╭─〔❨✧✧❩〕─╮
The night air was filled with the taste of a storm. Brine cut into the musk on the wind, sharp and bitter, while dark grey and midnight blue clouds swirled restlessly over the horizon. Against that horizon stood the bleak and massive walls of Carceris Bastion, a black scar jutting into the restless sea. From their table inside The Last Ferry, Pam and Mikhail had a clear view of the prison’s silhouette, its watchfires burning like angry eyes in the dark.
The tavern itself was busy, crowded with sailors, merchants, and a scattering of prison guards off duty. The guards were easy to spot by their red-and-white tunics and bronze cuirasses, faceless helmets tucked under arm. Even unworn, the masks seemed to watch anyone foolish enough to let their gaze linger. The smell of wet wool, fish stew, and spilled ale thickened the air.
Only a day had passed since the incident at the ball. Things hadn’t just gone wrong—they’d collapsed entirely. Both Jane and Izzy had been captured and transported here, to the Bastion. It had taken footwork, quick tongues, and more than a little luck for Pam and Mikhail to track them this far. Now, with five crewmen and Jane’s five ladies in tow, they sat in the damp, dim tavern, listening for the smallest detail that might become a way in.
Outside the window, the prison seemed to draw the eye like a curse. The only path to its gate was a narrow causeway, lit by braziers that guttered in the wind and rain. Even from here, one could watch every figure making the walk, silhouettes carved in flame against the storm. Beside the fortress, a long dock thrust crookedly into the sea, waves crashing against its pilings and rattling the chains of the vessels tethered there. Three ships strained at their moorings, their shadows flashing in the lightning: one vast and commanding with tall sails snapping like banners of war; another low and ironbound, lanterns glowing faint through grated ports; the last sleek and sharp, its dark sails thrashing like a raven desperate to break free.
At the bar, a sailor’s voice rose above the noise, thick with drink and self-righteous anger.
“Serves ’em right! Every last one of those no-good thugs! There’s a reason they’re all locked up. And if that little lady gets her jollies makin’ ’em pay—who cares?”A low murmur of hesitant agreement followed. To his side, a younger man tugged nervously at his sleeve.
“Come on, Roan, enough. We’ve got to get the shipment in before the storm worsens—”But Roan only slammed his cup down.
“Shipment’ll wait! I saw ’em myself, the drunkard and the painted clown. Hauled in chains right through the Bastion gates. Heh! Tomorrow they’ll be tossed down in the pits with the beasts. Ain’t no one climbs back outta there.”Around the room, ears strained to catch his words. Some smirked; others turned grim. A nearby guard barked a laugh, then muttered to his fellows:
“Best hope the Warden don’t hear you runnin’ your mouth. She doesn’t like when the rabble knows her plans.”╭─〔❨✧✧❩〕─╮
The world had narrowed to stone, iron, and the cold.
For nearly a day Jane and Izzy had been confined to a cell, stripped of everything save rough prison garb—thin tunics the damp air bit straight through. The walls sweated with salt and mildew, the ceiling dripping with the steady rhythm of stormwater leaking through the fortress above. Their cell was small, little more than a cage of black bars and slick stone, the iron door bolted tight.
The corridor outside stretched in both directions, lined with other cells. Yet the silence was oppressive. Most of the cages gaped empty, shadows swallowing their corners whole. Only one farther down seemed occupied, though it was hard to say by what. A shape slumped in the straw, pale in the dim light of a single guttering lantern. Bone? Flesh? It was impossible to tell from here—and perhaps better not to.
The air reeked of rust, wet straw, and something sour—old blood, maybe. Even the sound of the sea outside was muffled, as though the Bastion had swallowed them whole. Every so often, heavy footsteps echoed from far above, reminding them they were not alone, but no guard had passed this lower hall since they had been thrown inside.
Time had blurred—long enough for hunger to gnaw, for thirst to dry the throat, for the weight of waiting to press down like the walls themselves.
Somewhere deep in the Bastion, a muffled clang rang out—distant, indistinct—before silence reclaimed the hall.
Izzy sat in a corner. One knee pulled close to her chest while the other spread out. Her head leaned against the cool damp wall, eyes fixed on a very specific point in the stone, though there was nothing to see.
“…Kin ye sing ah song? Es that’ one’v th’ things ye kin do?” She rolled her eyes towards the clown woman who had been robbed of her makeup—save the faint smear around her eyes, which only made her look sadder.
It had been the Warden’s pleasure to strip it away. She had stopped the guards from removing any more, laughing at Jane’s face as though it were some cruel prize, but saying nothing despite the clown’s banter.
Izzy sighed, shifting her knee.
“Ah onleh know happy songs… an ahmno feeling too happy.”
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