The heavy iron doors of the castle creaked shut behind them, leaving Stick and PP standing at the threshold of a world that felt both familiar and alien. They had just been freed from the clutches of Carnifex, the trial’s outcome offering them an uncertain release. What now?

  The weight of the shackles on PP’s wrists, however, was still there, even though Stick held the key in his hand. PP’s fingers grazed the chains as if they were part of him, his eyes cast on Stick. Stick watched, waiting for the Big Man to make the first move. The key in his palm felt foreign, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

  “Why don’t you want them off?” His voice was quiet but tinged with genuine confusion.

  PP didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes fixed on the chains.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost distant. “Freedom’s never granted where I come from. It’s not real. It’s always a trick. You’re just the newest of my masters.”

  Stick flinched at the word “master”. He could feel the sting of it, and he realised it was something he could never be. Not after everything he’d seen, everything he’d learned. For a moment, he could only stare at the man beside him—tall, broad, unshakable in appearance but still broken in ways Stick was only beginning to understand.

  “I’m not anyone’s master,” Stick replied quietly, shaking his head. “Not now, not ever. That’s what a Carnifex member would do. I don’t own anyone, PP. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I’ll ever be.”

  PP’s confusion was palpable. His brow furrowed as he looked down to Stick, still understanding.

  “But… you’re free now. You’re… you’re in charge of me.” He let out a short, almost laughless chuckle, as if he didn’t even believe his own words. “That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

  Stick’s hand tightened around the key, trembling slightly as he extended it toward PP.

  “No,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “You’re free now, too. You decide your path. Not me.”

  He pressed the key into PP’s massive hand. “Take it.”

  PP stared at the key in his hand, small and almost insignificant against his broad, calloused fingers, unsure of what to do with it. He looked as though the world had shifted beneath his feet. Freedom. A concept so alien to him. A guard, dressed in silver armour, appeared at that moment, his footsteps loud against the silence.

  “You’re to be taken to your accommodations for the night,” the guard said flatly, his eyes scanning them both as if evaluating them, measuring their worth for some unknown purpose.

  Stick hesitated, glancing over at PP, whose face was still clouded in confusion. The giant’s expression was still clouded, his fingers clutching the key tightly. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, as though waiting for some unseen signal. Stick tried to read him, but PP’s face was a mask of uncertainty.

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  “What do you think?” Stick asked, his voice quiet.

  The giant didn’t know an answer or at least didn’t want to decide for them.

  “PP?” Stick encouraged him, but the giant didn’t want to respond. “Well… I guess we’re coming with you.”

  The guard nodded, leading them away from the castle. They passed through the grand marble pillars of the main entrance, a stark contrast to the hallways they had come from. The sky above was a deep navy, speckled with the faint light of stars. As they moved into the open air, the bustle of the city greeted them—vendors closing their stalls, families packing up their goods, the soft hum of life continuing despite everything that had just unfolded within the walls of the castle. They walked through the market, the sounds of merchants calling out their final offers mixing with the soft clink of crates being packed away, a reminder that for everyone else, the world had kept moving while Stick and PP’s lives had been upended. The guard led them down a narrow street to a small house on the edge of the market. The building was modest but sturdy, its wooden beams dark with age, its single window cracked but clean.

  “These are your accommodations,” the guard said, unlocking the door. “You’re not an Officer yet, so this is just temporary.”

  Stick said nothing. The guard’s words clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t want this. Not Carnifex. Not their hierarchy, their rules, their chains—visible or invisible. But he couldn’t share that with the guard. Not now. Not yet. The guard handed him the key to the house, then stepped back.

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Seven o’clock sharp.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared down the street, his armour clinking softly with each step.

  Stick stood in the doorway, staring into the small house. The fire pit in the corner invited him to be ignited. A narrow cot sat against one side, the only piece of furniture in the room. It was simple, unadorned. Perfect.

  Behind him, PP lowered himself onto the ground outside the house, leaning back against the wall. He didn’t step inside. His posture was rigid, his eyes fixed on the key in his hand as he turned it over again and again, the faint metallic clink the only sound he made. Stick glanced at him, considering saying something, but decided against it. He understood. There were too many questions, too many ghosts, and some battles had to be fought alone. With a sigh, he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. It closed with a soft click behind him, and Stick was left standing in the stillness of the small room. His heart thudded in his chest. A roof over his head. Ever since I arrived, that hasn’t happened.

  Stick walked over to the cot and sank down into the thin mattress, the weight of exhaustion hitting him like a tide. He expected the familiar jolt of discomfort—a wooden plank beneath his shoulder blades or the hard, uneven ground pressing into his ribs. But the moment his body sank into the mattress, he froze, startled by the softness beneath him. It wasn’t luxurious by any means—just a simple layer of padding stretched over a rickety wooden frame—but compared to the cold, unyielding floors of the dungeon or the rough, dirt-laden ground he’d grown accustomed to, it felt almost decadent. For the first time in ages, he didn’t have to curl his body awkwardly to avoid splinters or rocks. He stretched out fully, letting his muscles ease and unknot themselves, the sensation unfamiliar and oddly indulgent. The cot creaked softly beneath his weight, but it held, a sturdy and dependable thing in a way that made him feel, if only for a moment, secure. He closed his eyes and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself the luxury of rest. But even as his body finally unwound, his mind refused to settle. The weight of the iron key in PP’s hand lingered in his thoughts, heavy with questions he didn’t know how to answer. What have we won? What have we lost? And what will we become now, in this strange, uncertain freedom?

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