The journey felt endless.
Elias' wrists throbbed against the rope that bound them, the coarse fibers digging deep until his skin was raw. Every stumble earned him a sharp tug from the knight who held the line, his captors treating him less like a man and more like an animal dragged to slaughter.
The countryside blurred past him in colors of green and brown—the neat rows of crops, the distant forest shadows, the occasional cry of a hawk overhead. He would have found it beautiful once, had he arrived as a traveler, a student of history hungry to see new lands. But with every step his legs grew weaker, and the ache in his shoulders pulled him deeper into the reality of his captivity.
By the time the palisade rose before him, the sun had already begun its slow descent, painting the sky with streaks of red and gold.
It was no fairy-tale castle, no stone fortress of storybooks. The walls were timber, thick logs sharpened to points, lashed together with iron bands. A ditch filled with murky water ringed the defenses, buzzing faintly with insects. Smoke curled above the walls from countless hearthfires inside.
Rough. Functional. But undeniably strong.
The gates yawned open with a groan of wood and chain. Inside, life moved with purpose. Men carried buckets of water sloshing against their legs, women hauled woven baskets of grain, and children darted barefoot across the packed earth, shrieking in play. Yet as Elias was dragged through, one by one they slowed, then stopped, eyes fixed on him.
The stranger. The outsider.
Their gazes weighed on him more than the rope did—fear, suspicion, hostility. Elias tried to look away, but there was no escape from their silent judgment. Their whispers followed him like smoke.
The knights did not stop until they reached the largest structure at the heart of the settlement.
A hall of darkened timber, its roof pitched high, beams blackened with age and smoke. The banners of the hawk snapped in the evening breeze above its doors, the crown gleaming faintly in the dying light.
The doors groaned open. He was shoved inside.
The hall hit him like another world. The heat of the central firepit, the thick smoke curling to the rafters, the reek of sweat, meat, and ale clinging to the air. Shadows danced along the beams, and men stood in rows along the walls, armed and silent, their faces grim with curiosity.
At the center, flames licked at a blackened cauldron, sending sparks into the smoky haze. Long tables flanked the fire, heavy with trenchers of bread and roasted meat, half-empty cups abandoned in haste.
And at the far end, on a dais of rough stone, sat the lord.
He was not draped in jewels nor crowned with gold. His power was not in display but in presence. A tunic of deep crimson, belted with worn leather. A sword at his side, its hilt well-used. His beard was streaked with gray, his hair long and unkempt, his eyes sharp as a hawk's.
The knights dropped to one knee. Elias, still bound, was forced forward until he stood before the dais.
They spoke quickly, their voices low and sharp, hands cutting through the smoky air as they gestured at him. The words were meaningless to Elias, a torrent of foreign syllables he couldn't untangle. Yet he needed no translation to grasp the gist. Every glance at him, every sneer curling the knights' mouths, told him the story: he was the threat. The problem. The accused.
The lord said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, one hand stroking the edge of his beard, his eyes fixed on Elias with an intensity that made his skin crawl.
Finally, he raised a hand. The hall fell silent.
Elias tried to speak. His throat was dry, but desperation pushed the words out in a hoarse whisper.
"I… I don't understand. Please. I don't know what you want. I don't even know where I am."
His voice cracked. The foreign stares bore into him. He wished, in that moment, for someone—anyone—to show the faintest spark of pity.
None did.
The lord muttered a single word.
A knight stepped forward and struck Elias across the face with a backhand of steel. The sound cracked through the hall. His vision burst white. He staggered, then crashed to the rush-covered floor, tasting iron and blood on his tongue.
Laughter erupted from the benches. Harsh, mocking, cruel.
Elias clutched his jaw, spitting blood into the dirt. The humiliation burned hotter than the pain.
The lord did not laugh. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke again. Slow this time, deliberate, each syllable pointed like a blade. His finger stretched out, accusing, sentencing.
The knights hauled Elias upright. His legs refused to work, dragging behind him as they pulled him back.
He did not know the words. But he knew the meaning.
This was not mercy. This was not freedom.
It was judgment. And judgment would not be kind.