Exactor Decimarum
A solitary silhouette mounted upon a mare watched its next destination from the edge of a cliff, beyond the fury of a storm-torn sea.
The island’s black rocks rose like impossible walls against the sky, and defying all architectural logic, the Prison of Acheron stood upon them: a colossal mass of dark stone carved directly into the cliffside. At its base, an artificial harbor hewn into the rock clung to the wall of the abyss, connected to the prison’s depths by a complex system of mechanical elevators.
The prison was the final resting place of the kingdom’s most despicable beings: murderers, occultists, and all the filth society preferred to forget.
In the small coastal town across from the prison, the man left his mare in the care of a stable boy. With a quick flick of his thumb, he sent a coin spinning through the air; the boy caught it in one hand.
He then crossed to the inn’s storage chest and left his repeating rifle and a satchel inside. Before departing, he raised two fingers in a brief gesture, indicating he would return in two days.
He boarded the old steam barge that carried cargo between the town and the prison.
And some of that cargo breathed.
Acheron’s newest guests sat in chains and shackles: wretched creatures of every kind and condition.
The figure swept over them with a brief and cutting glance. Most carried too many winters upon their shoulders already.
Except for one.
One who could not have been older than fifteen or sixteen. Unlike the others, he did not possess the eyes of a broken man. His head remained lowered, his fists clenched tightly.
The barge cut through restless waters beneath a grey sky while the prison slowly grew upon the horizon like an open scar carved into stone.
Upon reaching the docks, the man stepped ashore.
Clang.
His boots, reinforced with black metal plates, struck the stone with a dry echo that carried across the harbor.
Workers and guards stepped aside almost by instinct. They did not need to know who he was; the insignia pinned to his lapel — an eye pierced through by a rusted key — was enough to silence any question.
He boarded the steam elevator that slowly ascended the cliffside.
As the platform climbed higher, his dark leather coat whipped beneath the wind, partially concealing his figure. Beneath the brim of his hat, his face remained buried in shadow.
Upon reaching the upper corridors, a prison guard escorted him toward the Warden’s chamber.
The man walked with an unhurried pace, revealing beneath his coat a disturbing arsenal: two long-barreled revolvers, a bandolier loaded with dark ammunition, and an industrial tomahawk hanging from his belt.
The Warden waited behind a stone desk.
When the figure stopped beneath the yellow glow of a gas lamp, the room itself seemed to grow colder.
A vertical scar cut across his face, dividing it like a crack running through old porcelain.
“The ancient law demands its tithe,” the man said.
His voice sounded like something splintering apart; an amalgamation of deep tones that made the windowpanes tremble softly.
“I have come for the condemned.”
The Warden, his face drained of color and his forehead slick with sweat, did not even dare meet his eyes.
“They are prepared, sir. The ceremony... will take place at dawn.”
“I will remain here tonight,” the man stated. “Keep your eyes on the cells. If anything tries to leave before dawn, let it be because I allowed it.”
The Warden swallowed hard and cast a quick glance toward the guard standing beside the doorway.
“Escort our guest to the officers’ quarters.”
Without waiting for a reply, the man turned away.
The echo of his metal boots faded once more into the labyrinth of stone as night began to devour Acheron’s final light.
The night passed with an unsettling calm.
The island’s wildlife consisted of little more than gulls nesting along the cliffs and snakes slithering through the cracks of the black stone.
From time to time, a sharp scream or muffled cries escaped from the prison’s depths, only to vanish as quickly as they had emerged.
After that, the wind reclaimed the silence.
And then only the sea remained, crashing endlessly against the rocks — eternal and indifferent, as though those waters had spent centuries listening to Acheron’s suffering.
But even above the wind...
the whispers remained.
Invisible.
Persistent.
Murmuring shapeless things from the darkest corners of the man’s mind.
The night dragged onward.
And once again...
sleep never came.
