The air in the hold was thick with the scent of damp timber, stale brine, and the coppery hint of blood that never quite washed out. Faint, watery light seeped through a single, high porthole, painting a wobbly rectangle on the opposite wall that shuddered with the barge's every groan. The space was a cargo hold repurposed for prisoners, its ribs of dark wood curving overhead like the belly of some great, captive beast.
Against one wall, a mound of rust-red fur shifted with a sharp, stifled gasp. Atlas Acuta's eyes snapped open, the brilliant sapphire of his irises clouded with pain and disorientation. Every breath was a hot knife in his side, a reminder of the Sovereign's casual, devastating throw. He tried to sit up, and the world spun, a fresh wave of agony lancing through his chest. A heavy, cold weight clamped around his wrists and ankles—rough-forged manacles, chained to a ringbolt in the floor.
"What the…" he rasped, his voice sandpaper-rough.
Across the hold, another chain clinked. "Bout time you woke up, fur ball," Galit Varuna said, his tone a masterclass in weary sarcasm. He was sitting propped against the hull, his long, flexible neck held in a loose coil that suggested exhaustion more than relaxation. His tactical gear was torn, one eye was swelling shut, and his emerald-green eyes held no trace of their usual darting, analytical fire. Only a grim, settled acceptance.
Atlas blinked, the fragmented memories reassembling: the chaos of the Lugh-Grange, the impossible pressure of the Sovereign's aura, the stone wall rushing to meet him. His head swiveled, ears flattening against his skull. "Wait," he growled, focus locking onto Galit. "What the hell are you doing here? And where is 'here'? Where's Eliane? Jannali?"
Galit let his head thump back against the wood. "We came to get you," he repeated, the words flat. "And we lost. Spectacularly. Now we're guests of honor on a scenic barge tour to Kamaten Island." He didn't look at Atlas, his gaze fixed on a knot in the ceiling as if it contained all the answers to their tactical disaster.
"Kamaten…?" Atlas cursed, a low, guttural sound that rattled in his injured chest. His spotted nub lashed once against the floorboards, then went still, subdued by pain and chains.
From the small pool of light beneath the porthole, a third voice piped up, trying to weave melody into the gloom. "Cheer up, guys! Maybe it won't be all that bad? The stories say the Ogres bake a great quiche." Vesta Lavana sat with her back to the curved wall, her rainbow hair dimmed in the shadows to mere streaks of burgundy and indigo. Her flamboyant attire was smudged and torn, the feathers on one sleeve bedraggled. She hugged her knees to her chest, the manacles on her slender wrists looking absurdly large.
Atlas turned his pained gaze on her. "I don't know, songbird," he grunted, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on his ribs. "Being chained in the belly of a ship, headed to a prison island… it's sounding pretty bad to me."
Vesta's attempt at a smile wavered and died. The facade of cheerful fandom crumbled, revealing the scared young woman beneath. Her shoulders slumped, and she hid her face behind her knees, her voice muffled. "Yeah. I know." A moment of silence stretched, filled only by the creak of the ship and the slosh of water against the hull. "What do you think they'll do with us?" she whispered, the question hanging in the damp air.
Galit sighed, a long, tired exhalation. "From the cheerful guards' chatter? Manual labor. The kind that breaks your back and wears down your soul. They have a big screw that needs turning, apparently. Literally." He finally glanced at Atlas, his expression unreadable.
Atlas glances over, "what about the others?"
Galit, gaze fixed on the ceiling, "Marya's the daughter of a Warlord. The others are from lost races. They are highly valued in the slave market."
Atlas closed his eyes, a fresh wave of frustration battling the pain. "Perfect," he muttered. "Just perfect." He wasn't used to this—the helplessness. He was the predator, the one who chased challenges, not a chained animal being shipped to a cage. The indignity burned worse than his broken ribs.
Vesta lifted her head, resting her chin on her knees. Her violet eyes were wide in the gloom. "I just… I wanted to play for people. To make songs that reached the Blue Sea." She gave a small, shaky laugh. "Not provide ambient work music for eternal prison maintenance."
Galit's lips quirked in a ghost of his usual smirk, but it held no humor. "Look on the bright side. If you sing well enough, maybe you'll lull the guards to sleep and we can stage a daring escape using a spoon and optimistic thinking."
Before Atlas could retort with a biting remark about Galit's neck being useful as a rope, the heavy wooden door at the end of the hold groaned open on protesting hinges. A shaft of grey, misty light cut into the dimness, outlining the immense silhouette of an Ogre guard. He filled the doorway, his features hard and weathered like the island cliffs he hailed from. The smell of cold sea air and wet ash briefly invaded the hold.
"On your feet!" the Ogre barked, his voice like stones grinding together. He held a heavy cudgel loosely in one hand, its purpose unmistakable. "Dockside in five. Look lively, or you'll be dragged."
The chains clanked loudly as the three prisoners struggled to stand. Atlas bit back a cry as the movement jarred his torso, his breaths coming in sharp, pained gusts. Galit unfolded himself with a stiff grace, his eyes already assessing the guard, the doorway, the odds—finding them, as always, catastrophically poor. Vesta stood last, her movements small and defeated, the vibrant performer utterly extinguished.
For a heartbeat, they just stood there in their chains: the wounded warrior, the outsmarted tactician, and the silenced songbird. The barge groaned again, a deep, visceral sound that vibrated through the planks beneath their feet. Somewhere ahead, through the hull, lay Kamaten Island. Its silent, grey wastes awaited them, and the relentless, grinding labor that was the price for keeping the world's nightmare at bay.
The Ogr e guard stepped aside and jerked his head toward the grey light. "Move."
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