I woke up in a panic.

  I was face down on a mattress, heart pounding, breaths shallow. I tried to push myself up, but my limbs didn’t respond the way they should. That’s when I realised that I was still restrained. Not chains this time, but padded cuffs around my wrists and ankles. I wriggled my hands, trying to slip free, but the restraints held firm. I let out an exasperated sigh and stopped struggling. The movement was aggravating my back, anyway.

  The burning sting of the whipping was still there, but compared to the blunt force of the beating, it barely registered. I lifted my head as much as I could and saw the thick bandages wrapped around my chest. Someone had cleaned me up. That was... surprisingly kind.

  “Ah, lovely. You’re awake,” a male voice said from behind me.

  I craned my neck, trying to catch sight of the speaker, but frustratingly he was just about in my blind spot.

  “Don’t strain yourself,” he added, tone almost cheerful. “You’ll be like that for a while, I’m afraid.”

  “What if I need to relieve myself?” I asked, testing the waters.

  “Do you?” he responded, genuine curiosity in his voice, like it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  “Yes.”

  “Tough. You’ll have to hold it,” he said with a chuckle, as if it were all a big joke.

  Unbelievable.

  “What if I just did it right here?” I threatened, more out of spite than necessity. I didn’t really need to go, but now that he’d told me I couldn’t, I kind of wanted to. There was something about this guy that was already rubbing me the wrong way.

  “Well, then you’d make a mess of yourself,” he said, amused. “Be pretty embarrassing, if you ask me. So I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  His tone shifted as he cleared his throat. “Right, here we go. Ahem. Mr Brandon Horlick, son of–”

  “Horlock,” I corrected sharply.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, like he genuinely doubted me.

  “What do you mean, am I sure? Of course I’m sure. It’s my name!”

  “Well, it says ‘Horlick’ here, and I know education can be tricky for people like you.”

  “People like me?” I snapped. “What do you mean people like me?”

  I struggled against my bonds again trying to get a good look at the guy but nothing had changed since I tried a moment before.

  “Look, can you turn me around so I can actually see you?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” he replied, all clipped formality again.

  “Who even are you?” I asked, trying not to yell.

  “Oh, yes, right. I’m Judge Francis Garratt. I’d shake your hand, but, well... I don’t want to.”

  I wanted to scream. He was unbelievably rude, cocky, condescending, and unbearably smug. This was the guy judging my future?

  “You’re a bit rude for a judge,” I told him.

  “Met many judges, have you?” he replied. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got a record… At least not before this.”

  That actually made me smile. Up until now, we’d avoided official trouble. We were good at being bad. Slippery enough to stay off the books. Guards had got close before but never close enough.

  “That’s because I’m a w-abiding citizen,” I said, grinning.

  He ughed like I’d told the funniest joke of the year.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be impartial?” I asked. “You’re meant to look at the facts before passing judgment.”

  “Oh, I’ve read the facts,” he said. “You’re a thief. A thug. A would-be traitor. Now, if you’d stop asking silly questions, we can get on with the sentencing.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “Sentencing? What about my trial?” I protested.

  He groaned, long and theatrical. “You are really wasting my time, you know that? If this is some ploy to dey your fate, it won’t work. In fact, let’s say another year for each dumb question.”

  “That’s insane. You haven’t even heard my side of the story!”

  “One year.”

  “That wasn’t even a question!”

  “Two years!”

  I let out a scoff. This man was a parody. If I weren’t the one strapped down, I might’ve ughed.

  He cleared his throat again. “Where was I? Ah yes. Brandon Horlick–”

  “Horlock!” I shouted.

  “Fine, Horlock. But I’m telling you now, that’s what you’ll be known as for the rest of your life, so don’t get whiny about it.”

  I grumbled as I heard the sound of him scratching something out and correcting it. This was the most unprofessional judge I’d ever heard about. If I hadn’t actually committed the crime, I might’ve combusted from the injustice of it all.

  “Brandon Horlock, son of Brian Horlock... Ah, I see. Well, good that we have it corrected now,” he mumbled, and then continued in a mock-grand tone. “Brandon Horlock, I hereby sentence you to thirty-two years in the Dungeons of Achrane for the crimes of thievery, thuggery, and plotting against the royal family. You will not be granted parole. You will not be allowed to contest this ruling.”

  My breath caught.

  Thirty-two years?

  That was double my age. I wouldn’t be free until I was... what, in my forties? My forties. This was a death sentence in slow motion.

  “And what happened to the right to a fair trial? Why can’t I contest this? Why am I listening to all this while strapped to a bed?!” I fired off, my voice cracking with disbelief.

  I heard the scrape of a chair as he stood up.

  “Plots against the royal family mean you forfeit your rights. You’re a traitor, son. Enjoy the perks.”

  “But I didn’t even do anything to the royals!” I shouted.

  “Mater Bartholomew Mattais the Third is a cousin of His Majesty,” he said smugly. “An attack on him is an attack on the king.”

  I thrashed in the restraints, my body howling in protest. They were burying me under the weight of a technicality and what made it worse was that if they’d looked just a little deeper, they’d find out it wasn’t entirely false. But they didn’t know why I’d really done it. Not yet. So it was still a ridiculous abuse of power.

  At least that meant they hadn’t discovered anything about Morgana or Dillon. That gave me a sliver of hope.

  “Well, good luck with Achrane,” Judge Garratt said cheerily as he turned to leave. “Be a good d and give my regards to Jimmy Smith.”

  “Who’s Jimmy Smith?” I called after him. “Hey! Hello?!”

  But he was gone.

  I y there in silence, strapped to the bed, rage boiling in my gut.

  Two days ago, I thought I was going to be rich. Yesterday, I was tortured. Today, I’d been sentenced without trial by a man who couldn’t even pronounce my name.

  If this was how the rest of my life was going to go... then something had to change. Thirty-two years in Achrane was too much.

  The sentence was definitely on the heavy side.I’d expected something ridiculous, of course, but I hadn’t thought it would pass fifteen years. Maybe twenty if they really wanted to make a point. But thirty-two? That wasn’t just punishment. No, it was a message. A warning to anyone else who might dare to y a finger on the upper css.

  I doubted I’d even hurt any of them that badly. Bruises, sure. Embarrassment, definitely. But lifelong damage? No chance. This wasn’t about what I did.

  It was about who I did it to.

  The Dungeons of Achrane was the most notorious prison in all of Radan. There were rumours it was so secure that even other countries sent their worst criminals there, just to be rid of them. Morgana once cimed she saw a prison boat dock when she was little, full of foreign prisoners being carted off in chains. She swore it happened, but I’d always taken it with a grain of salt.

  What I did know was that no one had ever escaped Achrane. Not once. Even in years when the Challenges were lost, when the realm itself faltered, Achrane stood strong, its prisoners locked down tight.

  Not that I had high hopes for escaping. Even if I somehow made it out, where would I go? My sentence was meant to make an example of me. Escaping would just amplify that message... and get a lot of attention in the process. Still, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try.

  I strained against the restraints again, twisting my hands, flexing my fingers, trying to squeeze out. No luck. If anything, they felt tighter. More secure.

  If I was going to break free, it would have to be during transport. From what I’d heard, Achrane was located past the Fracture, on the other side of that vast portal of swirling chaos that marked the edge of our kingdom. I’d never been near it myself, but I’d seen it from a distance before, and heard enough stories to be both awed and terrified by the idea of getting too close.

  I wondered if I’d get a glimpse of it on the journey. Maybe, just maybe, if I escaped near there, I could slip into the Fracture itself. It wasn’t well-guarded outside Challenge seasons. With some luck, I might be able to walk right in.

  Then again, there had to be limits. If it were that easy, people would disappear into it all the time. Maybe there were enchantments or systems in pce to stop that. But still, the wilderness around the Fracture was vast. If I could find a way to hide, maybe I could wait it out until the next Challenge. Then, when things got chaotic, I’d vanish.

  Eventually, the door creaked open and a doctor entered, fnked by two guards. They finally released me from the cuffs and said I’d be escorted to relieve myself. Small victories.

  The doctor expined that my injuries were serious and needed continued care. Apparently, the salt water that Antonio had so generously poured into my wounds hadn’t helped. In fact, it had slowed my recovery significantly. Surprise, surprise.

  He said that had my body not already been in good condition, whatever that meant, I might not have survived the ordeal at all. That tidbit didn’t make me feel lucky. But at least I wasn’t dead. Yet.

  The next bit of news was... surprising.

  I’d be remaining in the hospital for a couple more weeks. My condition, it turned out, was too fragile for the transport to Achrane. There was too high a risk of reopening my wounds. Or just outright dying on the journey. And, apparently, this extended stay was Antonio’s version of an apology. The doctor cimed he hadn’t known the salt water would worsen things, and he’d been chewed out by the medical staff once they saw what he’d done.

  Somehow, that didn’t warm my heart.

  Still, the downside was steep. For the two weeks of recovery, I’d be cuffed to my bed for twenty-two hours a day. I’d get twenty minutes per meal to sit up and eat, and an hour to clean and stretch. That was it.

  Some apology.

  Antonio remained firmly at number two on my shit list. My father still held the crown. Not that it mattered anyway. I doubted I’d see either of them again.

  The next two weeks were mind-numbingly dull.

  During the brief windows of freedom, I tried to find a way to escape. I studied the guards, the door, the hinges, the chain mounts. Nothing gave. The hospital staff were friendly enough. The doctor liked to chat while checking on my wounds, and the nurses sometimes stuck around for idle talk. But mostly, I was just lying there. Thinking. Stewing. Sleeping.

  I slept more in those two weeks than I had in my entire life.

  On my final day, the nurses removed the bandages one st time and told me I’d healed faster than expected. Apparently, I was months ahead of schedule. They said it was because I was a “model patient,” but I knew better. The only thing my body could do was heal. I’d just been too exhausted and strapped down to cause trouble.

  After a round of goodbyes I was led out to a transport cart. It was a bck, boxy monstrosity, made entirely of reinforced metal with only a single barred window near the roof. It had a handle welded to the side for guards to hang on, and a small open driver’s seat at the front. Massive bck horses, each one draped in plumes and blinders, pulled the thing forward like some kind of funeral parade.

  There were six guards and a driver in total. Three rode upfront with the driver, and three were mounted, fnking the cart in case of trouble.

  They bundled me into the mobile prison and shackled me to a thick pole at the centre of the box. Wooden benches lined the sides, hard and unforgiving. No cushions. No comfort.

  I hadn’t sat for long stretches in weeks, and the moment I did, I knew I was in for hell.

  The cart lurched forward and the jostling began immediately. It felt like we were hitting every pothole in the kingdom. I was lifted into the air with every bump. I was convinced the cart’s designer had been a sadist.

  Ten minutes in and I already felt bruises forming. I kept myself rigid, afraid that leaning back would tear open the fragile healing across my back. Every jolt sent shocks of pain up my spine. After two hours, I found myself weirdly thankful for the hospital stay. If I’d travelled like this with the original wounds, I’d have died from the first bump alone.

  I stared out of the tiny window as much as I could. It didn’t show much. Mostly just rooftops and the tops of buildings. But I watched anyway. Hoping. Hoping I might see a familiar face, or maybe just a ndmark that would give me a sense of where I was.

  Nothing.

  We were travelling through areas I didn’t recognise. Grey buildings. Empty streets. Lifeless.

  A tiny part of me held out hope for a rescue. A dramatic, st-minute ambush from the rebels. Maybe Morgana and Dillon had convinced Marky to stage a breakout. Maybe the common folk, fed up with injustice, would rise up and block the cart, demanding my release.

  It was a fantasy. I knew that. But it got me through the first few miles.

  Once we left the city limits, I let the fantasy die.

  Escape was still possible, in theory. But the cart was like a moving fortress. Every inch of it was solid metal. I tugged at my chains, tested the bolts, tried to bend the pole. Nothing. I attempted every escape trick I’d ever heard or seen. Wriggling. Flexing. Twisting like the street contortionists. I even tried to slip a wrist out when I thought the shackles might have shifted.

  None of it worked. All I got for my trouble was more pain.

  The only way out of this would be if someone helped me.

  And no help was coming.

  I was still mulling over my failed attempts when The Fracture came into view.

  It was... breathtaking.

  A swirling column of energy that rose into the sky, its base at least two hundred metres wide. Each second, it shifted and changed, like it was rebuilding itself constantly. Evolving. Living. I’d seen it once before, years ago, but from much farther away. It hadn’t stirred anything in me back then. Now, though... I was transfixed.

  I tried to focus on a single spot, a standout stream of energy, but it never stayed. They dissolved, reformed, disappeared, reappeared. One moment it looked like fme. The next, like ocean. Then smoke. Then sky.

  No one really knew where the Fracture came from. It had been here longer than recorded history, older than the oldest ruins. The books said it had always functioned the same. It was a mass of energy, a portal to somewhere else. Sometimes it brought invaders. Sometimes it took people. And once a year, during the Challenge, it could change to a specific colour. The colour of the invading realm.

  The worst Challenge in our history, at least in the past five centuries, had come from an Orange Fracture. The invaders decimated us that year. The whole city razed. Neighbouring vilges wiped out. It was the worst moment in our history.

  I watched it for as long as I could, face pressed close to the bars.

  There was something in it. Something that called to me. Like if I got close enough, I’d understand everything. Like all the chaos and pain and fear would fall away if I just stepped inside.

  Given where I was headed?

  That honestly didn’t sound so bad.