren’t so pathetic."
The guard quivered. Not a big quake. Not a collapse. Just the kind of little tremor that said, Oh no, Daddy’s angry, and I forgot to clean my room. I recognized that quiver. I’ve caused that quiver. Usually right before someone paid me double. But here? It was pure terror.
The man stammered, his words tumbling out like a drunk spilling ale: "My lord... my lord Warden, forgive me, but—why? Why have you honored us with your... presence?"
Careful words, those. Each one laid like stepping-stones over quicksand.
The Warden let the silence stretch a beat too long before answering, just to let the poor bastard sweat.
Then he laughed.
Saints help me, he laughed. Not jolly. Not amused. It was the kind of laugh that crawled under your skin and made you feel like you’d just been volunteered for something you didn’t sign up for.
"Why am I here?" he said, voice rattling the courtyard. "Oh, that’s rich. Why would the lord of this little pit bother to crawl out of his cozy hole and stand among his livestock?" He leaned forward suddenly, chains rattling, voice dropping into something sharp. "Because I felt like it. Because I was bored. Because I thought, maybe, just maybe, one of you rats would squeak loud enough to entertain me." His laugh grew louder. "You want the noble answer? I heard a noise complaint."
The guard blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "A... noise complaint, my lord?"
"Yes, a noise complaint!" the Warden barked. "You think I don’t hear it? The screaming, the whining, the howling? Like pigs rutting on festival day. Echoes carry in these walls, boy. Echoes rattle my teeth while I’m trying to drink." He spat on the ground through his mask, the glob sizzling against stone like even his spit was toxic. "So I came down to check. Thought perhaps the walls had cracked, or a riot had broken out. But no. What do I find? Just you little shitters standing about, pretending you matter."
The guard nodded frantically, his bow deepening. "Y-yes, my lord, yes, of course, everything is in order. Nothing amiss, no uprisings, no disturbances worth troubling yourself over. Your vigilance is—"
The Warden cut him off with another laugh, this one deeper, more awful. "Vigilance? Oh, don’t flatter me. I’m not vigilant. I’m curious. Like a man poking a carcass to see if it still twitches. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I give a shit about order. Order is boring. Chaos, now..." His voice lingered on the word like it was wine. "Chaos sings to me."
The poor guard tried again, babbling, rambling about patrol schedules, food shortages, prisoner management, and something about the roof leaking again. He rambled and rambled, words spilling like vomit from a man who doesn’t know when to stop talking at his own funeral.
"Supplies are short, of course, my lord, but we’ve rationed well. The northern side of the prison has held, despite the damp, and the southern watch has doubled their patrols. And though the ceiling leak has worsened, I—"
The Warden tilted his head, his massive hair shifting like a living cloak. "Do you hear yourself? Southern Watch? Ceiling leaks? Saints preserve me, you sound like my grandmother complaining about her knees. What in the fuck do I care about leaks?"
The man flushed red but couldn’t stop. "I—I only meant to say, my lord, that we’ve kept everything in proper order, exactly as you commanded. No disruptions. No failures. Only loyalty. Only service."
The Warden groaned, dragging the head of his axe across the stone so it shrieked, a sound that made every tooth in my head ache. "Shut up. You talk too much."
It was a command. Simple. Clear. The kind of words that don’t leave room for interpretation. Except the poor bastard didn’t shut up. Couldn’t shut up. His lips kept moving, his voice kept spilling, as though he was caught in some sick trance.
The Warden sighed.
I’ll never forget that sigh. It wasn’t the sigh of someone bored. It wasn’t even the sigh of someone annoyed. It was the sigh of inevitability. The sigh of gravity watching you lean over a cliff.
And then his axe swung.
I didn’t even see it move. One instant the man was babbling, the next his head was flying through the air. Clean off. The body crumpled, spraying blood in a fountain so thick I nearly slipped in my hiding place just imagining it.
The head landed with a wet, ugly thud, rolling like a grotesque cabbage until it bumped against another guard’s boot.
The Warden grumbled, his voice dripping with disgust. "So noisy." He turned slightly, addressing no one and everyone at once. "That’s a lesson, by the way. I can forgive weakness. I can forgive filth. But noise? Noise makes my teeth ache."
And then he froze.
My heart slammed so hard against my ribs it nearly cracked them open. He froze, and I felt it. His gaze. That impossible, suffocating gaze landed right on the alley where I was hiding.
I didn’t see his eyes, I couldn’t have—they were just black pits behind that mask—but saints preserve me, I felt them. Felt them burn across my skin like molten iron.
I slammed back against the wall. My chest heaved. My knuckles whitened around the shotgun, slick with sweat, trembling.
Then I prayed. I prayed to every god, every demon, every saint, even the ones I didn’t like. I promised celibacy, which was ridiculous. I promised honesty, which was worse. I promised anything, everything, if they would just let me vanish into the cracks right now.
The Warden stirred. Slowly. Deliberately. His massive shoulders rolled. His head tilted. Then he began to sniff the air, searching, hunting for something.
I dared. Saints forgive me, but I dared. I dared to peer, just a sliver, around the corner. My breath caught. My vision blurred. He was still there, still massive, still awful, and then—he raised a hand. One titanic arm, one finger like a pillar of doom. And he pointed.
Not at me. Not at my alley. He pointed at them.
My crew.
At first, I thought he was pointing at Dregan. Poor, wrinkled, hiccupping Dregan who still looked like he’d been birthed out of a wine barrel and kicked into the street.
My heart lurched, because saints help me, that was one fight even my snide commentary couldn’t save. But then I noticed it—no, not Dregan. The finger wasn’t fixed on his drunken sway. It was angled past him. Just behind.
Landing directly on Freya.
My breath snagged in my throat. The realization was cold, sharp, absolute. I wanted to shout, to laugh it off, to pretend the Warden had simply picked his favorite random shape in the crowd and pointed for dramatic effect. But reality doesn’t bend that kindly.
The four escorts around him moved in perfect unison, like limbs from the same rotten god.
They descended on her with the precision of wolves pulling down a deer. One at her back, one at her front, two flanking either side. Before I could even blink, Freya was dragged out, her hooded figure shoved into the center of the courtyard, right before the Warden.
My mind spiraled. A flood of half-thoughts, frantic questions, desperate prayers. What would he see? What would he know? Could he smell the lies stitched into those cloaks? Could he sense the stink of contraband hidden beneath them? Saints above, my chest burned with the certainty that this was it, this was the moment everything came undone.
"Reveal yourself," the Warden growled as two of his escorts stepped back to allow him space.
The command landed like a weight. It wasn’t just a request, not even just an order—it was inevitability turned into sound, a voice meant to be obeyed. But Freya refused to obey. She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t so much as twitch beneath that hood.
Silence. And then—very slowly—the Warden tilted his head.
One of the escorts moved. A hand like iron clamped the edge of her hood and yanked. The fabric tore back, falling limp around her shoulders, and there she was.
Her face was twisted in fury, eyes blazing, lips curled back like a wolf about to bite. She was all jagged edges, no submission. Even bloodied and cornered, she radiated a heat that dared anyone to touch her.
The Warden laughed again, the sound rolling up from his chest like a boulder down a mountain, low and grinding, scraping along my ribs just to remind me I was alive. He leaned forward, his mask gleaming, his chains rattling as though the world itself flinched to make room.
"I knew it," he said, voice slick and vulgar. "I smelled something sweet on the air. Not fear. Not blood. No... a woman."
He let the word linger, coating it with filth.
"I never hire women," he continued, mocking almost conversationally. "Never trusted them. Too clever. Too soft. Too loud when they break. Mhm, for a second I thought I was losing my damn mind. Turns out I was right...looks like there’s a stray bitch skulking where she doesn’t belong."
He prowled closer, boots thudding, each step heavy enough to make the courtyard tremble. His hand—massive, calloused, obscene—shot out and cupped her jaw, tilting her face upward. Then it slid lower. Across her throat. Down her collarbone. Across the curve of her chest. He began groping her like a butcher testing meat, squeezing, prodding, claiming.
Freya’s jaw locked tight, her molten eyes never leaving his. But her body betrayed her with the faintest twitch—her gaze flicked down, just for a heartbeat. And saints, I followed it. I shouldn’t have, but I did.
The Warden’s crotch.
The armor there bulged, twitched, monstrous in its own right. My stomach dropped into my boots. His chains clinked with every subtle motion, a sick percussion to his vulgarity.
I tore my eyes away, because what else could I do but gag internally and whisper prayers to any god who hadn’t blocked my number yet.
Out of the corner of my vision, I caught Brutus. His face beneath the cloak was stone, darker than I’d ever seen it, fists clenched so tight I thought he might crush bone with sheer grip.
Atticus was trembling, glasses crooked, lips moving silently as if reciting every curse, every spell, every rationalization he could conjure to keep from exploding.
Dregan—gods, Dregan—was gnawing on his lip, his eyes wide and wild, his whole body vibrating with the urge to leap in.
But they didn’t. None of them moved. Because we all knew what I knew: the second anyone stepped forward, we’d all be corpses.
The Warden leaned closer, mask inches from her face, his breath hot and foul enough to wilt crops. "What’s your name, little flower?" he rasped, letting the words drag, savoring them like meat pulled off a bone. "Hmm? What do they call you down here? Do you squeal when they use it? Or should I pick something sweeter for myself?"
Freya didn’t answer, only bared her teeth at him harder. The warden’s chains rattled as he shifted, pulling in closer.
"Tell me, girl—do you think you’re dangerous because you bare your teeth? You think I can’t smell the heat rolling off of you right now? Hah! I could smell you across the yard. That scent. Hot and angry. Gods, it’s been years since I caught that kind of perfume. It’s making my cock twitch already."
He began running his hand through Freya’s hair before continuing. "I could take you right here you know. Break you down until you begged me to stop. Make you show them all what a woman’s really for. You’d scream, and they’d all learn from your example. Doesn’t that sound nice?"
That was it. That was the moment that pushed Freya over the edge. That was the moment when, in some wild, stupid rush of fury, she spat.
Right in his face.
The sound rang sharp, wet, and final. Spit smeared across the black mass like a silver slash of arrogance.
"Fuck you," she snarled.
The courtyard froze.
The Warden didn’t flinch. He didn’t jerk back. He didn’t roar. He simply... paused. Then, slowly, he wiped his thumb across the mask, smearing the spit into nothing. He grunted, low and dismissive. "Filthy woman," he said. "Not even worth raping."
His head tilted toward the escorts. "Search them," he commanded. His voice was a sentence. "Every last one of them. If there’s one rat hiding in my house, there will be more."
My heart clenched. My stomach turned inside out. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He began walking back toward the gate, chains dragging, hair swaying in defiance. Over his shoulder, he added, almost carelessly: "As for this one—" he gestured lazily at Freya—"do as you please."
And then he was gone. Just like that. Striding into the dark hall, vanishing back into the prison’s throat, leaving ruin in his wake.
And that was the spark.
The two escorts holding Freya forced her down, twisting her arms behind her back until her body buckled. She thrashed, cursed, teeth bared, but they were iron. The other two began weaving into the crowd, pulling prisoners, yanking hoods, searching faces with brutal efficiency.
This was bad. Saints, this was worse than bad. If they kept going, if they kept tearing through every face, every shadow, they’d find Brutus, Atticus, Dregan—and worse, our supplies, the vials, the contraband.
I steadied my breath. My hands clenched around the shotgun. My resolve burned sharper than my fear.
It was time.
Time for me to move.