THE DRAGON'S RETURN

Mask of the Executioner

A heavy steel mask pressed cold metal against Thorn's nose and lips.

He pulled the leather straps tight behind his head and adjusted the dark gray coat of the city guard. The smell of cheap polish and old sweat hung thick inside the guardhouse locker room.

"Make sure those straps are tight, new guy," a short guard shouted, slapping his leather belt against a wooden bench. "Captain Julian does not like loose armor. One bad buckle and he sends you straight to the stone pits."

Thorn turned his head, his dark eyes showing through the narrow slits of the steel faceplate. "I know how to wear my gear, soldier."

"You better," the short guard said, leaning against a weapon rack filled with iron spears. "We are going down into the deep dungeon today. Heavy duty. The captain caught an old general from the fallen empire last night."

Thorn kept his hands inside his dark leather gloves, concealing his stone-gray left wrist. "An old general?"

"Yeah, Marcus," the guard replied, spitting on the floor. "The old cripple from the blacksmith shop. They dragged him in two hours ago for hiding rebel papers. He is locked in the silent cell."

Lyra floated near the roof rafters as a faint gray smudge, her voice whispering straight into Thorn's ear. "This is your chance. Get into that cell before they break him."

"Keep your mouth shut, spirit," Thorn thought back, keeping his face totally still under the iron mask.

"Hey! Both of you! Line up!" a loud voice barked from the hallway.

A taller guard with two bronze bars on his shoulder stepped into the room, holding a roll of thick parchment. He looked at Thorn, then looked down at his list.

"What is your name, recruit?" the tall guard asked, tapping his wooden baton against his palm.

"Seth," Thorn replied, using the name on his forged papers. "Transferred from the northern border patrol."

"Northern border, huh?" the tall guard muttered, squinting at Thorn's broad shoulders. "You look big enough to handle an axe. Step into line three. Captain Julian is picking five men for personal guard duty."

Thorn fell into line with four other recruits along the stone wall. They stood in total silence, listening to the muffled rain tapping against the high glass windows.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. A young man in polished silver armor stepped through the doorway, accompanied by two high-ranking imperial officers. His hair was cut short, his face handsome but hard as flint. A long white cape dragged across the dusty floor behind him.

Thorn recognized him instantly. It was Julian, his former childhood friend.

Julian walked slowly down the line of recruits, his blue eyes scanning every face beneath the steel masks. He stopped right in front of Thorn, staring at his broad chest and dark coat.

"You have northern stance," Julian said, his voice quiet and sharp. "Did you fight in the snow border?"

"I did, sir," Thorn replied, lowering his tone to sound rougher. "Three years under Commander Varek."

Julian's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the dead commander's name. "Varek was a good soldier. Cold, but loyal to the core. Why did you leave the northern border?"

"The border was quiet, sir," Thorn said smoothly. "I heard there was real work to be done in the capital."

"Real work," Julian repeated, a small, cold smile touching his lips. "Yes, we have plenty of work down in the dirt."

Julian turned away and walked back toward the middle of the room, turning his back on the recruits. "You, the short one, and the two on the left. You are assigned to the outer yard patrol."

He pointed a gloved finger straight at Thorn. "You, northern recruit. You come with me to the silent cell."

"Yes, sir," Thorn said, taking a step forward.

The short guard glared at Thorn with jealousy as the others filed out of the locker room into the rainy yard. Julian motioned for Thorn to follow him down the dark spiral staircase leading into the subterranean dungeon.

The air grew cold and heavy as they descended into the damp earth. Torches flickered on the wet stone walls, casting long, twisting shadows across the iron doors lined along the hallway.

"Do you know who we have down here, Seth?" Julian asked, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone steps.

"The old blacksmith, sir," Thorn said, keeping his right hand resting near his sword hilt.

"He is more than a blacksmith," Julian said, his voice echoing in the narrow passage. "He was a high commander in the Blackthorn army. He served the prince's father for twenty years."

"Is the prince still alive, sir?" Thorn asked quietly.

Julian stopped in front of a massive iron door bound by heavy chains and silver locks. He reached for his key ring, his face turning dark.

"The prince is a disease," Julian said, inserting a long brass key into the lock. "He was my friend once, back when we were boys playing with wooden swords in the garden. But he became a monster. He uses forbidden magic, destroys cities, and murders his own countrymen without blinking an eye."

Julian turned the key with a loud metallic click and swung the heavy door open.

"If Thorn Blackthorn comes to this city," Julian continued, stepping into the dark cell, "I will cut off his head myself and hang it from the main gate."

Inside the damp cell, Old Marcus was chained to a wet stone wall by his wrists, his wooden wheel chair smashed into splinters in the corner. His face was bruised and bloody, but his one good eye glared at Julian with fierce hatred.

Marcus looked past Julian's shoulder and locked eyes with the masked guard standing in the doorway. He recognized Thorn's dark eyes instantly through the steel slits.

"You brought another dog to watch me die, Julian?" Marcus spat, his voice weak and wet with blood.

"I brought a soldier to help me ask questions," Julian said, drawing a thin silver dagger from his belt and stepping toward the old man. "Tell me where the fallen prince is hiding, Marcus, and I will let you die fast."

Marcus looked directly at Thorn and raised his bloody chin. "The prince is closer than you think, you loyal little lapdog."

Julian frowned, raising his dagger toward Marcus's chest. "We will see how brave you are after I cut off your fingers."

Thorn took two quick steps into the room, his dark gloves clenching into tight fists as he prepared to strike Julian from behind.