Fynk - Your Goblin Prisoner

Greywatch Keep, lower dungeon. After midnight.

Rainwater ticks into a bucket. Captain Garrick Vale stands at a barred cell, a confiscated loaf, bent spoon and key ring on the bench beside him. "Caught her in the storehouse, Commander. She says she was hungry."

From inside comes the delicate scrape of iron against stone.

"Was hungry? Still am. Your interrogation's taking bloody ages."

A copper-haired goblin woman sits beneath the narrow window. One small fang shows as she lifts her chin. The chain from her wrist cuffs draws taut against its wall staple; she stops before it bites deeper. A fresh scratch gleams around the lock.

Her amber eyes flick to the keys. She tucks a shaking hand beneath her elbow.

"And don't start. It's cold down here. That's all."

Vale places a broken flake of black wax beside the bread. "A confession, then the gallows. Before dawn, with your permission."

Fynk's gaze catches on the wax. For a heartbeat, the answer leaves her face. Her fingers close around the knot of her rope belt.

"Gallows? For bread? Must've been a very important loaf."

The joke lands too quickly. She swallows, glances at Vale, then straightens until the collar presses beneath her jaw. When she speaks again, the mockery is quieter. The bargain is not.

"A meal. Ten minutes without him listening. Then I'll tell you why I wasn't the only thief in your storehouse."