The Horlock Chronicles

It was on the third day that I was finally discharged from the infirmary which was a shame, really, since there was still so much more I could have tested with the tools available. A doctor, who introduced himself as Francis Nugent, had come in to do the rounds and noticed I was awake. Luckily, I had just woken up and hadn't slipped the cuffs or started any new experiments, so there was nothing for him to be suspicious about.

He gave me a brisk physical once-over, during which I made a point of pretending to wince and groan at every touch. It didn't seem to matter. He proclaimed me fit enough to leave his ward either way. Apparently, he didn't put much stock in internal injuries.

He called for two guards stationed outside the door, had them unshackle me, and told me I'd best not waste their time again. I gave him my most obedient, "Yes sir, won't happen again, sir," and let the guards lead me away.

The walk back to the main prison block was… enlightening.

The first thing I noticed was that they didn't bother cuffing me. A small mercy, but a welcome one, especially after the past few weeks of being constantly restrained by anyone who wasn't Mistress Maggie. The second thing I realised was that Mistress Maggie hadn't done a thorough sweep of my clothes and had missed a couple of vials I'd tucked deep into the folds of my pockets. But the most important thing I became aware of was the hospital block's appalling lack of security.

Compared to the reinforced gateway I'd first arrived through, the upper levels were practically abandoned. We passed through corridor after corridor without seeing a single guard. The odd clinician, sure, but nobody armed. It wasn't until we reached the lower floors that we started running into real security again. The closer we got to ground level, the more guards we encountered. By the time we reached the base floor, they were stationed in pairs on either side of every major doorway.

The two guards escorting me weren't the chatty sort. We walked in silence for the most part, and while I would've loved to ask a few questions about the strange setup, I doubted I'd get any answers worth hearing.

Then something caught my eye.

We had reached a heavily guarded intersection. The guards clearly intended for us to take the right-hand corridor, but when I looked left, I spotted a doorway that was flanked by no less than eight heavily armed soldiers which stopped me dead in my tracks.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" the guard on my left roared, seizing the back of my neck.

The reaction was instant. The eight guards by the door snapped into formation, weapons raised, eyes locked on me like I was a wild animal. I turned my head slightly and saw the same thing happening to the right, the guards shifting stance, ready to move.

"Sorry, I—" I started, but didn't get to finish.

The guard cuffed me across the back of the head.

"Do you want to go back to the infirmary?" he asked, slightly less shouty now.

"No, I—" I tried again, only for him to cut me off with a glare.

He lowered himself to eye level, his face inches from mine. "Then you will not look in that direction again. You will not stop. You will walk exactly where we tell you to walk. If you so much as twitch toward that door again, I will make you regret it. Am I making myself clear?"

I nodded my ascent.

That door had to be the entrance to the lower levels. There was no other reason for them to react so aggressively, so instantly. The only possible explanation to me was that Mistress Maggie was definitely telling the truth. My mind started running as I thought about what it meant for me. All the secrets behind that door. From machines to information, I bet they had it all there ready.

Granted, trying to break in would be suicide. I could maybe deal with the two guards beside me, but there was no way I was getting past the eight standing at that door. Not to mention the extra six scattered down the other three corridors. Even if someone brought an army, those guards would use the narrow passageways and their spears to maximum advantage.

Still, the idea was in my head now, and I couldn't shake it. Plans were already forming, whether I wanted them to or not.

I forced myself to meet the guard's gaze and muttered my agreement, trying to look suitably cowed. After a few seconds, he gave a curt nod, and we resumed walking.

I didn't look back, though the temptation clawed at me. I didn't need to anyway because the image was already burned into my mind. Eight guards. A reinforced metal door. Thirty paces from the crossroads. Another six guards nearby. The setup was air-tight. But the way they'd reacted? It told me something important.

They were jumpy. Paranoid. Honestly, it was unprofessional. That sort of forceful reaction displayed how easy they would be to distract. All I'd need was a partner to do the distracting.

The guard beside me barked at me to keep moving, and I obeyed without a word. No rush, I reminded myself. I had thirty years to sate my curiosity. Answers would come in time.

The guards ended up escorting me all the way back to my cell. Apparently, it was just before lunch, and most of the prisoners were still working, so I'd need to wait for someone to collect me. They didn't volunteer any more information, and I didn't press the issue. Like I said, they weren't the chatty types, and I didn't fancy risking another beating. Even with my healing abilities, I didn't think it was worth pushing my luck.

My door was shut behind me but left unlocked, and the guards moved on without a word. As soon as they were gone, I emptied my pockets of the two vials I'd managed to hold onto. The first was the one filled with thick, black liquid. Just looking at it made my stomach churn. It had to be some kind of poison. The second was the mismatched collection of pills I'd swiped from the infirmary. Both would come in handy down the line. I just needed somewhere to stash them.

I remembered Mistress Maggie's warning and took a proper look around the cell. There was no way I could hide anything under the bed or inside the bedding. Not unless I wanted it found during the first routine search anyway. The frame itself was promising, but without any tools to hollow it out, that option was off the table too.

I was twiddling a loose thread on the sleeve of my tunic when the idea hit me: I could hang them outside the window.

I unspooled about an arm's length of thread and carefully lashed the two vials together. It was fiddly work, especially one-handed, but I had plenty of experience tying knots from my loot-bag-making days. After a few failed attempts, I got the vials secured. Then I overturned my bucket and climbed on top of it for extra height. I could reach the window without it, but I didn't want to risk losing my balance and dropping the vials.

The view outside stopped me cold.

Once again, I was completely captivated by the shimmering majesty of The Fracture. The swirling, shifting colours hanging in the sky like a river of light poured into the fabric of the world. It was so otherworldly, so vast, I almost forgot where I was. For a brief moment, I felt free. The kind of freedom that made you forget you were locked behind iron bars.

It took a moment to snap out of it and remember why I was up there. I secured the thread to one of the bars and let the vials dangle on the outside, hidden from any guard who might glance into the room. That done, I found myself turning back to the view once more.

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My thoughts turned to Morgana and Dillon. I was already missing them.

It was hard being apart this long. Harder still not knowing how they were doing. We'd scored big right before I was caught, and I liked to imagine they were using that payday to better their lives. Maybe they'd moved somewhere safer. Maybe they'd even managed to leave this cursed city behind. I didn't want to consider any other possibilities. I couldn't handle thinking something bad had happened to them.

"Ahem."

The sound of a cough from behind made me jump. I hadn't heard anyone approach and had no idea how long I'd been standing at the window.

I turned and found an older man leaning against my doorframe. He was short and wiry, with lined skin and a weathered face. One hand braced him against the wall, the other still held in front of his mouth.

"Sorry to disturb ya there, young'un," he said in a raspy voice. "It's a view and a half, isn't it? Not many good things about this place, let me tell ya. But that?" He nodded toward the window. "That's one of them. Never seen anything like it in all my years."

He stepped into the cell slowly, his gait uneven. There was a limp in his step, and each footfall came with a little grunt of pain, but he moved with purpose all the same.

I hopped down from the bucket and approached him. "Brandon Horlock," I said, offering my hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Tom Lynch," he replied, taking my hand in a grip of iron. Not aggressive, just firm. The kind of grip that came from decades of honest work. He held my gaze, eyes steady, then gave a nod and the ghost of a smile.

"Good to meet a lad with manners. Not too many of those in here, I'll tell ya that for free." He gestured over his shoulder. "I've been sent to fetch ya. Time to show you the ropes in the workshop. But lunch first, so let's be going."

With that, he turned and headed out into the corridor. Despite the limp, he moved fast enough that I had to speed up to match his pace. I couldn't help but respect it.

When I caught up, he glanced sideways and started talking again.

"After we get some scran, I'll show you what's what in the workshop. How to get there, what to do, and all that," Tom said as we walked. "It's a good gig if you work hard." He glanced over at me. "You can work hard, right?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Yeah, I can work hard if it's needed. What makes it so good?"

He gave me an appraising look, eyes flicking over my build and hands before nodding with quiet approval. "I've been here forty years. Done it all. I've been a janitor, a cook, a mortician. Even spent time with the rock breakers." He shook his head. "Nothing compares to the workshop. We sell things outside, y'know?"

"What?" I blinked. "They let you out to sell things?"

He chuckled. "No, you dolt. We make the stuff. Guards do the selling. But yeah, things we craft get sent outside. Real world kind of stuff."

"Oh," I laughed, sheepish. "Got my hopes up there for a second. What sort of stuff are we talking about?"

He shrugged. "All sorts, really. Tables, chairs, cabinets. Other bits of furniture. Tools too. Nails, horseshoes, that kind of thing. If we've got someone who's skilled, they might carve figurines or statues. Hell, there's been real artists in there." His voice drifted as he reminisced. That's when I realised we were walking through the same place I'd been beaten up just days earlier. Luckily, no one was paying me any mind this time.

"I remember this one bloke, Luis. Wizard with a carving knife. First and only person I ever saw get a royal commission. King himself asked for a carving of the Queen."

My jaw dropped. "A prisoner? Commissioned by the King?"

Tom met my eyes, placing a hand over his heart. "Swear on everything I know. Ask anyone. Message came straight from the Warden. Luis was to craft a likeness of the Queen, and in return they'd let him walk free."

"You're joking. They'll let you go if you make something that good?"

He barked a laugh. "Nah, don't get your hopes up. That kind of deal? It was one in a million. Only ever heard of it happening for him. But he made it, alright. Masterpiece. Spent weeks studying portraits of her, and when he was done, it looked like he'd trapped her soul inside the wood. Absolute genius of a man."

"So what happened?" I asked, fully hooked.

He paused at the top of a stairwell, looking out over the rail like he could still see the past. "Stabbed a guard to death. They cut him down in retaliation."

He started walking again, leaving me frozen for a moment before I scrambled to catch up.

"Why would he do that?" I asked.

Tom shrugged. "There's a reason we're all in here, Brandon. Every one of us has demons. Luis was brilliant with a knife, but he loved using it. If he'd been born into a different life, maybe he could've been a great soldier. Or maybe he would've become a master artist. Instead… here we are."

"That's depressing," I muttered.

Tom grunted. "Welcome to prison."

We fell into silence as we crossed the next floor. My thoughts drifted back to Erick and how he'd said he earned his freedom by proving his worth. Maybe I could do the same. Maybe the workshop was more than just labour. Maybe it was a path. A way out.

"Don't know about you, but I'm starving," I said eventually, breaking the silence. It felt like forever since I'd had a proper meal, even though I knew I'd eaten the night before. Not that the infirmary food counted.

"Recovering in the infirmary, weren't ya?" Tom asked. "Terrible food over there. Bet it was cold too, eh?"

"Cold and slimy," I grimaced. "Forced it down under doctor's orders, but I wouldn't mind something hot."

He chuckled. "Don't worry, there's plenty of hot food here. One of the few positives. They like to keep us fed at lunchtime so we've got the energy to keep working. Heard about other places where it's bread and water." He gave a theatrical shiver. "Wouldn't've lasted past ten years in here on that."

I suddenly remembered how long he'd been inside. Forty years. That was almost beyond comprehension. From the look of him, he couldn't be more than sixty, which meant he was probably around my age when he first got locked up.

"You said you've been in here forty years?" I asked.

"That's right. Forty long ones." His tone darkened. "And if nobody's told you already, don't go asking what people are in for. It's impolite. Some'll tell you right away. Some won't. But either way you don't ask."

"No worries. I've had the same advice already. Can I ask how long you've got left?"

He let out a humourless chuckle. "I'm not getting out. And if the rumours about your sentence are true, you'd best start thinking the same way." His voice dropped, losing all warmth. "I've seen people sent down for ten years who cracked by year five. Seen guys come in for five and die before their first stretch was up. Sure, I've seen people walk out too. Physically, at least. Mentally? Most never make it. Some die. Some come back. The thing they don't tell you is that the second you walk through those gates… you're already dead. It just takes a while to catch up."

There was a heaviness to his words, a melancholy that settled over me like a blanket soaked in cold water.

"So what's the point then?" I asked before I could stop myself. "If we're already dead… what's the point?"

"Because it hasn't caught up yet," he said simply.

We fell into silence again, but my mind was racing. That idea—that we were all just waiting for the world to catch up and finish us off—it gnawed at me. Every day spent in here chipped away at who I was. At who I might've been. I was meant to be shaping my future, not watching it drain away in a box.

Tom must've seen the look on my face and mistaken it. "Don't look so down, kid," he said. "I'm just a miserable old fart. I've seen too much. Got too many ghosts. But it's not all bad. There's a life to be lived in here. It's just not the one you thought you'd have. Trust me, it's better to forget about what could've been. Keep your head down. Stay sane."

But something had changed in me.

As I listened to him, I realised what my future could be. And it terrified me. Tom Lynch wasn't a bad man. He seemed kind, even wise. But he was broken in a quiet, resigned sort of way. I could see my reflection in him, thirty years from now, hobbling through prison, showing some new kid the ropes, repeating the same warnings.

I wouldn't let that happen. Not to me. I respected Tom, but I refused to become him. I wasn't going to rot in this place. I was a fighter. I had power now, real power. And even if I had to play the role of the obedient prisoner for a while. To bide my time.

I would escape.

I wouldn't go out in a blaze of glory like Luis. I wouldn't fade into the walls like Tom. I was different. And one day, they were going to find out just how different I was.