The Outlaws

Meet the family

The high, jagged peaks of the unknown mountains loomed like ancient sentinels over the stone fortress, a prison buried deep within the snowbound wilderness. Ice clung to its grey walls, while snowdrifts piled against its iron gates. The wind howled fiercely, biting and cruel, as if it sought to devour any living soul who dared venture this far from civilization. A carriage, drawn by four armoured horses, came into view as it struggled up the narrow mountain path, its wheels crunching through the frozen road.

Inside sat a man, his face pale and stern, wrapped in fine furs to protect against the biting chill. His attire marked him as one of high standing—an emissary, no less—though the cold seemed to weigh heavy on his regal features. Beside him, on the seat opposite, was a scroll bearing the seal of the royal family: Prince Helmer, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Evershade.

As the carriage drew to a stop outside the prison gates, the man opened the door, stepping out into the snowstorm. His breath billowed out in white clouds as he approached the fortress. Two prison guards, draped in heavy cloaks and armed with spears, stood watch at the gates. Their eyes narrowed at the sight of the royal adviser approaching.

"Halt!" one of them barked, stepping forward, spear at the ready. "Who goes there? What business do you have in this forsaken place?"

The adviser stopped just short of the iron gates, unperturbed by the hostility. He stood tall, his dark fur cloak billowing in the wind as he adjusted his gloves with the casual confidence of someone who had never been denied entry anywhere.

"I am Lord Valdrik, royal adviser to Prince Helmer," he said, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind. "I've come on behalf of His Majesty to find willing subjects for a task of great importance. Lower your spears."

The guards exchanged a glance, their suspicion not entirely abated. One of them grunted, lowering his spear slightly. "No one just comes to this prison," he muttered. "Why send an adviser to a place like this?"

Valdrik raised a brow, his cold eyes unwavering. "As I said, the prince requires certain... individuals, and only this place harbors such men. Now, do you intend to waste more of my time questioning royal authority, or will you open these gates and fetch your warden?"

The guard hesitated for a moment before nodding to his companion. Together, they pushed open the heavy iron gates, allowing Valdrik to enter. The icy wind howled even louder as it rushed through the opening.

"Wait here," the guard instructed before disappearing into the fortress.

Valdrik stepped forward, the snow crunching under his boots, and surveyed the prison. It was bleak, cold, and forbidding—an ancient place where the sun never seemed to shine. The towers above him, shrouded in snow and mist, seemed like the bones of some long-dead beast, and the prisoners here were trapped in its belly. Faint echoes of distant shouts and clangs of iron could be heard through the walls.

A few minutes passed before the guard returned, accompanied by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a thick leather coat, his beard frosted with ice. This was the Warden, a man of few words and fewer sympathies, hardened by years of overseeing the worst criminals in the kingdom. His sharp eyes studied Valdrik with cautious curiosity.

"Lord Valdrik, is it?" the Warden said, his voice gruff and unwelcoming. "What brings a man of the court to such a place?"

"The Prince," Valdrik replied, holding up the royal seal for the Warden to see. "He has a task for which he requires certain individuals—prisoners who have little to lose and perhaps something to gain. The less your men know of the details, the better."

The Warden glanced at the seal, then back at Valdrik. His eyes narrowed. "And what task might that be?"

Valdrik's expression did not change. "That is not your concern. Only that I am to take some of your most... skilled inmates. I need your cooperation, Warden, and your discretion."