<I've finally ended up being thrown in jail>, Silver thought.

The guards laughed and slammed the door shut. Silver stood up and shook himself, shook his shoulder, and winced. Although the lower half of the door was made of thick wood, the upper half was barred, and he could see the three guards open his duffel and rummage through his belongings.

One of them noticed that he was watching them. He was a beastly man with a shaved head and dirty uniform; it barely retained the original blue color of Orlain's guard.

<I have already reached the capital of Oridal> thought Silver. <But all I've managed to do is get myself imprisoned>.

The burly guard approached the cell door, leaving his friends to amuse themselves with Silver's belongings.

"They say you're pretty tough," he said, sizing Silver up with his eyes.

He got no response.

"The barkeep says you took down about twenty men in a fight." The guard rubbed his jaw. "You don't look so tough to me. In any case, you should have known you were going to end up here if you started a fight. You're just a kid, and this is the first time we've seen you around here, so you'll only spend one night behind bars. Next time you come in this place, it won't be so easy for you to get out, stranger."

Silver turned away. His cell, unoriginal as it was, met the minimum requirements. A thin slit high on one wall let in light, the stone walls oozed water and mildew, and in one corner, a pile of dried straw decayed.

"Do you deem me unworthy of your attention?" the guard asked, approaching the door.

Silver lay down on the pile of dry straw and rested his hands behind his head.

"Well, well," said one of those rummaging through the sack. "What's this?"

Silver had always found it interesting that those who guarded the dungeons were as bad, or worse, than those they guarded. Perhaps it was deliberate. Society didn't seem to care if those men were in or out of the cells, as long as they were kept apart from honest men.

If such a thing existed.

The guard pulled out a long object wrapped in white linen. He whistled as he unwrapped the cloth, revealing a thin-bladed longsword in a silver scabbard. The hilt was pure black.

"Who do you think he stole this from?"

The guard leader looked at Silver, perhaps wondering if it might not be some kind of nobleman. However, what kind of noble would wear a dirty brown cloak patched in several places? What kind of noble would have bruises from a bar fight, beards several days old, and boots worn from walking for months or years? What kind of noble would wear tattoos that covered his arms up to his neck, and probably continued underneath his clothes? The guard turned, unconvinced that Silver was any Lord.

He was right. And he was wrong.

"Let me see that," he said, and picked up the sword. He grunted, surprised at its weight. He turned it in his hand, noticing the clasp that held the scabbard to the hilt and prevented it from being drawn. He opened it.

The room brightened. Not enough for a common man to notice.

"Be careful, friend," Silver said quietly. "That sword can be dangerous."

The guard looked up. Everything went silent. The guard snorted and walked away from the cell, taking the sword with him. The other two followed him, with Silver's satchel, and entered the guard room down the hall.

The door slammed shut. Instantly, Silver stood up. He approached the lock and pointed his index finger at the key entry.

Silver concentrated.

Gathering what little mana was left in his body and directing it towards his index finger. He let it flow, creating a small bolt of electricity. The lock gave way, and the door opened. Elementals, the sages called it. Most people called it just magic. Most people had no idea what real magic was all about; it was only reserved for the privileged few.

He didn't have much mana left in his body, just enough to cast one or two more spells. Having so little made him feel lacking compared to what he had once had, but many would consider having this much mana a great treasure. Unfortunately, even picking a small lock had cost him a considerable effort.

<I don't have much time>, he thought.

The shouts of the guards died down. The dungeons fell silent. He had to start moving. After he had been walking for a few moments, Silver noticed a new color in the corridor. Red.

He skirted the pool of blood spreading across the sloping floor of the dungeon and entered the guards' room. The three men lay lifeless. One of them was sitting in a chair. Vashra, still almost sheathed, pierced his chest from side to side. Under the silver sheath, an inch of lustrous purple blade glimpsed.

Silver sheathed the weapon again, delicately, and secured the clasp.

<I've been very good today, haven't I,> echoed a voice inside his head.

Silver did not answer the sword.

<I've killed them all> Vashra continued. <Are you not proud of me?>

He picked up the weapon, accustomed to its unusual weight, and carried it with one hand. He retrieved his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

<I knew you would be impressed>, Vashra said, very proud.

Silver became alert. Footsteps could be heard coming from outside. It seemed to be several people, which made his situation that much more desperate. He barely had enough mana for a couple of weak spells, or a medium-level spell. He was very weak. He hadn't eaten properly for months and had rarely slept in a real bed during that time. The pile of straw was one of the most comfortable places he had fallen into lately.

He barely had the strength to face a regular guard. If it was that afternoon, maybe he could. He had spent much of his strength in the fight at the tavern.

It looked like he was going to have to use Vashra.

Footsteps could be heard getting closer and closer. They could enter the room at any moment. With his thumb, Silver partially unsheathed the sword. The deep purple color of its blade slightly illuminated the room.

<Are you going to use me?>

Silver ignored the surprised and happy voice ringing in his head.

The door opened. Five people walked in, all dressed in pristine white uniforms. Five high-ranking army officials. There was no way he could take them on with what little mana he had.

"Long time, Silver," said the man who seemed to be leading them.

Silver relaxed and sheathed his sword. It wasn't enemies. It looked like Max had grown a beard, so he hadn't recognized him.

"I guessed it was about you when I heard a blond boy had been taken to the calaboose, so I've come as soon as possible." Max scratched the back of his head; his expression seemed a little uncomfortable as he looked at the dead bodies of the guards. "Too bad, we'll have to hire new staff."

"They brought this on themselves. I even warned them," Silver said.

Max looked at Vashra carefully. Then he looked at the corpses of the men and quickly concluded what had happened here.

"The guards are very greedy. It's not uncommon for them to try to steal prisoners' belongings, especially when they come across something as seemingly valuable as that damn sword."

Silver nodded his head.

Max smiled. His white teeth made a stark contrast to his bushy black beard. As he smiled, his wrinkles became more pronounced. He was getting older; both the wrinkles and a few gray hairs that had grown in made that fact present.

"Max, I'm hungry," Silver said to him.

The man laughed loudly.

"Sure, let's go get some steaks. Today's on me."

Max turned and walked out of the room.

"Wait!" one of the boys who had come with Max exclaimed. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Silver. "He is dangerous. He's killed three of our guards. Are we going to pretend nothing happened?"

Silver looked at the young man curiously. He was quite young for wearing the white uniform. He would be about Silver's age, in his early twenties. He had the dark brown hair that characterized the citizens of Oridal. He was tall, handsome, and had a well-exercised body. Silver could not defeat him in his current state without using Vashra.

Max stopped and looked at the boy.

"Captain?" the boy asked in a trembling voice. The captain's bloodlust was intense, worthy of someone who had lived years on the battlefield.

"Cain, don't push your luck."