The Unwavering Fallen - Queen of Blood

Part One - Queen of Blood

It's been five long years since I have seen the light of day, felt the warmth of the sun glistening on my skin, or done anything a normal human would have the rights to do in our day to day lives. Instead, I spent my days on the island of Winterthorn, a small cold and desolate island in the far north reaches of the Ashire kingdom. Home to the most dangerous and notorious murderers, thief's, rapists and all sorts of filth and innocents that managed to cross anyone with some power. It's the place you're sent when you're so bad you don't deserve to get off easy, at least not with a quick and painless death.

I awoke to the sound of screams like I did every day or night. I've been here so long in the darkness, with minimal light from the old flickering candles, I could no longer even tell what day it was, or even what time. All around me people were shoved up against each other with their elbows and knees as they rolled over in their sleep.

The prisoners of Winterthorn slept in small cramped rooms made into the very mountain itself, within a maze of tunnels. Each prison cell could easily hold fifty prisoners. There are no beds, no blankets or pillows, and indeed no room service. All we had in here is the pain and torment that comes with the dirty and torn sleeveless brown tunics, and long brown pants. It's the worst living conditions I've ever encountered.

Once my eyes adjusted from waking up I seen guards dressed in dark roughed up brown leather armor, black hoods over their heads, and they approached the metal bars separating us from them. Rattling their swords, letting out loud banging noises that echoed through the tunnels and woke every prisoner up. The few that yelled at them, the ones that broke to the pressure, were taken from these makeshift prison cells and dragged away, never to be seen again.

After they took the broken inmates from the cells they grabbed the thick rusty iron shackles that bound us all together and lead us to another section of the tunnel. Pickaxes shoved into our hands, where we had to dig the tunnels wider and longer, making room for more prison cells... more prisoners.

I've survived in Winterthorn longer than anyone could imagine. Most die within the first year, from the lack of food and water, and also the living conditions that provide the perfect place for disease and sicknesses to grow. But it's been Five years for me, or so I'm told, I'm not sure. The other prisoners don't talk to me, they avoid me, it didn't take long for them to find out who I was. They heard stories about me, and who I was. The stories about the assassin, who sent after other assassins, and high-risk targets no one else would take out.

Not only did I suffer from the labor forced on to me, but also the special treatment. Every day I get escorted to a small dark room with a steel chair in the middle, bolted to the floor, leather straps on the arms and legs. I get to feel the pleasure of the most painful ways former prisoners have broken.

I was accustomed to receiving a variety of different punishments, ranging from the beatings at the hands of their strongest to the scars from their torturers. I've experienced the pain of glass being left buried under the skin for weeks on end, even the feeling of my skin being carved off. If there's any part of my body that's not yet scared I can't see it.

Today was no different.

When we were relieved from our pickaxes, five guards walked up to me and pushed me hard, my knees buckling under me, as they were kicked. They unchained me from the others, keeping me in my very own shackles. Blood dripped from my feet as they dragged me along the dark tunnel to the torture room, other prisoners looking away, pretending not to notice.

The guards pushed me into the chair and tightened the straps around both my arms and legs. Just another day on the island of Winterthorn, or so I thought.