Prisoners

Volume one: A Band of Bastards

Ethan drifted back to consciousness, his mind foggy, thoughts knotted like roots in a dense forest. The first thing he registered was the sensation beneath him—rough and damp, the uneven texture of aged wood pressing against his skin. The air hung heavy with the scent of salt and mold, laced with the faint metallic tang of rusting iron.

His vision remained blurred, his ears ringing, muting the sounds around him. Yet, voices began to cut through the haze.

"He doesn't seem to be breathing," mused a young male voice, tinged more with curiosity than concern.

A sharp slap crashed against Ethan's cheek, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his already aching skull.

The hell?! he groaned inwardly, flinching.

"What in the gods' name are you doing?!" snapped a second voice—female, edged with outrage.

"What? It woke him up, didn't it?" The first voice carried no hint of concern, even a faint smile lurking in its tone. "Oops, seems like he's about to pass out again. Let me try once more—"

"Maybe I should plant a fist in your face and see if it knocks any sense into that hollow skull of yours!" she shot back, exasperation thick in her tone.

A weary sigh cut through their bickering. "Enough, both of you. He's already awake."

Ethan groaned, forcing his eyes open as the blurriness in his vision receded. Two figures crouched before him—a man and a woman, both likely in their early twenties. They studied him openly, their expressions a mix of curiosity and mild surprise as he blinked up at them.

The girl had striking blue eyes, vivid against her fair skin, kissed just enough by the sun to carry a hint of warmth. Her blond hair, streaked with darker strands, was gathered into a loose braid, though rebellious locks framed her face. A small beauty mark rested near her chin, accentuating her sharp yet undeniably beautiful and alluring features. There was a confidence in the way she held herself—self-assured, keen, and not the least bit delicate.

The young man beside her carried a roguish charm that seemed to radiate from him. Broad-shouldered and lean, his frame hinted at both strength and agility, like someone accustomed to quick movements and quicker thinking. His chestnut hair fell just past his ears in messy waves, sun-lightened strands catching the dim light. His sharp green eyes gleamed with mischief, their intensity cutting through the shadows of the cell, and the faint scar on the bridge of his nose only added to his rugged handsomeness. His jawline was defined, almost angular, giving his face a striking edge that matched the playful smirk on his lips. He looked down at Ethan with an air of amusement, clearly entertained by his dazed state, as if the world were nothing more than a game to him.

But at the same time, Ethan's mind was racing, memories flooding in like shards of a broken mirror. What's going on? His head throbbed as strangers stared at him like he was some kind of spectacle. Where am I?

The girl waved a hand in front of his face. "You still with us?"

Before he could answer, the man poked him in the stomach with a finger. Ethan flinched, his body jerking instinctively away from the ticklish touch.

"Looks alive enough to me," the man chuckled.

Ethan scowled, rubbing his face. "Who are you people?"

A new voice, smooth and unhurried, drifted in from behind the pair. "We could ask you the same."

Ethan blinked and shifted his gaze past the two, spotting a third figure.

Another young man sat in the shadowed corner of the cell, half-reclined against the iron bars as if he had long since accepted his confinement. He was young, perhaps early twenties like the others, but there was something more refined about him—sharp, deliberate, detached. His face was strikingly handsome, almost too flawless, with features that carried an aristocratic sharpness. His nose, neat and beautifully shaped, bore resemblance to the girl's, though his expression lacked her fiery character. Instead, his demeanor was cool, almost indifferent, his deep blue eyes holding a quiet intensity. Faint shadows framed them, hinting at exhaustion, as though sleep had eluded him for some time.

His jet-black hair, unruly and untamed, cascaded past his shoulders in loose waves. A few stray strands fell over his forehead, barely shifting as he lazily turned a page in the small book he held.

"The crew dragged you in here and locked you up with us," the young man continued, his tone calm. His gaze barely lifted from the page as he spoke. "But as far as we know, we were the only ones trying to hitch a ride for free."

Ethan stared at him for a moment, his sluggish brain struggling to process the words. "A ride?"

Blinking hard, he forced himself to take in his surroundings properly.

Stacks of crates and barrels crowded the cramped space, their worn surfaces slick with moisture. A lantern swayed gently with the ship's movement, casting long, restless shadows across warped wooden planks.

Then there was the cell.

His back pressed against cold, rusting iron bars. He shifted slightly, and the wooden floor groaned beneath him—a deep, tired sound, as if the ship itself were exhaling under its own weight. The faint creak of the hull, the rhythmic lapping of waves, the subtle, ceaseless motion beneath him—it all sank in at once.

Then, like a punch to the gut, realization struck. He was on a ship.

Not a modern cruise liner. Not a steel-clad battleship. The wood around him was too old, the construction too primitive. The iron bars holding him weren't welded—they were hammered, uneven, their surfaces pitted with time. Even the lantern in the far corner of the room, flickering with real fire instead of LED light, felt like something pulled straight from the pages of history.

Panic pressed against his ribs.

No, no—there had to be a rational explanation. Maybe it was some elaborate reenactment, a movie set, a historical attraction he'd somehow stumbled into. His mind grasped at anything logical. He scanned the space for something—hidden cameras, an operator, some out-of-place detail that would break the illusion.

But there was nothing.

Everything felt too real. The damp chill in the air, the musty scent of rot where water had seeped too long into the wood.

The boy's hand twitched, fingers searching for something that should be there—the familiar worn leather of his grandfather's journal. But all he felt was empty air.

He looked down. It was gone.

Eyes darting frantically around the cell, he scanned the floor, the corners, anywhere it might have fallen. Nothing. 

Of course. A frustrated breath hissed through his teeth as he ran a hand through his hair. Of course. The one thing that might explain all this is gone.

"What are you looking for?"

Ethan flinched at the voice, suddenly reminded he wasn't alone. He glanced up to see the girl watching him, curiosity flickering in her striking blue eyes. The other two weren't far behind—one giving him the same questioning look, the other just a side-eye.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

Yeah, they didn't buy that. 

Ethan's face expression was far from neutral. He forced himself to relax, schooling his features into something calmer.

He needed to be more careful from now on. The journal was gone, and this place was too strange, too foreign—like a world ripped from another time. But panicking wouldn't bring it back. Dwelling on it wouldn't help, either. Right now, the priority was blending in, keeping his head down, and not drawing any more attention to himself.

After a few seconds of them staring at him like he was an idiot, the girl just shrugged. "Alright."

Then, with an amused tilt of her head, she let her gaze flick down and up, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

"But seriously—what's the deal with your clothes?"

Ethan followed her gaze down to himself, then back to them—finally registering just how out of place he must have looked.

His expression immediately soured. So much for not drawing attention.

Their clothes were nothing like his. If anything, they seemed ripped straight from a medieval fantasy.

And his? He was still in his hoodie, his jeans, his sneakers—modern.

The brown-haired guy wore loose dark brown trousers, tucked into scuffed leather boots reinforced with small metal plates. His white shirt was unlaced at the collar, revealing a hint of his collarbone, and over it, he wore a dark leather vest with a high, upturned collar. Small plates of metal were sewn into the vest—just enough to offer protection without restricting movement. Leather bracers covered his forearms, worn and creased from years of use.

The dark-haired figure in the corner, the one with the book, dressed in a much simpler fashion—yet somehow, it suited him even more. His white linen shirt was loose, the sleeves wide and flowing in a way that reminded Ethan of old portraits of nobility. The top few buttons were undone, exposing just enough of his chest to give off an air of carelessness rather than arrogance. Around his neck, a pendant rested against his skin—a silver cross, its unfamiliar design glistening faintly as it caught the lantern light. His black trousers were plain, disappearing into knee-high leather boots that had clearly seen their share of travel.

Then there was the girl.

She wore fitted trousers of sturdy fabric, though a dark, flowing cloth hung from her waist like the illusion of a skirt, split down the middle for ease of movement. Her sleeveless top fit snugly at her waist, accentuating her shape, with subtle stitching that hinted at both fashion and function. Beneath it, a white blouse with a high collar should have looked elegant—except the top buttons were left undone, dipping low enough to draw Ethan's gaze for half a second too long.

Ethan quickly averted his eyes, face heating.

The girl grinned, catching the reaction. "Pfft." A bright, teasing laugh bubbled from her lips. "You look like an idiot."

The warmth in her tone softened the insult, but that didn't make it any less embarrassing.

Ethan's ears burned. He pushed himself to his feet a little too fast, nearly stumbling in his haste to escape the moment.

"Pffft—hahahaha!" The brown-haired young man doubled over in laughter, slapping his knee.

In the corner, the dark-haired figure turned another page of his book, letting out an exhausted sigh as if the very act of witnessing their antics was draining the life from him.

"Alright, alright," the brown-haired man finally said between lingering chuckles. "Let's not bully the poor kid to death just yet." He stretched lazily, rolling his shoulders before nodding toward the girl, who gave Ethan a playful wink. "Name's Caspien. This little menace here is Lyra—"

Lyra elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

"—And our brooding friend in the corner," Caspien continued, nodding toward the dark-haired man, "is Kaldur. Don't take his silence personally. He's just allergic to fun."

Kaldur didn't look up, merely offering the barest nod in acknowledgment.

Ethan hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He could still feel the lingering embarrassment buzzing in his skin, but he wasn't about to let it keep him from at least trying to salvage some dignity. He held out his hand.

"Ethan."

Caspien squinted at the offered handshake as if trying to decipher a hidden meaning. After a beat, he mimicked the gesture, grasping Ethan's hand in an almost exaggerated manner.

Ethan shook it, feeling slightly foolish.

Lyra, however, smiled warmly at the introduction. "Nice to meet you, Ethan."

Kaldur flicked his gaze up from his book just long enough to acknowledge him with another nod before returning to his reading.

Caspien leaned back against the cell wall, studying Ethan once more. His sharp green eyes glinted with something between curiosity and amusement. "That's an odd name. You're not from around here, are you?"

Ethan hesitated. He wasn't sure how much to say—how much they would believe. Hell, he didn't even know if he should say anything at all.

After a moment of silence, he finally said, "I'm not," scratching the back of his neck.

Caspien chuckled but didn't press further.

"Well, wherever you're from, it doesn't matter much now. We're all headed to the Elpades Archipelago." He flopped down against the cell rods next to Kaldur, stretching his legs out.

Well, I really doubt I'm on Earth anymore.

Ethan wasn't the best at geography, but he was pretty sure no such place existed back home. He'd had his suspicions before, but now? Now, denying it was getting harder.

Lyra settled beside Caspien, shifting comfortably against his side. The young man threw an arm over her shoulder in a thoughtless, familiar motion.

He glanced at the girl, who was now leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "When are we going to arrive, anyway?"

Lyra shrugged, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the young man's arm. "No idea. Kaldur?"

The man in the corner turned another page. "Soon," he said simply, his voice low and gravelly.

Caspien sighed with a smile. "Shouldn't be long now anyway. Been stuck in this damn cell for days."

Ethan's curiosity piqued. "They're going to let us out when we get there?" he asked, hoping for a shred of good news.

Caspien's grin dimmed, his smirk softening into something almost thoughtful. "Nope," he said, his tone lighter than the word deserved.

Ethan blinked. "What do you mean, 'nope'?"

Caspien leaned back, his expression shifting back to its usual roguish charm, though his gaze remained fixed on Ethan. "They'll probably toss you overboard before we even get there. Best case? They dump you in an island jail and let you rot for a few weeks."

Ethan's stomach sank.

The young man held the silence just long enough to watch the boy's expression drop—before bursting into another round of laughter.

"You should've seen your face!"

Ethan groaned, running a hand down his face. "You're an ass."

Lyra sighed, resting her forehead with a smile against Caspien's shoulder. "Ignore him. He enjoys messing with people way too much."

Before Ethan could respond, the sounds outside the cell shifted. The muffled commotion of sailors above grew louder, their movements more hurried. The steady rhythm of the waves punctuated by a sudden surge of voices—men shouting orders, boots thudding against wood.

Caspien cracked an eye open.

"Well," he said, his smirk widening. "Sounds like we've arrived."