Streets of Sorcery: Chapter Zero (Patreon)

Streets of Sorcery

Chapter Zero: The End

Every story has an end.

For the man being dragged towards the front of the courtroom by his elbows, that end seemed to be nearer than he ever expected in his worst nightmares. Those five words had been a constant mantra in his mind for the last three months, pervasively invading all other thoughts and driving him to new heights.

It only made sense that it would also have him at his lowest.

Twenty-two years on this earth is far shorter than I would have hoped, the young man thought to himself, more than a hint of bitterness creeping into his thoughts. The bitterness gave way to annoyance as the guards came to a stop just a few meters away from the judge’s raised platform, his forward movement halted with a suddenness that was explicitly jarring.

His hands cuffed behind his back, the prisoner remained silent as he stared blankly forward. His face remained the same, the young man appearing entirely uninterested even as an ornately dressed marshal in a heavy black coat and tricorn hat approached him with a set of shackles thicker and more elaborate than the simple pair he wore around his wrists. The marshal was a towering figure, with his wide frame, pale face, dark eyes and a thick white mustache that twitched with impatience contrasting starkly with the thin-framed, dark-skinned, blue-eyed, and angular jawline of the prisoner staring calmly back at him.

“Turn around,” the man ordered, his voice a gruff, raspy mess that had the prisoner wondering just how many snaprolls this man went through daily.

“He said, turn!” A sharp tingle struck the small of his back an instant before he felt his body seize up as electricity coursed through his body. The prisoner gritted his teeth and refused to fall, tensing his muscles rather than show any sign of pain.

A second later and the shackled man snapped back to reality, his dull eyes gaining life as he blinked at the man in front of him, the marshal’s narrowed eyes bearing more than a hint of wariness as he stared back. Fighting the urge to scowl, the prisoner graced the man with a smile before he slowly pivoted on his heels until he faced both guards that had dragged him in like a sack of wheat. One of them held a foot-long baton in one hand, the glowing runic scripture inlaid across its length still yet to properly fade as small sparks danced across the tip.

Both stared at him with open suspicion, the one holding the weapon blinking slightly as he glanced down at the device in his hand. “SparkStick losing its charge, you think?” the other guard asked his partner.

The first gripped the magic tool tighter, knuckles white as he stared the prisoner down with the wariness one would a wild animal. “Y-yeah, maybe.”

Piercing blue eyes flicked between both shifty-looking guards, a humorless smile frozen on his face as the marshal behind him knelt to secure the shackles around his ankles.

Nnngggh.He clenched his teeth rather than allow himself to grunt in pain as the shackles flared with the usual gray light that signified their activation. The sudden chill that spread across his affected limbs as the energy in his body was siphoned away was always hard to manage the first time, even more so with every new addition. Still, that didn’t mean he’d be willing to give his guards the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

He kept his gaze forward, blue eyes bright and defiant, as the man moved on to his wrists, clicking the large cuffs into place so tightly that he felt his wrists protest. With every new addition, the restraints gained more effectiveness and their ability to weaken a captive only grew. From what he could tell, these were clearly a new design, stronger and much more effective than most he had ever dealt with; likely crafted by the city’s finest to neutralize a more powerful type of criminal.

As he took a moment to adjust to his new restraints, the prisoner allowed himself a mental sigh of relief only for his moment of peace to be rudely interrupted as the guard stepped from behind him, an imposingly thick metal collar with a chain attached to it held in both of his hands.

“Raise your neck.”

The prisoner locked eyes with the older man for a moment, before raising his head to expose his neck. Without hesitating, the guard snapped the collar shut, tightening it until the man on trial felt his head lighten from the sudden constriction. A heavy-linked chain was quickly attached to the collar, the other end fixed to a clasp built into the floor of the courtroom.

The prisoner clenched his fists, doing his best to resist the unnatural chill and numb-like tingle that threatened to spread upwards past his head and downwards to his chest. Truth be told, every inch of him felt more than a little cold, but his arms and legs…

Well, they felt like ice. Was this special ordered?

Some small, errant, spiteful part of his mind wondered if he should feel honored.

The rest of him couldn’t find the energy to care.

Despite his position, he held his head high. After all, most people wouldn’t be able to do much more than move their head with these sorts of shackles on them, nearly frozen and drained by the lack of body heat and energy. They’d be barely able to keep themselves awake, let alone move their bodies and limbs as comfortably as he could.

His train of thought shifted tracks as the courtroom fell silent, the hush that overtook the room allowing the creaking of the large wooden doors to the left to be clearly audible to everyone within. An older woman strode in imperiously, her long black robes swishing against the marble floor and contrasting sharply with her powdered snow-white wig.

“Judge Marritt has arrived!” the marshal boomed, his voice echoing through the courtroom.

The judge in question walked towards her bench with unflinching confidence, head held high as she took her seat and stared down at the residents seated or standing below her. Her grey eyes seemed to take in every detail in front of her, cold and stern, before firmly meeting the prisoner’s own with a detached, clinical stare.

"My Lady," the marshal said, bowing deeply. "The court is yours."

The woman nodded; her gaze still fixed on the prisoner. "Let us proceed.”

The marshal boots thudded against the marble floor as he returned to his proper place beside the judge’s bench. “Prisoner, announce your name and number,” the marshal barked, voice sharp and commanding.

Said prisoner stared upward at the judge, ignoring the demand of the marshal. “...”

“Prisoner!” The marshal barked again, mustache shaking. “Name! Number!”

The prisoner in question rolled his eyes, frustration growing at the pointless order. You know my name. You know my number. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Still, though, he knew had to obey the orders to have any chance of a fair trial. “Markus Kaine... Prisoner number Six-six-eight-five-four-zero-zero… nggggh!!!”

Markus glared back at the marshal as the older man aimed a ShockStick in his direction, the rune-crafted tool sending a stream of crackling blue energy coursing through his frame. Teeth gritted, the prisoner locked his knees and remained standing, unwilling to show pain or buckle under the magical onslaught.

A few seconds passed like this before the marshal finally withdrew the baton, expression twisted in bitter frustration. “Show proper respect.”

The young man ignored the shocked and wary looks from both the guards as well as the audience and jury at his resistance of the punishing magic on his body, their expressions projecting nothing but their own fear and disgust at the sight of him.

Straightening back up, the shackled young man turned his attention back to the judge, fierce determination in his eyes as he spoke up again. “Markus Isaac Kaine. Six-six-eight-five-four-zero-zero, My Lady.”

The judge stared with cool detachment; her keen eyes focused on him. Her gaze never left him, as if searching for something. After a few moments, she spoke again. “Prisoner Six-Six-Eight-Five-Four-Zero-Zero, you stand accused of nine counts of destruction of property, five counts of involuntary manslaughter, and one count of grand homicide in the first-degree. Do you understand your charges?”

Markus shut his eyes for a moment before responding. “...Yes, my Lady.”

The judge cleared her throat and addressed the prisoner once again. “Prisoner Six-Six-Eight-Five-Four-Zero-Zero, how do you plead?”

He remained silent, thoughts moving oddly slow as he stared back at the judge. There was so much to say, but at the same time, almost absolutely nothing as well.

“Prisoner Six-Six-Eight-Five-Four-Zero-Zero, how do you plead?”

Markus finally raised his head, sharp blue eyes meeting the judge’s own grey with an intensity that seemed to shock the wig-wearing woman on some level. She stilled for a moment; gavel frozen in her grip as she prepared to bring it down. “I am sorry, My Lady. Simply collecting my thoughts.”

The judge narrowed her eyes, lips pursed as she stared down at him with much the same expression as one would a particularly loathsome piece of dung. Her pursed lips pulled back in an expression that was too dignified to be considered a sneer, but not quite serious enough to be nondescript. “Then speak, Prisoner.”

Markus turned his gaze over to the collection of lesser nobility that sat upon the jury, expression hardening even further before he turned his eyes back to the judge. Aware that he would see no justice in this court, the man in chains took in a deep breath before he opened his mouth to say his piece.

“What is there more to say?” The young man began with a scoff, a humorless laugh spilling out of his throat. “I have no barrister, no defense of any sort, not even a prosecutor and I am to be judged by a jury of nobles for the crime of killing a noble. What is there more to say? I killed the bastard.”

The jury gasped, clearly not expecting such an immediate confession.

"I killed him," he continued, low voice gaining strength as he went. "He saw me only as a tool to be used, to further his own ambitions. I was a steppingstone on his path, not even a person to him, and he viewed me the same as any noble would.” Markus directed his gaze over to the jury with those last few words, piercing stare meeting the eyes of each wary person on the bench. “I killed him because I was tired. Tired of being used and discarded. I killed him because I was tired of being stepped on and pushed around.

“I did it and I liked it. So much that I’d do it again and again, a hundred times if I had to. I’d kill him and everyone else like him in this city and I’ll be damned to every single one of the Infinite Hells if I for a moment pretend otherwise.”

Markus’s eyes glowed bright blue as he spoke and glowed even brighter as he continued, the manacles holding him back actively emitting steam as they burnt at his wrists and ankles. “So… if you want to know how I plead, My Lady, I plead guilty. The Monster of Muncen pleads guilty.”

Every story has an end.

And for him, the end had come.