The Shattered Crowns

Mirak caught the faintest hint of voices as his eyes flickered open, his body drenched from the sea.

"...Sell 'im good," rasped a nasally voice.

"Lost a hand, though. Won't sell for good labor. Might as well grab one of the others lyin' there," replied a deeper, gruffer voice.

"No one else still alive to take. Nothing but corpses left," muttered the first voice.

"Sunreachers must've picked up all the good stock," the deeper voice grumbled. Mirak heard footsteps squelching in the soaked ground nearby.

He tried to hold his breath, but his body refused to obey. Wheezing racked his chest as seawater spilled from his lungs. A hard kick slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling. He choked and coughed violently, hands flipping him onto his back as the sun stabbed into his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a large, crooked nose hovering above him. It belonged to a man with greasy hair and a grin that revealed rotting teeth.

"Lost a hand, huh?" The man's smile widened. "No matter. We can work with that."

He spat to the side and pulled out a pair of dull silver shackles. They were plain, functional things, but the two gleaming needles protruding from the inside of the cuffs made Mirak's blood run cold.

The shackles glinted with an unnatural steel-blue hue. He didn't want them anywhere near him.

"Easy now. I'm just puttin' these on ya," the man said in a sickly attempt at soothing. Mirak tried to pull away, his body finally responding, but it was weak—pitiful, even. His remaining hand clenched into a trembling fist as the man yanked his arm.

"Stop—" Mirak whimpered.

The man ignored him and jammed the first shackle into place. The needles pierced his flesh, searing pain radiating through his arm as the shackle locked with a faint click. His muscles seized as something began coursing through his veins, spreading a tingling numbness. The pain remained, sharp and deep, but it was joined by an invasive heat that made his arm feel less and less like his own.

The man adjusted the second cuff onto his stump with a grunt of effort. Another stab of pain. Another faint, deadly click.

Mirak's body convulsed as the foreign device became part of him, his arm muscles useless against the cruel design.

The man straightened, smirking. "Ain't like those Sunreachers playin' at nobility. You're a Publici now. Ain't no layin' down no more."

Mirak spat through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse. "I hope the Lunar Storms take you."

The man struck him across the head, sending a sharp burst of pain through his skull.

"Bah! We're entre—entre…what's the word, Noom?" the man asked, scratching his greasy scalp.

"Entrepreneurs, Brog," answered the smaller of the two slavers, a wiry man with a weasel-like face and several gold teeth. He grinned at Mirak.

Brog snorted and yanked the rope attached to Mirak's shackles, dragging him forward through the mud. "Getta movin'. None of this runnin' business."

Noom gave Mirak a condescending sneer. "Not that he could run even if he tried. Dead in a minute with how much blood he's lost." He switched to a sharp, crackling tongue unfamiliar to Mirak. "Kann detar kadu un."

The foreign words grated on Mirak's ears. He tried to translate them—Kann, he thought, might mean "can." But the rest? Nothing. It was garbled noise, and the sounds didn't flow like any language he knew.

"You don't know Kavish? Not good," Noom said, clicking his tongue. "Common Astadish lowers prices. Mayhaps we should teach him, Brog."

"Why bother? You were dropped on your head as a babe, Noom."

Noom rolled his eyes. "Learned Publici are valuable. Buyers love a broken scholar—enough to ignore the missing hand. But only fools try to train 'em into merchants or nobles. Too dangerous."

Mirak's rage boiled beneath his fear. He wasn't going to be a slave. He had left his home to escape a mundane life—this wasn't what he fought so hard for. But the shackles at his wrists and the weight of his injuries kept him rooted in reality. He stumbled and fell to his knees as Brog yanked the chain again. His skin scraped against the gravel-like mud, stinging sharply.

"Pull again, and I'll cut off an ear," Noom warned. His voice carried a tone of grim practice, as though he had delivered that same threat countless times before.

Mirak bit back a retort, glaring at the slavers. His vision was blurred with blood and mud, his body trembling with anger and exhaustion. Still, he said nothing. They would cut off his ear if he pushed them.

Noom leaned close, speaking softly to Brog as if Mirak wasn't there. "Think of the money if we teach him Kavish—properly, I mean. The break we could get! Nobles might take an interest."

"And what about the Wall?" Brog asked, frowning.

Noom shrugged. "It's a risk, but the price for an educated Publici could be worth it. Swimming in resin if it pays off."

The slavers dragged Mirak across the muddy battlefield, a place that resembled a scar on the earth. Charred grass and blackened soil stretched in every direction, with pools of stagnant water scattered throughout. The smell of burnt wood and rotting flesh clung to the air. The landscape felt wrong, as if it had been violated by something greater than men.

Night was beginning to fall, the dim light fading into a pale gray. Mirak's mind drifted despite himself. What had happened here? Where was he now? Was this what Winter had meant when she warned him of danger?

Brog's hand gripped his chin suddenly, dragging him from his thoughts. The slaver's calloused fingers were rough against Mirak's mud-smeared skin. "You're Publici now!" Brog barked, as though stating the obvious was an act of dominance.

Then, pointing a dirty finger at his chest, Brog said with exaggerated emphasis, "Me—master."

"Forgive his Astadish," Noom said with a smirk. "Poor Brog was dropped on his head as a babe."

Mirak remained silent, his gaze dropping to the shackles encircling his wrists. His right hand—the only hand he had left—twitched. The other arm ended in a stump, wrapped haphazardly in dirty bandages. The sight of it brought back a flood of memories he fought to suppress. His body bore scars far deeper than the surface—reminders of the fire, the ship, and his failure.

Noom glanced at the stump with a calculating eye. "See that, Brog? Told you he'd sell well. Some lords like their Publici a bit mad. They make for good stories, and this one's not bad to look at."

"Bah. Can't read—don't care if he's mad. Bad scholar," Brog grunted.

Noom chuckled. "Plenty of scholars are mad, though. Like that Drezditch fellow! Proper lunatic, and yet people swear by his works."

"No," Brog said flatly.

Noom rolled his eyes and shrugged. "To each their own, I suppose." His gaze turned toward the horizon. "Damn, night already. Let's get camp set before the Lunar Storms roll in."

The Lunar Storm came suddenly, announced by a howl of wind that sent shivers down Mirak's spine. It was unlike any storm he had ever experienced. The air seemed to hum, and the mist that swirled around him carried an unnatural chill.

Mirak closed his eyes, expecting the storm to take him—just as Winter had warned it would. She had been clear: without Mooneye silk, the Lunar Storms would claim anyone caught in them. But nothing happened. Another second passed, then another. He opened his eyes in confusion.

The storm raged around him, a torrent of mist and wind that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the world, yet he stood untouched. His body tingled faintly, as though the storm's energy were brushing against his skin, but he remained unharmed.

"Wondering why you're still breathing, eh?" Noom's voice called out from the tent he shared with Brog. He held up a thin bracelet woven from shimmering threads. "Mooneye silk. Mine cost me four chunks of resin—Brog's cost six. A waste of good resin, but scavenging takes time."

He gestured lazily at Mirak's shackles. "Those little beauties on your wrists? They're Publici Nails. A marvel of old technology, they are. As long as they're on, you'll never have to fear the Lunar Storms. Unless..." He trailed off meaningfully, letting the words linger.

"Unless what?" Mirak croaked.

Noom grinned. "Unless both your arms get chopped off, but we both know that's not gonna happen. Not to you, coward. Can't even hold a blade straight." He turned back toward the tent, laughing softly to himself.

Mirak stared at the shackles in grim silence. His thoughts churned as he struggled against the overwhelming despair sinking into him. For a fleeting moment, he had thought of running. But he dismissed the idea almost immediately. He was injured, bleeding, and half-starved. Escape would mean death.

The storm continued to rage around him, its strange energy gnawing at the edges of his mind. He clenched his jaw, his thoughts a tangle of anger, grief, and desperation. This wasn't why he'd left his village, wasn't why he'd left his mother. He had sought freedom, power, a life of meaning—yet here he was, bound and broken.

"I can see it in your eyes," Noom said, emerging from the tent. He smirked. "That little spark of rebellion. Best snuff it out now, Publici. You'll last longer."

Mirak ignored him, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The mist swirled, cold and unrelenting. Something about it called to him.

"What if I broke the shackles?" he muttered, more to himself than to Noom.

The slaver was on him in an instant, striking him across the face. "Best not ask questions like that unless you fancy losing another hand."

Noom lingered, watching Mirak with an unreadable expression. Then he sighed. "Suppose I should destroy that spark in your eyes for good, eh? Might as well tell you how those shackles work. Not that it'll help you."

He crouched down, tapping the metal cuff on Mirak's wrist. "The Publici Nails are more than just shackles. The needles inside? They're fused to your veins, your arteries, your very blood. They've already started working their way through your body. If you break the cuff or try to remove it, the needles will rip out your artery. You'd bleed to death in seconds."

Mirak's stomach churned. He stared at the shackles with fresh horror, the faint tingle of the needles inside his arm now unbearable.

Noom straightened, brushing dirt from his knees. "There. Now you know. I won't answer any more questions about it, so don't bother asking."

Mirak couldn't stop himself. "Who would make something like this?"

Noom shrugged. "Old tech. No one really knows. We just buy 'em."

With that, he tied Mirak's chain to a tree and returned to the tent. "Can't have you running off now, can we? Sleep tight, Publici."

Mirak was left alone in the storm, the mist swirling around him like a living thing. His mind spiraled as memories clawed their way to the surface—memories he'd spent days trying to bury.

He saw Akash and Elys, flung across the deck of the ship. Akash's face twisted in betrayal as he fell overboard. Daenys screaming as the fire consumed the boat, and his hand, in a single terrible instant. Winter's cold, accusing glare.

It was my fault.

The words echoed in his mind, a weight he couldn't escape. He had destroyed the ship. He had killed his friends.

Tears pricked his eyes as the memories overwhelmed him. He wanted to scream, to claw at his own skin, but the ropes binding him to the tree wouldn't allow it. He was trapped, both by the slavers and by the guilt that consumed him.