Youβve been sentenced to 400 years for multiple murders. Itβs been 399 years and your jailers are starting to get nervous.
I was twentyβ¦ twenty-five, I think?β¦ when I was sentenced. Four hundred years was a length of time I couldnβt even imagine. It was a length of time I donβt think anyone could imagine, even the judge. It was just a big showy number that let everyone know Iβd never see the light of day again. The mages who cast the spells were dramatic about it, practically shouting the part about βuntil death claims you, or four hundred years hath passed, forsooth, thou shalt be imprisoned hereβ. They donβt waste that kind of magic on most prisoners, but I was special.
The Slayer, they called me then. The Monster of Sentan. Iβd killed nineteen peopleβ¦ I remember that number because I was so furious that they stopped me so close to my goal of twenty-one. And I didnβt just kill ordinary people, no, but the Chosen of the Gods. The Great and Good. They were terrified of me. So they locked me away, to die forgotten.
It had been a little less than a hundred years when the king died without heir, and a civil war tore the country apart. When the fighting was all over, the losers were dragged down to the deepest cells under the castle, and the new king and his soldiers stopped and stared at me. βWhoβ¦ who is this?β he asked, frowning. βSome victim of the usurper?β
People like cooks and jailers and scrubbers donβt change as easily as kings. The same man whoβd been bringing me my meals since there was still brown in his hair and beard shuffled forward, hunched and grey now. βNo, yer majesty,β he said humbly. βThat be a special prisoner, from before the old king died.β
βSpecial? Special how?β He frowned, moving closer to my cell. βThe old king died more than ten years ago. This woman must have been a child then. What could she have done to - β
βDonβt get too close, yer majesty,β the old man said sharply. βThatβs the Monster of Sentanβ¦ anβ she bites.β
That was true. I do bite.
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