The chains around Arin's wrists tugged and strained as yet another prisoner plunged from the dock into the water to drown himself. Barely, Arin kept his balance – anchoring himself to the wooden planks when he heard that all-too-familiar splash.
"Not again..."
The man behind him didn't fare so well. With a sharp yank, he was pulled off balance and crashed backward onto the groaning wood. He nearly fell in too.
A guard sprinted over.
"Pull him up now!" he barked.
The row of condemned men let out pained grunts. No one moved a finger – why bother? The man had jumped off his own free will, and most of them would've followed if they could.
"I said, pull!"
A whip cracked in the air. A scream. Then, with great effort, they heaved the drowning prisoner back onto the dock. Arin wanted nothing more than to strangle him with his own chains. Counting this jump, that made already seven attempts for today.
"You oughta be called Jumper..." Arin muttered under his breath.
Boarding the Red Return was slow going. The ship of the golden ones lurched restlessly on the sea, like a colossal beast poised to swallow Arin in a single gulp.
One gulp.
A caravan of a hundred or more people – academy hopefuls, wagons, rum-filled barrels, squealing pigs, and a handful of other prisoners – waited impatiently to get aboard. Some anticipated the journey's end more eagerly than others.
Arin was definitely not one of them.
They were standing on the dock beneath the ship's shadow while the sailors busily prepared for departure. Ropes were hauled in, sails fluttered. The ship heeled so far that Arin feared it might capsize and crush him right there.
He hoped it'd crush Jumper first. Or the young man a few paces ahead of him. He wasn't a prisoner. The boy in front wore none of the grime-streaked rags that dirtied Arin's body, nor was his gaze shadowed with darkness. There were also no chains binding him.
No, this boy looked strikingly healthy. Clearly he'd eaten well on their fortnight voyage. He looked fat and content, like Arin's father once had.
Food.
Arin bit his lip to suppress the growling ache. He focused on the scent of salt and fear-sweat dripping from him. On the cold metal cuffs biting into his skin. But still, his eyes kept drifting to the cluster of academy hopefuls ahead. They were likely the same age as he was.
He and they stood nearly side by side – just three meters apart, yet worlds away. How had they taken the path of masters while he ended up in chains?
Were they somehow chosen for greatness and he wasn't? That couldn't be true.
He'd become a Grandmaster... someday.
"Look there... he's been staring at us the whole time."
Arin blinked, realizing he had indeed been watching them with hungry eyes. The hopefuls had noticed him.
There were three of them. A large, well-fed boy, a girl seated in a simple chair with two wheels, and another girl pushing the chair from behind.
Arin studied them from head to toe.
A gust of wind lashed over the dock, making their cloaks flare. Arin fought back a grimace as wind whipped his hair across his face. He should've been the one wearing that cloak.
Gray fabric, buttons from top to bottom, but only one button fastened, per tradition and the code. The left sleeve cut off at the elbow to honor the Founder. Underneath, a plain shirt, as well as three knives stowed away in a belt. This was what one wore when departing for the Academy of Blades – setting out on the path to mastery.
He endured this little divine game with everything he had. The trio scrutinized him as coldly as one might inspect a peculiar stain on the ground.
The boy lost interest fast. He was tall, round-faced, well-groomed. Likely never beaten in his idyllic life. With the air suddenly becoming entitled, he pulled a massive slab of dry bread from his cloak. Brick-sized, brown, cracked. He bit into it slowly, deliberately, as if seated at a home table rather than standing on a windblown dock. Crumbs tumbled onto his spotless cloak. He didn't even bother brushing them off.
He continued chewing, each bite crackling audibly. The smell of old, hearty bread struck Arin like an insult. His stomach clenched so hard he almost moaned out loud. He forced himself to turn away, but his gaze slid back to that loaf.
One of the girls quickly looked away too, as if she'd already decided he wasn't worth noticing. Only the girl in the chair kept watching. Her black hair was braided into tight strands that lay neatly at her shoulders. It was an almost compulsive orderliness, as though she clung to her appearance.
Arin thought he saw a glimmer of gold in her eyes.
"Vaneth, don't look like that. He's dangerous," said the one pushing the chair.
So the girl's name was Vaneth. She gave her friend a quick, knowing look, then shrugged. Her voice was soft, but clear enough to carry over the wind.
"Are you really?" she asked.
Arin blinked. Did she mean him?
He parted his lips. Three silent words slipped out before his voice recalled itself. Only on the fourth did a sound emerge.
"…in a chair?"
Now all three of them stared at him.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the dock. Arin recognized them too well. A guard with the knob of his club at eye level approached the hopefuls. He bowed slightly. A curt nod, really.
"Problem?"
The boy opened his mouth, but Vaneth answered first.
"No, Overseer. We were just talking."
The guard scanned the scene, lingering on Arin. His gaze was the same one you'd give a misbehaving cow. You were tempted to smack it, but holding back for now.
Not that Arin had ever smacked a cow.
"I'd advise you to ignore him, hopefuls. And don't feed him."
With that, he walked off without looking back.
Vaneth leaned back slightly in her chair. The boy and the other girl cast dark looks at Arin, as though he were a barking dog tied too close to their wagons. Only Vaneth seemed amused. A faint smile flickered at the corner of her lips.
"What did you say?" she asked.
Arin glanced over his shoulder. The guard was busy flogging Jumper again.
"I asked why you're sitting in a chair."
"I can't walk," she said matter-of-factly.
"Why are you in chains?" she asked.
Arin hesitated. Should he answer? He didn't know these people. But who did he know anymore? Most of those who meant anything to him were far, far away.
Maybe it was time to make new acquaintances. Maybe he could make use of them later.
"I killed someone," he said flatly.
Vaneth's expression didn't change.
"Why?" she asked.
Arin looked down as though he had to remember the reason. Then he lifted his eyes.
"Because, unlike you, I walked away."
She was silent for a moment, then tilted her head, as if viewing him from a new angle. Or perhaps she simply didn't understand him.
"So you're a murderer. Then you deserve the Sunhole," the boy snarled.
Arin frowned and imitated Vaneth's head tilt.
"What're you talking about?"
The boy blinked – surprised for a split second – then let a crooked, venomous grin spread across his face like a trapper who knows you'll soil his wagon.
"You poor thing. You don't even know where they're taking you."
Arin lifted his head, anger boiling inside him.
Of course he knew where they were heading. Did this boy think he was better than him? That Arin was some clueless idiot?
This ship was his destination. Its endpoint was his destiny: the Blade Academy, and the title of Master.
Only the chains were not part of the plan.
The boy now didn't even bother swallowing more of his bread before speaking.
"Shame that the honest citizens of the realm must share a ship with you criminals."
As he spoke, he broke off another hunk of bread. It seemed slowly, maybe even deliberately. He waved it between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe he was taunting Arin. Maybe he was just a moron.
Arin felt saliva welling in his throat.
"Just a little closer..." he thought.
But the boy didn't take a step closer. At least for now. He turned back around, seemingly having lost interest once again. Now that the bread was gone, Arin followed his line of sight.
Ahead of him, behind the group of hopefuls, loomed the Red Return, the ship steadily swallowing the caravan. Towering, imposing, trimmed in black. Planked and reinforced like armor. The largest ship he'd ever seen. Granted, he only knew the Riverbugs, but even so. This vessel wasn't built for mundane travel.
Filled with a mix of rage and awe, he turned back to the bread-munching hopeful.
"Don't lump me in with the rest of the cattle on this chain," he said, straining to stand taller, even as the iron dragged him down. He grimaced but continued when he reached his goal, with the boy turning back around.
"We're heading to Askar, Island of the Blade Academy. And this ship," his gaze traced the three towering masts, "is one of the last warships of the Golden Navy."
A relic of the greatest civilization ever known. The Founder had descended from it. Even chained, crossing the Dead Sea on this behemoth was an honor. And, conveniently, a Golden ship was the only way to even reach the island.
That's one reason it was special. And it made the Academy even more elite.
The boy laughed and slammed his cloak into the wind.
"No, no, we three, and maybe the other hopefuls, are going to the Academy. But first, we'll stop at the port of Tatli, that's where you're going. Know what awaits there, murderer?"
He took a step toward Arin, to intimidate, or to punctuate his threat with spittle.
But Arin saw only the bread.
One step. Another.
"You broke the code, and there is only one–"
Hunger erupted inside Arin. He lunged forward, thrust his head out, and snatched the bread right from the boy's hand.
There was a sharp cry, followed by silence. And the delicious taste of food.
His teeth sank into the crust, ripping the bread from trembling fingers as chains rattled and the two girls stilled.
Two seconds later, he swallowed the bite.
"Tastes like arrogance," Arin murmured, licking his lips.
"Oh, and I know what's waiting in Tatli," he added.
"My death."