"That bad?" Tom asked as I stepped through the door. He'd wisely chosen to wait safely outside, missing the grisly scene entirely.

"Never seen anything like it," I replied, involuntarily shuddering at the memory. "That chef was brutal—"

A fully armoured man leaning casually against the wall suddenly chuckled. "Met Harold, have you?"I shot a cautious glance at Tom, who was already trying to blend into the stonework. "Uh, yeah. The chef?"

The man let out a hearty laugh. "'The chef,'" he repeated mockingly. "Yeah, that'll be Harold alright. Can tell by the way you look. What'd he do this time?"

I hesitated, scanning the area suspiciously to see if this was some kind of trap before speaking. "He didn't take kindly to people complaining about his food."

Suddenly, the man burst into laughter, clapping his gauntleted hands together. Tom and I exchanged uneasy looks, confused at his reaction.

"Oh, man! I wish I'd been there to see it! I told Gary it would happen this week." He shook his head, still chuckling. "But no, Gary thought people would've learned their lesson by now. It was the conscripts, wasn't it?"

I nodded slowly, and the man doubled over in laughter again.

"I knew it! Next time you see Gary, tell him I was right. Those conscripts never learn!" He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You know, a few years back, a group of conscripts thought they'd put Harold in his place. Actually tried to fight him."

I stared at him incredulously, unable to imagine anyone being foolish enough to challenge the monstrous chef.

He nodded knowingly. "I know, right? Five of them it was. The place was an absolute mess afterward because of all the blood, guts, and bones everywhere. Harold even had bits in his teeth!" He let out another deep laugh, clearly amused by the memory.

I recoiled at the grotesque image, and the man pointed at me, laughing harder. "See, that's exactly the face everyone makes when I tell that story." He wiped away a tear of mirth. "Man, I love Harold. Wish I'd gotten here a little earlier to see today's show."

With that, he slapped a heavy, gauntleted hand onto my shoulder in farewell and strolled merrily inside, presumably to witness the aftermath of Harold's rampage for himself.

"That was weird," I muttered uneasily to Tom as we shuffled away. "Is everyone here mental?"

"Lower yer voice," Tom hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "Ya don't want one of them lot overhearing ya say that. Who knows what will happen."

I scanned our surroundings warily as we hurried along, half-expecting another lunatic to jump out at any moment. The unsettling thought crossed my mind that all the Wallowhackers might be unhinged, unpredictable, and appearing at exactly the worst moments. We'd barely been at the Invader's Gate a day, and already my plan to escape seemed a lot shakier than I'd originally imagined.

As the morning wore on, Tom threw himself into the work with astonishing determination, moving stones, mixing mortar, and patching up the crumbling sections of wall with single-minded intensity. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the dust and grime, creating dark streaks across his skin. There was a haunted desperation in his movements, as though keeping busy was the only thing holding his fears at bay. Once again we worked under palpable tension. He was still deeply shaken by his run-in with Sebastian the night before, and I couldn't get the horrifying scene from the mess hall out of my mind. It didn't help that every time I thought we were alone, I half-expected another Wallowhacker to leap out from the shadows, ready to torment us.

"Need a hand with that?" I asked, reaching toward a particularly large stone he was hauling.

He shook his head sharply, jaw clenched. "I've got it."

I watched as he heaved it into place, muscles straining, breath escaping in heavy grunts. Even though he was older and smaller than me, Tom's sheer grit and determination put me to shame. He barely paused to catch his breath, immediately mixing more mortar and slathering it onto the next layer of stones. The pace he set was relentless, fueled by anxiety rather than pride or enthusiasm.

Eventually, I called out to him, "Tom, we should probably break for lunch soon."

"Just a little longer," he said gruffly, barely glancing up. "Almost got this section done."

I nodded, impressed by his resolve but also concerned about his exhaustion. When we finally did stop, Tom stepped back, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes lingered on the repaired section, satisfaction briefly flickering across his face before quickly being replaced by weariness.

"Good job," I said sincerely, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "We've done well."

He gave a small nod of acknowledgment, but the guarded expression quickly returned. We headed toward the mess hall in silence, each lost in our own apprehensions. I briefly considered skipping lunch and relying on my mana to keep me going, but quickly dismissed the idea. The risk was simply too great. If I was wrong about my power working the way I thought it would then I'd be left starving, and if anyone noticed I wasn't eating after our morning of intense labour—which Tom definitely would—then it would definitely raise suspicion.

As we walked, my thoughts lingered on Tom's fervent pace of work. I knew he wasn't pushing himself out of pride, or even dedication; it was purely survival, a desperate effort to avoid any more attention from the Wallowhackers. Watching him work had been impressive and humbling, a stark reminder that fear could drive a man harder than any other motivation. I also realised I was watching a man fight for his life, pushing himself to the limit so that he could survive another day. It hit me then that not everyone fights their struggles in the same way. I'd always expected people to either literally fight back, or give up. That's how it always seemed to me. You got into a fight and you either kept going, or you accepted your fate. Honestly, that's what I thought about Tom until that moment. I thought that he was a man who had lost a battle and now was just doing the minimum to get by. Accepting of his life as a prisoner. Seeing him like this, I realised that wasn't true. He was still trying to stay alive, still fighting for himself. Just not in the way I would. I turned the thought over as we finally went to the mess hall to get our lunch, thinking about others who were fighting back in their own way. Indirect but still doing something.

Despite how late we were to the mess hall, we found we weren't the only ones who had thought to delay our arrival. Clearly, word about Harold's earlier rampage had spread, and everyone had tried to avoid a repeat encounter.

"I don't like this," Tom muttered anxiously, glancing around the room. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable being part of a crowd that looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

"You and me both," I agreed, my head on a swivel as I did my best to keep aware of the situation. Not that we needed to wait long for it to kick off.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Do you have no respect?!" Came a thundering voice that I knew to be Harold's. I couldn't help share the in the collective flinch as everyone realised the gambit had failed. "Do you only care for yourselves?"

I could just about see the door to the kitchen and so I only had a partial view of Harold exiting, grabbing the nearest man, and tossing him like a plaything into the wall. If there were any doubts amongst the conscripts about his inclination for violence, they were surely dismissed after that. My concern now was where his rampage would end. If it even would. We weren't far from the exit so there was a chance we could have left but I was worried moving would pull the chef's attention. If that had happened, we would like prey fleeing and I didn't need to think back to my lessons to know that was a bad idea.

"Look at this! Look at you. You would let my food go cold, waste it, and then come late and ask for something fresh?" He called out, gesturing to the line of us.

A man near the front of the queue—either braver or more foolish than the rest—tentatively raised his voice, clearly desperate to defuse the situation. "No, Chef, we'd never waste your food. Cold or fresh, we'd eat it. Wouldn't we, lads?"

His friends vigorously nodded, eager to appease Harold. But apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Harold closed the distance in a flash, his massive fist connecting with the man's jaw with brutal efficiency, sending him crashing to the ground unconscious. Compared to the carnage I'd witnessed that morning, a single knockout blow seemed restrained.

"An insult!" Harold bellowed, his voice echoing around the hall like a war drum. "An insult to me. An insult to my team. We determine the food's temperature, carefully chosen for your pleasure, your nourishment, and yet you dare decide upon something else? You would lessen the experience? You would RUIN IT?!"

His face reddened dangerously with each furious word, his chest swelling with unrestrained anger. Suddenly, two more punches were thrown and two more conscripts hit the ground, unconscious and in an awkward heap.

Tom was nervously shuffling as he watched the monstrous chef effortlessly incapacitate grown men. These were men who, in mere days, were supposed to stand against demons from the Fracture, yet here they lay, battered by a madman in an apron. The ease with which he did it was genuinely stupefying and I could tell from Tom's slack jaw that he thought the same. I quickly counted heads. Twenty men still stood ahead of us, nervously awaiting their turn before Harold's wrath. A single punch I could easily endure, and Tom probably could too. But my real concern was that Harold's temper was steadily rising, and I'd already witnessed what happened when he truly lost control. If Harold decided to kill me in a violent rage, then I was as good as dead. It wasn't that I feared being unable to fight back—I knew I could—but revealing my power in this place to win a fight against the chef would mean certain death at the hands of the Wallowhackers. As far as I could tell, it was a lose-lose situation.

I chewed my lip as Harold continued to rant at the disrespect done unto him by us ungrateful swines, frustration bubbling inside me. I hated this feeling. I hated hiding, pretending to be weak and helpless when I knew I was stronger than any man in the room. Stronger than the conscripts. Stronger, probably, even than the Wallowhackers who stood watching with twisted amusement. My eyes settled on one of the soldiers nearby, the same Wallowhacker we'd spoken to earlier. He stood with his arms crossed, laughing heartily at the scene. If it came down to it, I thought I could have him. A dangerous urge overcame me at the thought, and I tried to psyche myself up for it. Get myself ready for the kick off. But then let out a frustrated breath.

As annoyed as I was at the situation, I knew it was stupid to reveal myself like that. No matter how much I chewed at the bit to free myself from my literal and metaphorical chains, the answer was to keep doing what I was doing. The thought itself irritated me but I kept telling myself it was a con. I was running a play, and I needed to stick to my role if I wanted it to play off. I chastised myself by thinking about what Dillon would say if he was here. How Morgana would look at me if I threw away my work this close to the finish line. With a cluck of my tongue, I let go of my need to show myself and began looking for a way out of the situation, only to find it wasn't needed.

"Harold. Harold, what's wrong?" Sebastian's voice called out tenderly, instantly freezing the room. Beside me, Tom went rigid, his face stricken with terror. A reaction that was understandable given how he had spent the night.

"They're being rude, Sebastian," Harold complained petulantly, turning his huge frame towards his boss. "They're squandering what we provide. What we work hard to give."

Sebastian shook his head sorrowfully as he strode past the line, his presence effortlessly commanding the room. He approached Harold gently, placing a comforting hand on the enormous chef's broad back.

"Ungrateful as always. What have they done this time, Harold?" Sebastian's voice was soothing, like a parent calming a distressed child.

"They all came late, making us cook more food. And then they said they'd rather eat it cold!"

His voice began rising in anger once more, his powerful fists clenched tightly at his sides. But Sebastian calmly stroked his back, murmuring something quiet and reassuring until Harold's breathing steadied again.

Sebastian looked over at the battered men on the floor, his expression mildly amused. "I see you've already disciplined some of the offenders. How about we teach the rest a lesson by denying them your wonderful food? Hmm? Deprive them of lunch entirely. That would surely show them the error of their ways."

Harold considered this, then nodded, mollified. "Okay, but they can't do it again!"

"Of course not," Sebastian said smoothly. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping across us all, a sinister smile lingering on his lips. "If it does happen again, Harold, I'll leave their punishment entirely to your discretion."

A series of audible gulps echoed around the room at this proclamation. Skipping one meal was an inconvenience, but far better than facing Harold's fury. I had no doubt people would treat the chef with newfound respect after today.

The tension lingered as Harold shot another fierce glare at the queue before turning on his heel and heading back into the kitchen, leaving a wake of relieved sighs. Tom and I began to shuffle quietly towards the door, hoping to slip out without further drama, only for a voice to halt our escape.

"Tom!" Sebastian's voice called out cheerfully. "I thought I recognized you there, quivering in line."

I didn't know how but Sebastian had closed the distance between us in a blink without any visible effort. Tom froze, eyes wide in panic, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

"I—" Tom stammered, clearly overwhelmed.

Sebastian waved off Tom's stutter with a condescending smile. "Don't worry, don't worry. I know how intimidating Harold can be." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "But if you thought he was frightening just now, you should see him fighting demons. Even they flee from him once he gets going."

Sebastian looked over toward the kitchen door, admiration sparkling disturbingly in his eyes. Then he turned back to Tom, his gaze suddenly bright and eager.

"But you don't have to worry about that. In fact, Tom, I have excellent news for you!" Sebastian's voice dripped with cruel enthusiasm as he lowered himself to Tom's eye level, an imploring look on his face as he smiled coldly. "Would you like some good news, Tom? I'm sure you would, wouldn't you?"

Trapped with no way out, Tom nodded weakly.

Sebastian's smile widened. "I thought you might."

Reaching out, he pinched Tom's cheeks, twisting them cruelly in a mocking parody of affection. Tom winced, his face flushing with humiliation and pain.

"Guess who arrives tomorrow, Tom?" Sebastian's eyes flashed maliciously. Tom's expression fell even further, which seemed to delight Sebastian all the more.

"That's right!" he crowed in a voice like the one adults use to talk to babies. "My wayward brother is finally arriving to pay off his debt to society. And I really must thank you, Tom. It was your friendship that made it all possible. Without you, you cowardly, cowardly man, I doubt they'd have ever accepted my generous offer to release him into my care."

He laughed cruelly, pulling Tom's cheeks roughly from side to side once more before letting him go, the makings of bruises already visible after the tight grip. Tom's eyes widened and flicked to me but there was nothing I could do.

I felt bad for my friend and the attention he was receiving but I didn't know how to help him out. Clearly there was a misunderstanding between them but how do you tell a psychopath that he was wrong? My only hope for Tom's sake was that Grian's arrival would make it better and not worse.

"I for one, cannot wait to see what you two can dig up together," Sebastian finished as he walked away.

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