Chapter 1: Hellfrost

The chains rattled between Aven’s legs as the guards pulled him through the gates of Fort Hellfrost. The bitter chill sank into his bones with every blast of wind from the mountains outside, sunless sky above devoid of any hope of heat or light this far north. Even the bristly-furred snow ogre guard to his right shivered and cursed in a harsh, guttural language the whole trek through the courtyard.

Only after the heavy oaken doors to the interior of the keep slammed shut did the chill relent slightly. The human guard to Aven’s left breathed a sigh of relief and pulled down the scarf covering her face before striking Aven’s back with her spear haft with enough force to spur him forward.

“Keep moving,” the ogre guard shoved him forward. “You’re going to see the Head Warden before we get you to your cell.”

At the very least, now that they were out of the cold, the guards’ demands to move seemed more performative than urgent. Aven was able to move at a slightly more relaxed pace than the frantic trot they’d forced on him since the wagon had arrived at the outskirts of the fort town at the edge of all civilization. Enough time to pay attention to the surroundings. Not that there was much to see. Walls and floors hewn of black stone, bereft of adornment or finery, lit by the occasional torch in a wall sconce so scarce it was as if the designer purposefully tried to keep light and heat to the absolute barest minimum.

Rather than a cell, the guards instead led Aven into a chapel. Windowless, lit by candles at a trio of shrines bearing the symbols of the Ideals of Discipline, Justice, and Piety.

Any holiness or reverence of the space was ruined by the shrieks coming from the prisoner chained to the altar. An emaciated figure, impossible to tell whether their gaunt body resulted from age or torture in greater part. Twisting, writhing on the stone slab, chained down and frothing at the mouth. Above that wretched figure stood a priest with midnight blue skin, twisting horns, and black sclera around burning red eyes. A dezar, “shadow-demons” as many humans in Octarnis knew them. While Aven’s experience found dezar no more demonic than any other of the empire’s diverse denizens, the priest before him gave a good try at proving superstition true. An open book in one hand, while the other rested the tip of one clawed finger on the screaming prisoner’s forehead.

The human guard visibly winced at the screams, but cleared her throat to get the priest’s attention, “Executor Yvris-”

The priest held up a hand, silencing the guard, “Do not interrupt the rite of sanctification. I will be finished momentarily.”

The guards both shrank back, notably averting their gazes. The priest tapped the open book, then placed his hand upon the prisoner’s forehead, and the shrieks paused, turning instead to sobs.

“Recite the prayer of penance,” the priest commanded.

The prisoner’s voice came out broken, halting, but recited as instructed, “I...I am...repentant. My s-s-sins...are cleansed in pain. My pain is yours, Father Yvris. By D-Discipline and Justice, I am...healed...and purified.”

The priest smiled and removed his palm from the prisoner’s forehead, tapping the book once more. The prisoner’s convulsions ceased, spasming muscles relaxing, and his head fell to one side with a faint sigh. The priest gestured to two guards waiting at the side of the room, and they dragged the prisoner away. One of the ogres exchanged a glance with the ogre guard to Aven’s right and whispered something that sounded like a curse in their language.

The priest gestured for the guards and Aven to follow, then turned to the altar holding a sign of Piety, twin concentric white circles on a red background, symbolizing inner and outer purity.

“What is this?” the priest asked softly, nodding towards Aven while washing his hands in a small bowl on the altar. Aven caught a glimpse of dark red staining the priest’s fingertips as he did so before the water washed the stain away.

“New prisoner, sir,” the ogre guard shoved Aven forward.

The priest’s ridged forehead raised in surprise, “Really? Separate from the shipment earlier this month?”

The guards exchanged a glance, and the woman to Aven’s left spoke, “It’s the boy from Tenebras, sir. I believe Tenebras’ praetor sent you a letter about him.”

“Ah,” recognition sparked in the priest’s eyes, alongside some darker anticipation. “I recall now. So, you are the kinslayer.”

Aven stared back into the priest’s eyes and spoke, “I am Aven of Elensvale, loyal servant of Octarnis, son of Legatus Gaius Avarnius and Elesmara of Elensvale.”

“Son and murderer of Gaius Avarnius,” the priest smiled.

Aven said nothing.

“Certainly a dangerous man to have slain a hero such as Gaius Avarnius,” the priest chuckled. “Welcome, Aven nym Arvarnius. You needn’t speak more now; we will have plenty of time for you to confess your sins. Such pleasantries must be set aside for now. For the crimes already known, you have been sentenced to be a prisoner of Hellfrost. To atone, you will labor for the rest of your life for the good of the Empire. If you truly are a loyal servant of Octarnis, you should be delighted that you have such an opportunity to be of such use.”

He opened up the book again, a black leather-bound tome, and flipped to an empty page. As he did, whispers filled the air, too soft to make out words but filled with pain, rage, suffering. An aura pressed down on Aven heavy as an ogre’s hand, felt even with his vis suppressed by the cursed manacles around his wrists and ankles. The dezar flipped through the heavy pages. Upon each lay blood handprints. Some large enough to stretch to the boundaries of the page, clearly belonging to ogres. Four-fingered hands ending in claws, smaller hands likely belonging to minari. Some held even stranger properties - one handprint burst into flames when the page opened, only to be smothered out when the page turned, leaving behind a scent of sulfur. The priest finally stopped at an empty page.

“Your hand please, child,” the dezar’s smile showed not an ounce of friendliness, but the baring of sharp teeth did contain a genuine amusement. Aven could only assume he was the butt of the joke rather than a participant in its humor. “You may offer it freely, or we will take it by force. And if forced to take it, I cannot guarantee it will be returned.”

Aven clenched his jaw, but put his right hand forward.

“Oh, no, not that hand.” The dezar gestured to Aven’s left. “The left, the sinister, is the hand closer to nature among humans, and I prefer it for my records.”

Whatever strange practice or teaching the dezar was referring to (certainly not orthodox Idealism), Aven had no idea, but the threat of punishment brooked no chance to question or argue. Upon presenting his left hand, the dezar picked up a small, delicate knife and slashed across the palm as swiftly and casually as one might use a letter opener. The sudden shock of pain radiated out from the wound, and Aven grit his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath to stifle the gasp of pain. He wouldn’t give the priest the satisfaction of witnessing his pain.

The priest grabbed the wrist and pressed Aven’s hand down against the open book as blood spread out, and a surge of power washed through Aven. Whatever fell magic the book contained, that curse now seeped into Aven. Irresistibly, the magic slithered in like living chains, wrapping around the very essence of his being. With a yank, something split inside him: a piece of his soul torn away. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he fought to remain silent and still as the book tore away that fragment.

The priest glared sharply at Aven’s reaction - or the relative lack thereof.

“Some have called the experience of soul division the most painful feeling in all the realms,” the priest said.

Aven had heard the same. He found the reality a bit short of that lofty reputation.

“You’ve had pieces of your soul torn away before,” surprise and renewed interest rose in the priest’s burning gaze. “And-”

The priest fell silent as Aven removed his hand, and the blood left behind on the page was black as starless night. The guards cursed and drew back, raising their spears in a defensive stance. The human woman’s knuckles were white from the death grip on her weapon.

“Voidtouched,” the priest whispered in the same tone one might use upon finding a rare and beautiful flower thought extinct. “Praetor Havinia certainly did not mention that in her letter. How fitting, then, that you found your way here, at the edge of the empire where the voidspawn encroach at our borders. We’ll find you plenty to do. Perhaps even a place where your tainted nature might prove an advantage rather than a hindrance. Kinslayer, loyal servant of the empire...whatever you once were, now you are just another soul of Hellfrost. A piece of your soul now lies in my Book of Sins. Your power is ours. Your life is ours. Your pain is ours. You are nothing, except what value we shall extract from you.”

“Head Warden,” the woman guard interjected, “something like this is...it’s dangerous. We should kill him off before-”

The priest tapped the book, and the woman gasped in surprise, face twisting in sudden agony. It seemed prisoners were not the only souls kept in that book.

“Your opinion is not required, Sergeant Akra,” the priest said, tone dripping disdain. “Guard Walgash, take the prisoner to the Hole. Sergeant Akra, remain here. We need to discuss your respect for your superiors.”

The woman guard stiffened, jaw clenching while she nodded. The ogre guard shot her a sympathetic look before yanking Aven towards the door with a growled command to move. Aven spared one last glance over his shoulder as they passed through the door, watching the priest tap the book and utter some wicked incantation, and the woman fell to the ground, clawing at her face as if to tear out some invisible attacker. The heavy door slammed shut, silencing the half-stifled sobs.

***

The ogre guard led Aven down to the bowels of the fort, pulling along another ogre of similar size and pungency to assist. Both about Aven’s height, though thicker than most men, both of these with the thick white fur and blue skin of zhagra.

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Down multiple flights of stairs, further underground than Aven had expected. The ogres clearly had more stamina than most men, and though Aven was no stranger to exercise, the endless steps found him flagging, only spurred on by the ogres’ harsh words and harsher blows from the butts of their spears.

At last, they reached their apparent destination, going from the winding stairs to a doorway leading further into the prison. What they entered was more tower than room, ceiling so high it would have been invisible if not for the enormous crimson sphere hanging from the top, blazing with light like a dim red sun. As the great orb turned, rays of light swept along with it, and when one passed over Aven, a wave of heat came with it. That heat should have been comforting in contrast to the lingering chill of the mountains, but instead it brought a feeling of panic. As if Aven were a mouse beneath the baleful eye of a serpent. Even when the light passed, the sensation lingered on.

One of the ogres flinched as the light passed over, muttering a curse.

The other gave Aven another shove and snarl, “Don’t gawk. You’ll see more’n enough soon.

Cells lined landings leading up to the tower. Aven was on the lowest of the landings, a group of six cells surrounding a hole in the center. A hole that seemed to emanate a chill deeper than mere absence of heat. That chill seemed to resonate within Aven, whispering to a part of his blood that the cursed manacles struggled to repress.

“The prison is built over a voidpit?” Aven asked as the ogres pushed him towards one of the empty cells. “Not worried about voidspawn?”

“Pit’s been empty for years,” one ogre responded. “Only thing you need to worry about is us throwing your sorry arse in if you don’t follow the rules.”

“And what rules are those?” Aven asked.

“Shut your trap, follow orders, don’t piss off the Warden,” the ogre replied.

Simple enough on the surface.

They stopped before a cell, and one ogre stepped forward to unlock the door. The other stepped aside. Too close, apparently, to the adjacent cell. In a split second, a figure flashed from the darkness in the cell and stabbed between the bars, piercing right through the ogre’s throat with a jagged shiv. The ogre gurgled, hands clutching the wound, and collapsed to the ground. Before Aven could react, the other ogre grabbed him and shoved him through into the open cell and slammed the door, then dragged the wounded guard away from the cell.

“Gulzhor!” the ogre shouted in the face of his dying companion. “Gulzhor!”

Only pained grunts and wheezing gasps replied, and the dying ogre twitched as the blood continued to pour from its neck. The living ogre roared and smashed its fists against the wall with a force that Aven felt sure would have cracked the stones used to build the manor of his home. The ogre picked up his companion’s spiked club and slammed it against the bars of the cell angrily.

“I’ll kill you!” the ogre roared at the unseen occupant. “Barbarian whore! I’ll rip out your damned heart!”

A harsh cackle greeted the words, followed by a woman’s rasping voice, “Then open the doors, so I can cleanse the world of two murderers instead of one.”

“We have your blood, and your mark!” The ogre spat in reply. “You will die here.”

“You think you’ll keep me caged forever?” the woman laughed in reply, but the sound lacked any trace of mirth. Instead, the cold and harsh laugh sounded like the rattling of bones. “Those I am sworn to kill are far above you. I will shatter this cage and purify these bloodstained stones in the fires of hell! The Hellfrost will be no more, and the world will sing with joy at the sight of its destruction!”

The ogre snarled something incoherent but unmistakably profane, then knelt by the now still body of his companion. Aven saw a clear sight of the fatal wound now, not merely a puncture wound but one laced with glowing edges and accompanied by a smell mixing sulfur and burned meat.

“You’ll rot here,” the ogre growled, giving a last glare to Aven and then back to the mystery woman in the cell beside. “No one escapes Hellfrost. We have your soul, you bitch. You’ll rot here, and your meat will feed the hounds.”

The ogre hauled his dead companion over his shoulder and stomped off, leaving Aven alone. Or not entirely alone.

Muttered words reached his ears from the adjacent cell, and what little Aven could catch sounded like whispered promises of revenge, repeated over and over in subtly different tones.

“Your bones will turn to ash...your flesh will turn to ash...burn to ash...your flesh will burn to ash, your bones to dust...”

About the company to be expected in a prison at the edge of civilization.

Aven sighed, sitting down on the hard stone floor and leaning his back against the equally hard wall. No bed, no blankets, and no pillows. Nothing. The only view bars outward, the spiraling stairs and endless cells leading up to the burning red orb at the peak.

“Well, Aven,” he said, “I believe these must be the least comfortable accommodations you’ve ever been subjected to. Congratulations.”

Silence greeted the words. But not nothing; the sudden quieting of the woman’s mutterings itself came as a reaction.

“Are you talking to yourself?” the woman called, voice now sounding marginally less crazed than earlier.

“Naturally. What better company?” Certainly the only company that seemed remotely friendly in these halls.

“That’s usually the sign of a disturbed mind. Are you a disturbed man?”

“Deeply,” Aven replied, choosing to ignore the blatant hypocrisy in the woman’s words. “A man who has committed unspeakable sins and seen untold horrors lies before you. Once, when I was just a boy, I crept into the heart of the kitchens in the dead of night. I spied a treasure, a golden flan prepared with loving care for the very anniversary of my parents’ wedding. A work of labor and art that our dear cook Anabelle prepared with all her skill and affection. And do you know what I did?”

Silence greeted the tale.

“You may think a mischievous child might steal such a treasure for himself. But the truth is so much worse!” Aven replied in a whisper. “I licked it. And the next day, it was enjoyed with none the wiser. None ever discovered the tainting of that treasure. A sin committed in the night with only the gods as witness.”

He waited for the reaction and was rewarded with a long pause.

“You licked what?”

“Hm?”

“What did you lick?”

Not the reaction he hoped for, “The flan.”

“What is a flan?” the woman sounded genuinely bewildered.

Aven groaned and closed his eyes. Alas that such a performance was wasted upon an ignorant crowd. Truly, they were on the very edge of civilization to not even have such simple luxuries present.

“You know what? Forget about it,” Aven said. He’d have to confess his sins to a more understanding soul.

“How many have you killed?” the woman asked as follow-up, apparently undeterred by the lack of response to the previous question.

Now there was a question. “You assume I’ve killed at all?”

“The stain of murderous sin lies heavily upon your soul,” the woman replied with such conviction that Aven could not take the words merely as the ravings of a madwoman. “The scent is unmistakable. It clings to you, like the reek of the charnel house. I’ve seen battlefields that stink of death less than you.”

Aven paused and sniffed himself, but smelled nothing save for the acrid stench of the black blood on his hand. Well, the blood still staining his clothes likely told the tale better than words. He’d not had chance to change since piercing Father through the heart.

“How many have you killed?” the woman repeated.

“Not enough to match your lurid description,” Aven said. A pause, “Though enough to damn me, I’m sure. What about you?”

“Seventy-six,” she said. Then, after a moment, she amended, “Or seventy-seven now.”

“Ah, a number of perfection,” Aven said. “The gods will be pleased.”

A snarl came in reply, his neighbor apparently disagreeing.

“Why kill so many?” Aven asked, because he could think of no other question.

“Many deserved it,” the woman replied, voice dripping venom. “Murderers. The powerful who prey upon the weak. And most of all, those who commit blackest evil and hide behind veils of brightest light.”

Aven thought of those he had killed. Deaths under Father’s instruction. Blood spilled and lives sacrificed to turn Aven into a weapon. Then Father himself as perhaps the first true act of Aven’s own will in his life. How many of those he had killed had deserved death?

How many times had he been the one who deserved to die?

“My name is Aven,” he finally replied, the late introduction an escape from the uncomfortable topic of murder as much as anything else, “Son of Legate Gaius Avarnius of Tenebras. You?”

“...Janaya,” the woman replied, sounding a bit taken aback. “I...belong to no province or country. I was born in the Karaval Valley of Amaklos.”

“Amaklos!” Aven whistled. “My, my, you’re a long way from home. Welcome to Octarnis. Always a pleasure to meet a mortal enemy.” He could only imagine how someone of a nation to Octarnis’ far southwest had managed to wind up in a prison at the northern edge of the empire. “I must confess, among those I’ve killed, one or two were knights of Amaklos. I hope you will not count that sin greater than the other lives I’ve taken.”

“The killing of many such knights is no sin,” Janaya replied, hatred staining the tone. “The shining armor of Amaklos is nothing but a gilded shield to hide the hearts of evil. Righteousness, piety, chivalry...they hold such lofty ideals as a shield to guard against judgment while they crush the lives and spirits of the weak. But I hear the soldiers of your land are no better.”

“Oh, not in the slightest!” Aven said cheerfully. “The legions of Octarnis pride themselves in being the greatest force for conquest, pillage, and death in all of Enaias. Though in that, I expect they overestimate themselves.”

“And you are a noble of the empire,” Jayana stated.

“Not so noble,” Aven said. “No longer. Only honored of name and blood you see, not my own deeds. And titles of blood and name in Octarnis do not, as it happens, survive patricide.”

“You killed your father,” Janaya stated. “That is why you are here?”

Aven pondered the best way to explain the circumstances that guided him here, or even whether explaining such events to a rather murderous fellow prisoner was a wise idea. The spot between his shoulder blades itched, where the brands of the Shadow Order had been twisted by the stigma that marked him as Voidtouched.

“I am here,” he finally said. “Because greater powers judged me an enemy, and my father agreed. As has the rest of Octarnis, apparently.”

“An enemy of the gods,” Janaya repeated. Aven would have expected the statement to be met with skepticism, perhaps even disdain. If believed, such a declaration would surely have inspired fear or hatred. Yet Jana’s voice contained none of those emotions, only a thoughtful note. “Are you?”

Aven closed his eyes, “Frankly, I’ve never given the gods much thought. My family have always been Idealists. It is the Ideals we follow, not the gods that purport to represent them. Oh, of course blessings and curses of gods exist, yet such whims are as rare and fleeting as they are potent. I recall the local bishop once said that it is the gods’ mercy that they typically leave mortal affairs to mortals. Perhaps so.” The Brand on Aven’s back itched. “I can only say this: when they deign to show judgment, it is indeed a terrible thing.”

“Yes,” Janaya whispered. “It is.”

Both fell into silence, the heaviness of the subject rendering both of them mute. Theology was not a subject Aven had interest in pondering, especially not the theological ramifications of being cursed by the gods who so rarely moved in mortal affairs. Jana’s own whispers ceased as well, the conversation apparently enough to exhaust her vengeful soliloquies. The silence stretched on so long that Aven thought his companion might have fallen asleep. The void of that silence was more than a little disheartening; such silence would be all that awaited him for the foreseeable future. The ogre’s words to Janaya applied to Aven just as well: they intended him to rot here, waste away until death.

Perhaps that was the intent of leading him here, of locking him away in this prison. A judgment of the gods by proxy, inflicted upon one who had managed to escape their agents in one world. Then again, perhaps such was the modus operandi for beings who interacted with the physical world only through agents. In this case, their agents simply happened to be brutal guards and wardens rather than saints.

Being the victim of beings who would not even deign to explain themselves or take direct action stung perhaps most of all. If the gods would damn him, then they should damn him to his face.

“As a child,” Aven said, half to Janaya and half to himself, “a village boy offended me, so I sent my manservant to have the boy whipped. When my father discovered the order, he beat me severely, lash for lash what I’d ordered my manservant to do. Do you know why?”

No answer came from Janaya.

“It was not because my action was cruel. No, my father beat me because it was cowardly. If I wanted revenge, father said, I should have taken it myself rather than tasked it to another,” Aven said. “I took the words to heart, but now it strikes me curious that it is considered dishonorable and cowardly for a man to use others for vengeance, yet that is exactly the way of the gods. They never act themselves, only using proxies. Why is it considered cowardice for men to do the same?”

Another long moment of silence came.

“What did the boy do to you?” Janaya asked.

“What? Oh. I forget the offense now. Something childish.”

“Did your servant whip him?”

“You know, I never learned,” Aven said.

Silence.

“When I escape,” Janaya said with a sense of finality. “I will kill you.”

Aven laughed. That was it. That was far more like it.

“As a man with little left to live for, I suppose I cannot begrudge you that simple pleasure.”

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