The smell of damp air and old stone was the first thing that greeted Alexander when he was thrown into that cell — a smell mixed with faint mold and rotting straw scattered across the cold stone floor. The room wasn’t large, its walls made of dark gray stone bearing old scratch marks whose count he couldn’t guess, and one small window set high near the ceiling, barely enough to let in a thin thread of moonlight through its rusted iron bars.
This wasn’t a real prison in the way Alexander had imagined from stories back in his old world, but something closer to a temporary holding cell attached to the courthouse itself, its damp walls sharing what looked like one long corridor with several other cells, coughs and scattered murmurs leaking through from time to time. Everything would be decided tomorrow, that’s what he’d been told as he was shoved inside — tomorrow he’d stand before the priests and judges the prince had mentioned, and until then, this cold wall was all he had.
In the prison he’d been placed in, he still didn’t understand — he’d won. Why was he here?
*Isn’t this a miracle? Why do they fear it, then?*
Everything hurt — his body, his shoulders, his head, and especially his mind, which had started hearing talk of punishment that could reach beheading. He’d expected to walk out of the competition as a "Great Priest," but instead found himself a prisoner awaiting judgment, possibly a political sacrifice to smooth things over.
He rejected that with every thought in him. He didn’t want to be that... what difference was there between killing someone with a sword and killing them with his left hand? Either way, they were dead.
*"Not a happy night for you, was it, boy?"*
An old man sitting there said, one that most of the prisoners kept their distance from — maybe because of his smell, or because they feared him; Alexander didn’t understand which yet.
*"It was actually great."*
The old man laughed, a rasp clear in his voice.
*"Your face says otherwise..."*
*"You should see the other guy."*
*"How’s he doing... did his condition end up worse than yours?"*
The old man laughed, and some of the other prisoners started laughing with him.
Alexander looked at them, raised his left hand, and said:
*"He evaporated."*
The old man looked at him in silence, then said:
*"You used your left hand in a duel? Well, that’s not a man’s way of doing things... you’ve lost your honor."*
*"What honor are you talking about, old man? What’s the point of a left hand if you never use it—"*
Someone sitting a few meters behind the old man cut in.
*"Watch what you say, boy... you’re not outside anymore. There’s no ’old man’ here."*
The old man raised his hand and said:
*"No need for that... he’s still just a kid. You can call me Roger the Farmer."*
*"Why the Farmer?"*
*"It’s just a nice name people wanted to give me, because they love me so much."*
Everyone behind him laughed, and Alexander realized it was mockery.
*"Because he used to plant his victims in his farm."*
*"Is that true?"*
The old man said:
*"No one knows... but I’m pretty sure planting humans doesn’t do much good. They don’t grow into trees."*
*"So then, boy, what’s your Blessing?"*
*"No, I don’t have one yet."*
Everyone looked at a boy they couldn’t quite understand, while old Roger placed the cell key in his mouth — he’d taken it from the guard, since in this prison he apparently held more authority than the Queen herself, and probably had every key in the place tucked in his back pocket.
*"What do you mean, boy, you don’t have a Blessing?"*
*"Right, I don’t."*
*"But you said you used your left hand... impossible to use it without a Blessing... there are people in this very prison who have a Blessing and still don’t have left-hand magic."*
Alexander said:
*"Bad luck for them... it’s an interesting power."*
He wasn’t afraid of any of them, really — he was used to mixing with Chinese gangs, even Italian mob and Yakuza types back home... so as far as he was concerned, they were just bad people, or trying hard to look like it. So he knew that staying silent in a place like this wasn’t wisdom or a path to peace — it was a fast track to getting punched by whoever felt like it.
*"You’re an unlucky one, boy... you know the last time someone got a left hand before a Blessing?"*
*"The Great Priest?"*
The old man laughed and said:
*"Yes, that’s him... are you one?"*
*"Don’t know yet..."*
*"You should just pray to God you’re not."*
*"Why?"*
*What’s this old man talking about? Why would anyone refuse to hold all four Blessings in a single body?*
Someone in the back said:
*"Because you’ll end up more of a slave than ’great’... everyone knows the Great Priest is just the Church’s dog. No one liked one in the old days, only people close to the Church."*
The old man said:
*"I remember the last Great Priest who ever appeared... actually fought right alongside him. He was like a wooden machine — you couldn’t tell him apart from a stick. Only difference is, a stick gets to rest a while if you throw it down... but him, he was just a living person. He kept repeating that same line: everyone has to taste death, but no one gets to taste life."*
*"Alright, I’ve got a more important question, old man,"* Alexander said, trying to hide his real worry behind a calm tone. *"Who rules tomorrow? I’ve heard talk of priests and judges, but who actually has the final word in this kingdom?"*
Roger let out a short, dry laugh, as though the question had pulled up an old memory he hadn’t thought about in a long time.
*"You think the King rules? That man behind the white mask has barely spoken in years. The disease took more than his face from him, boy — it took his voice too. Took his will to decide anything for himself."*
Alexander looked at him with genuine curiosity, forgetting for a moment the cold stone beneath him.
*"So who actually rules, then?"*
*"The prince, of course."*
Roger said it simply, as if it were a fact known by everyone in this prison except Alexander alone.
*"That boy who looks like a girl, in his silk clothes?"*
*"Don’t be fooled by his looks, boy. Ever since his father’s illness started worsening, he’s been the one deciding everything behind the curtains — who gets punished, who gets pardoned, which war gets waged, which treaty gets signed. The King sits on the throne like a statue, and the prince pulls the strings from behind him, making sure it still looks like his father’s the one calling the shots."*
*That explains why he raised his hand so suddenly, and why he ended the argument with a single sentence and no one objected. He wasn’t acting like a prince asking for his father’s opinion — he was acting like the actual ruler, one who knew perfectly well his word would be obeyed.*
*"And does that mean my fate tomorrow is in his hands, not any priest’s or judge’s?"*
Roger shook his head slowly, some of his usual mockery fading from his features.
*"The judges and priests will talk plenty tomorrow. They’ll read old laws, argue over what your hand did. But in the end, the real decision comes from that boy, and no one else. And the problem, boy, is that no one really knows what that prince wants. Some say he likes playing with people’s fates the way children like playing with dolls — choosing who lives and who dies for no reason other than the decision itself amusing him."*
Alexander felt a new coldness creep into his chest, different from the cold of the stone beneath him.
*A game... was I just a game to him from the start? That smile when I shattered Richard’s sword, that strange boyish excitement... was he just enjoying himself, or did he see something else in me I don’t understand yet?*
*"Why does he even care about some village boy like me?"* Alexander finally asked, more to himself than to Roger.
The old man gave a strange smile, and looked at him with eyes that suddenly seemed more serious than at any point since the conversation began.
*"That, boy, is the question that should keep you up tonight. Not your fear of losing your head."*
Alexander sat silent for a moment, digesting those last words, before asking with a curiosity he couldn’t hold back:
*"And what happened to them? The ones who used their left hand without a clear excuse like the one I had?"*
Roger looked at him with that same serious expression, his hand reaching up to scratch his unkempt beard, as though pulling up memories he didn’t like revisiting often.
*"I remember a man up north, years ago, who used his left hand to settle a simple business debt with a merchant who’d broken his word. It wasn’t self-defense, wasn’t a war — just anger, and a desire to end an argument. They paraded him in public, cut off his left hand first, then left him bleeding in front of the market for a full day before anyone was allowed to treat him — a punishment for everyone to see, a lesson not easily forgotten."*
He paused briefly, then added in a lower voice:
*"And I remember another woman, crueler in what she did — used her hand on her own nephew in a land dispute. No one showed her mercy for being a woman; it was the opposite — they wanted to make a double example out of her. They locked her in an iron cage hung outside the city walls for a full month, with barely any food, so every passerby could see her, then cut off his fingers one by one before finally cutting off her hand in front of the entire crowd."*
Alexander felt a faint nausea creep into his stomach, not just from the stories themselves, but from the coldness with which Roger recounted those details, as though they were perfectly ordinary events, repeated so often they didn’t even warrant a genuine tone of sorrow.
*So that’s what’s waiting for me if the prince doesn’t find an excuse he’s satisfied with... not just a quick cut, but a public spectacle, a punishment designed to be seen, designed to make everyone afraid.*
Heavy footsteps interrupted that silence — a guard walking down the outer corridor, heading toward another cell with no clear concern for anyone around him.
Roger suddenly lifted his head and called out in a calm voice that carried a strange weight, as though everyone in that corridor knew they had to listen when he spoke.
*"Guard."*
The guard stopped instantly, turning toward the cell with unexpected speed for a man who was supposed to be guarding a prisoner, not the other way around.
*"Yes, Roger?"*
*"Quiet down out there, your footsteps are disturbing my thinking. And bring me some beer when you finish your round — from the new barrel, not the old one that tastes like horse piss."*
The guard nodded immediately without any objection, as though the request were the most self-evident thing in the world, then continued on his way with lighter steps this time, trying not to make any more noise.
Alexander watched that scene in silent astonishment, trying to understand how an old prisoner, held behind bars just like him, could hold that kind of authority over a guard who was supposed to be his master.
*Who exactly is this man? Definitely not just an ordinary prisoner. That much is clear now.*
Roger smiled, noticing Alexander’s questioning look, but didn’t explain anything, just leaned his back against the stone wall behind him and closed his eyes for a moment, as though talking about it wasn’t worth any further effort.
Alexander looked at the old man in silence for a moment, curiosity overtaking his caution more and more the longer their conversation went on.
*"If you have all this influence, why are you even talking to me? Why waste your time with a boy who’s going to be tried tomorrow, when you could just ignore me like everyone else does here?"*
Roger smiled a wide smile, revealing scattered yellow teeth, and opened his eyes slowly, his gaze carrying none of that seriousness this time, just that familiar mockery he quickly returned to.
*"Because I like watching people’s last days, boy."*
He said it lightly, as though joking, but something in his tone suggested part of him wasn’t joking at all.
*"Some prisoners pass through here quickly, not even worth a second glance. But sometimes one comes along carrying an interesting story, and your face, boy, is the face of someone who’s either going to become something great and dangerous, or lose his head before noon tomorrow. Either possibility is worth a good beer while I watch it play out."*
He laughed again with that raspy voice, leaving Alexander staring at him with a mix of confusion and unease, unsure whether that man actually cared about him at all, or simply saw him as a source of entertainment before an inevitable ending.