My assumptions were soon confirmed. After I was relieved of my sword, I was placed in one of the Queen's jail cells, while everything was arranged.
A dreadfully skittish maid pushed a set of clothing through a small opening at the bottom of my cell door. As the Queen had hinted, these were very low quality garments. The shirt was made of poor wool, woven haphazardly, so that, though thick, the fabric did little to ward off the cold. The pants were similar, not even reaching to the tops of my ankles. Slaves wore better clothing than this. The only garments I was allowed to keep were my socks and shoes.
A jailer's wagon was waiting in the courtyard when I was led up. I was shoved in, quite roughly. How rude of them. Don't they know I could kill them with a single blow? Ah, best not to get so far out of the Queen's graces, eh? I allowed myself to be closed in, that I may at least have some chance of gaining my sword back.
As the doors closed, I saw the face of my dear friend Zoe. When I had first volunteered to become a guard, she had befriended me. She was the head maid of the barracks, and I was a scrawny little shrimp. No self respecting man would make friends with a shrimp like I was.
With Zoe's support, I trained hard, got big, and graduated at the top of my class. I stayed in contact with her, and if I was right about the look in her eyes, that wasn't about to change.
YOU ARE READING
Bad guy
Historisk fiksjonyeah this is a shitty story I wrote in 9th grade, and I don't write anymore unless it's for school. I have found other creative outlets more suited to my skills, lifestyle, and tastes. If you read this don't expect quality, and don't expect acknowle...
