(POV Grogher)
Uhhhm…
Wherrre… am I?
My head—
it feels like a rock being smashed by a storm.
I force my eyes open.
This place is… strrrange.
Small.
Oval.
A single glass wall separating me from the seabed.
A tank.
No exit.
Outside, there are sirrrens and tritons—
children. Just pups, really.
Four years old, maybe five.
They point at me.
Stare with wide eyes.
They're not afrrraid.
They're… curious.
Some laugh.
Others just watch.
A few are absorbed by a sign.
I lean closer, squinting to read it.
SEAHORSE COVE ATTRACTION!
One of a kind! Exclusive! Just for you,
little Sirens and Tritonlings!
Grogher the Orcotroll!
He talks!
He dances!
He sings!
He smiles!
He grants wishes!
Just one coin… and he'll do what you ask!
Only here. Only now. Just for you! Don't miss it!
What?
The King and Queen of this place must be insane.
I will neverrr do something like that.
Coins wasted.
A faint metallic sound.
I turn.
A little siren must have drrropped a coin into the box.
She swims closer to the tank, smiling at me.
"Hi, Grogher! Do flips and sing!"
Something is wrong.
My legs—
my arrrms—
my mouth—
they move.
Not because I want them to.
I don't contrrrol them.
No.
No, I have to fight this.
I try to resist. I trrry to clamp my mouth shut.
Pain.
So much pain.
I can't.
It's like arm-wrestling a ten-meter troll.
Impossible.
I trrry again.
I don't want to smile.
I don't want to dance.
I don't want to do flips or any of this!
I can't stop it.
I'm spinning—
like a ballerina in a tutu.
Humiliating.
And—
I'm flipping.
Forward.
Backwarrrd.
I'm about to throw up.
My mouth—what is it doing?
I hear my own voice coming from outside.
Hoarse.
Strained.
Off-key.
I'm singing.
No.
No, I don't want to. I don't want to!
The childrrren clap.
They laugh.
They're having fun.
But I don't want to sing—
I have to resist.
Ah—
Strrrength—
AAAH!
It feels like my jawbones are shattering.
Resisting hurts too much.
I can't take it anymore.
I give up.
…
The pain stops the moment I stop fighting.
I keep singing.
I don't know what.
I don't know how.
In front of me, little tritons and siren girrrls dance, cheering, flapping their hands—
I don't think they understand what's happening.
I've become a puppet.
Something is moving me.
I don't know what.
I don't think I've ever felt this humiliated.
Not even the orrrcs went this far.
I want to cry.
But the tears stay frozen on my eyes.
They don't fall.
I don't think I'm allowed to cry.
At some point, I stop singing.
My mouth curls back into a smile.
I have nothing to smile about.
But I don't think I'm allowed to be myself.
I look at my reflection in the glass.
Just as I thought.
My face is locked into a smile.
Fake.
And eterrrnal.
(POV — a young triton passing by)
Woooooow…
I've never seen animals like these before!
Our circus is really amazing…
There's that big, strange creature who always does whatever we ask and keeps smiling—
and then there are them…
A horse.
A unicorn.
And a lion with wings!
Good thing they're anchored to the seabed, or there'd be no way to ride them.
"Alina? Wanna come with me on the giant lion?" I ask my best friend.
She nods and darts over.
"Let's climb!" she says, grabbing my hand.
Wow…
This lion is so soft!
I had to wait forever to get on—there's a line.
"After the lion, can we go on the black horse?"
"And then the white one?"
"But…" Alina hesitates.
"Don't they look sad to you?"
Now that she mentions it… yeah, maybe.
But Mom says it was their choice to come down here and play with us.
She says that when the circus leaves, they'll go back to the world above.
I don't really understand the chains, though.
But Dad says they help them stand properly, like on land.
That makes sense. I guess.
"Oh no," I say at last.
"They're just new friends who want to play with us."
Alina smiles.
"Then… let's play!"
(POV — a passing siren)
Disgusting orc.
Your people hunted, tortured, devoured our ancestors.
Do you really think that pretty face of yours will save you?
Monster.
You will pay.
They've tied him to the post.
Good. He's ready.
I'm first in line today.
I plan to enjoy myself.
"Guard," I ask.
"How many coins for ten minutes?"
"One."
"And for five coins, how many weapons do I get?"
"A pouch of sharpened shells and a whip.
You may also use your hands.
And you may spit."
"Here are the five coins."
"You may begin."
I do.
Bastard.
You will pay for what my great-grandmother suffered.
Eaten alive by one of your kind.
I'll strip you to the bone today.
I grab the whip and hurl it against him.
His body jerks with every strike.
He groans.
Blood begins to flow.
Not enough.
After six minutes of uninterrupted lashes, the shells are perfect.
Their shards sink into the open wounds.
He'll scream eventually.
He whimpers behind that gag—
come on.
His muscles are nothing but torn flesh now.
I still have one minute.
Time to spit.
For my grandaunt.
For my cousin.
For my grandmother.
For my great-grandmother.
And for little Flen, the pufferfish you captured and ate just days ago.
He was my friend.
"Miss, your ten minutes are over. Next!"
One last spit. Then I stop.
I'm sweating.
Satisfied.
It's just a shame that gag kept him from screaming properly.
"Guard! Remove the gag!"
"Yes! We want satisfaction!"
"Take it off!"
I've stirred the crowd—but they all think the same.
The orcs must pay.
And this boy—
their Prince—
must bear the weight of it all.
We won't stop until he's pulp.
Tomorrow I'll be back.
First in line again.
Tomorrow I want to tear the most agonizing screams out of your miserable life.
(POV — Royal Physician)
Far be it from me to claim that orcs are a righteous people—but still…
to persecute a boy like this, one who, from my previous experience, clearly has nothing to do with the orcs' crimes…
it feels excessive.
He's been unconscious for hours now.
My ointments and special massages will seal every wound, draw out every bruise.
At the very least, he'll be able to rest tonight.
"So. Is he ready?" the guard asks impatiently.
I nod.
"Tomorrow they can resume torturing him without pause."
I say it.
I do.
Yet I can't help thinking our Sovereigns are going too far.
What could this young man possibly have done?
The guard shoves him.
It happens so fast I barely register it—
then I see him crash to the floor.
The pain jolts him awake.
"Get up! What do you think this is, room service?" the guard snarls.
"Move, you coward!"
He yanks him up by the hair and drives him forward with sharp kicks of his fin.
I follow in silence.
Inside the cell, I watch as they bind him hand and foot with heavy chains—
chains designed to shatter willpower and suppress power.
Then the guard approaches again, grabs his hair once more, and forces a bowl toward his mouth.
It's filled with a murky, muddy slop.
"Eat. Let no one say we starve you."
The boy tries—proudly—to refuse.
The slap that follows splits his lip, blood pouring freely.
"I just treated him," I murmur.
"Mind your business, doctor. In here, he's my concern. Eat."
The young man resists again.
The guard pries his mouth open and shoves the slop down his throat.
The boy vomits.
The guard waits, watching with a disturbing pleasure.
Then he strikes him again.
The sound echoes through the corridor.
The boy collapses, his head slamming violently against the floor.
He blacks out.
"Patch him up and get out," the guard orders.
I approach.
I tend to him.
I lay him on the cot and cover him so he won't grow cold—
though tomorrow he'll wake with a terrible headache. No doubt about it.
Perhaps I'm mistaken. Perhaps I don't know the full story.
To warrant such treatment, he must have committed something truly grave.
Better not to interfere. I value my skin.
I'll keep doing my duty.
In silence.
(POV Dorcha)
Awake again.
It's still dark, but soon the guard will come to take me—
to begin again.
I can't take this anymore…
it's been days.
I'm exhausted. Everything hurts.
I never imagined it was possible to feel this much pain.
Every day the sirens and tritons grow more vicious.
They revel in it.
It's as if they want to destroy me.
Why?
They keep saying it's because of the orcs.
I understand I'm their Prince, but I—
I've done nothing to them.
If only at night I had even a shred of strength left to resist…
but I'm so tired…
and these damned suppressing chains won't let me make even the smallest movement.
All I can do is hope they'll eventually grow bored.
But it doesn't seem likely.
On the contrary…
If this goes on forever…
maybe being killed would be a release.
…
I wonder where Aileen is.
How she's doing.
I miss her so much.
If it weren't for her, I would have given up already.
Thinking of her is the only thing anchoring me to reality—
the only thing giving me the strength not to surrender.
I just hope she's been luckier than I have.
If I think she might be suffering what I am suffering…
I feel sick.
Aileen—hold on.
Somehow…
we'll make it through.