Will had never been to the dungeons before, and found himself glad he hadn't. It was dark and damp and smelled faintly of blood, and he could almost hear the screams of the people that came before him. The walls were in a silent state of disrepair, crumbling and mossy, and Will knew it was because neither Duncan, long live the King, nor Evanlyn had used them.

Jerome thrust him into a cell at the front of the prison and proceeded to hook Will's hands to a metal bar in the ceiling. Being as small as he was, Will's feet didn't touch the ground and all his weight strained against his wrists. Jerome turned as if he were going to walk out, and then swung his fist into Will's stomach with a sickening whumpf. The punch nicked Will's solar plexus and he found himself gasping for air.

Pulling a small razor blade out of his pocket, Jerome smiled. "Remember when that old graybeard and Horace beat the living daylights out of us? Remember how you just stood around and watched? Well, now you're going to get a taste of what it was like to be us, only worse…" The razor blade rested against Will's bicep and with extreme precision, Jerome applied pressure and slid it down Will's arm. A small line of blood bubbled to the surface and the scent of wet copper filled Will's nostrils. The pain wasn't that bad, but he knew he would have to endure much more pain, and the thought of torture made him queasy.

"Please Jerome…Please?" he asked, almost begged. The Rangers were a group accustomed to extreme bravery, but somehow, they had an intense belief that they were going to survive, and nothing seemed that frightening. Will had lost that confidence, and it was turning his stomach to mush. He was going to die.

"Please? When your friend was beating up on us, we said 'please'. Where did that get us?" Jerome snarled, holding the scarlet-edged blade in front of Will's face. "The same place it's going to get you, Mr. Treaty…"

XxXx

Halt rode faster than he ever had before. Abelard held Halt's freakish pace, but seemed to be tiring gradually. After what seemed to Halt to have been an eternity, they finally crossed the border into Araluen, and Halt pushed Abelard to the extreme. He had to save Will, he had to!

Halt's quiver held only one arrow, as was asked, and he brought no other weapons with him. He couldn't fox when Will's life hung in the balance. He had considered slipping a knife into his boot, but what if Horace checked? What if he found the knife and decided to kill Will? Halt still couldn't figure out why Horace would do something like this. He had gotten rid of all of them, and now he was bringing them back into play. Halt's mind went over and over this problem but no solution arrived. In the end, he was content just to ride.

At long last, Abelard's feet clacked against the cobblestone streets of the capitol. Halt jumped off Abelard and left him with an awestruck boy, heading in a beeline for the castle. He went straight in; the drawbridge was down, and no guards manned it. Similarly, there were no servants bustling around. What had happened?

Halt took the twists and turns needed to get to the throne room, where he figured Horace might be. And when he entered the large room, he was right. But it wasn't just Horace there…

"You!" Halt's shouted when he saw Alda, much like Horace had. "It was all you!"

"Yes, yes it was. Now if you brought your one arrow, it's time to get down to business,"

Xx-xX