Ansel couldn't see his hands in front of his face. Everything in his vision was pitch black. He tried moving but his legs remained frozen, unable to move an inch. Panic rose, making his heart hammer in his chest, but he calmed himself by closing his eyes and focusing on his breath the way Kazmere taught him. It wasn't working. The only sound in the perfect silence came from his ragged breathing.

"Is this a dream?" His voice echoed.

A sudden bright light blinded him. He cupped his hand over his eyes. The glorious light emitted warmth the same as a roaring fire. His breath caught in his throat; his vision cleared enough to examine his surroundings. This was no small room but a gigantic cave that went on forever.

The light made everything blurry. Hundreds of statues were laid out before him, all frozen in action. They all faced the same direction as him. Each of the statues had a different weapon. All raised to defend themselves.

A feminine voice whispered, "Who might you be?" The words came from within his own head.

The light expanded. Consumed everything in his vision, including him. The warmth tingled his skin until it started to burn. He opened his mouth to let out a wail. No sound came out.

The burning sensation ceased. The dream shifted.

He looked up. He muttered to no one, "By the Divines..." A colossal boulder filled the entire sky, hurtling toward the surface of the world. Alive. On fire. With a long fiery tail reaching back into the unknown. The impending doom cast a shadow over the whole landscape around him. The awe sucked away his breath. He stood witnessing the end of everything. He closed his eyes.

A sudden jolt coursed through his stomach, ripping him from his dream. He vomited up saltwater on the sand. His breath was ragged, the world-ending dream still fresh in his mind. His head pounded like someone banging on a drum. His lips were cracked and dry from the seawater. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings.

Where am I?

The events on the ship with Prince Dayne rushed back to him. I jumped off the ship in the middle of that storm. What was I thinking? He rubbed his right palm on the back of his head, checking for blood. Not finding anything serious, he sat upright. The sand underneath him was dark purple.

Purple sand? That's strange.

He picked some up and let it fall out of his fist in a slow trickle. The tide occasionally reached his bare feet, warming him. I've never felt water so pleasant. The soft breeze drifted by and chilled his bones. The sea breeze carried the smell of salty air. His breath became more relaxed by the minute. They were just dreams. The world isn't ending, relax. He let out a big exhale. They both felt so real.

He leaned back, taking in the view. To his left, ship after ship from the fleet was anchored. The soldiers rowed back and forth between the shore and the ships with their dinghies carrying supplies.

Hundreds of objects floated in the water and surrounded him on the shore. He squinted, studying some of the debris in the sand nearby. Are those... His eyebrows raised, realizing what the objects were.

Bodies.

The loss of life surrounding him was heart-wrenching. Sadness filled his heart. The bodies weren't all guards. Some were slaves, noticeable by their tattered clothing. Some had thick beards that were outlawed by the Crimson Guard. So much death from that storm and I somehow survived.

For the first time in months, luck shone down on him. He felt thankful to be alive. I never wished to die. But I didn't expect to have a chance like this.

Ansel turned his head to the right and saw a prisoner's body laying a couple of spans away from him. A young man his age, lying on his stomach. He peered down at his own feet, realizing he lost his shoes in the ocean. He looked back at the body. The man still wore tattered shoes. If I want to escape, my feet need protection. He stood up, walked over, and unlaced the man's shoes. I can't believe I have to do this. Please forgive me. He put the shoes on.

He turned and gazed inland. His eyes widened in shock. Rolling green hills lush with vegetation stretched all the way to the horizon. Immense white stalks with caps covered in green and purple spots covered the overgrown hillscape. They were bigger than the tallest trees in Reven and were almost cap to cap. Light rays shot through the gaps in thick bars. Massive vines grew around each stalk, covering them all the way up to the caps where they didn't grow anymore.

Enormous mushrooms as tall as trees... Rumors circulated throughout Dawnsguard of a rich landscape unlike anything seen in Reven and the surrounding kingdoms. He smiled and stood in a daze, staring out over the foreign landscape. A strange, pungent smell drifted past and he covered his nose with his arm.

What is that smell? Is that from the mushrooms?

A voice called out to his right. "There's a survivor!"

Ansel's breath caught in his throat. He jumped up in fright at the sudden voice. Damnit, I should have moved away from the ships sooner. He ducked behind a broken piece of wood but realized it was pointless, they were aiming for him. I'm a moron. No doubt they're scouring the shipwrecks for any supplies and survivors. The Crown needed slaves for all the work in the New Lands. Prince Dayne wouldn't easily forget about him. Not while he believed Ansel killed his mother.

Three Crimson Guards were moving in his direction. Two were equipped with the customary longsword and crimson armor while one had a long whip with notches every few spaces. He couldn't afford to get injured if he wanted to escape.

They spread out around him in a triangular formation, trying to get behind him to gain the advantage.

The Crimson Guard with the whip growled to the other two, "This is the Foundling that Prince Dayne is searching for. Make sure not to kill him."

Ansel scanned around him for a weapon. Nearby, sunlight glinted off something metal from underneath a broken dinghy. He smirked with a confident and taunting smile, pulling up his sleeves to show his spiraling black tattoos that marked his Foundling membership.

This is my chance.

The guard behind Ansel's right side lurched at him, trying to take his back for control. Ansel elbowed backward with all his weight behind it. The blow connected to flesh. He rotated the same arm outwards and grabbed the front of the Crimson Guard's armor. He shifted his weight and shoved the guard toward the other two who ran toward him. Using the spare second that gained, he scooped up purple sand and threw it at the two standing guards. They sputtered and yelled. The guard with the whip blocked the sand with his arm over his eyes.

Now! Ansel sprinted toward the metal underneath the dinghy. His hand touched a hilt.

A hot slash of pain coursed up his back.

Stars exploded in his eyes. His back erupted in burning pain. He fell forward. His head hit the broken dinghy. The world blurred for a few seconds. Panic welled up in his gut. He was about to be captured. Again.

He shook his head and tried to stand, but the world still moved beneath his feet. He had no control. The guards chuckled while they made their way toward him. He grabbed another handful of sand, ready to throw. His vision centered just in time to see a fist in front of his eyes. Blackness rushed to meet him.

Ansel awoke to darkness. Another dream?

He realized quickly he wasn't dreaming. Bits of light peered through the pores of something covering his head. Whatever covered his head felt rough against his skin. A bag? The pounding in his head made it hard to collect his thoughts. Scores ran down his back, feeling like fire. He couldn't move his arms. He was strapped to something hard and moving while laying down. I must be on a cart. Soft hums became voices. Whispered conversations were all around him.

"Who is that?"

"Can't ye see his arms? He's the Foundling prisoner ye moron."

A murmur of excitement spread around the people.

"Shut up or I'll report to the prince that you're all Foundling sympathizers. If anyone helps this Foundling or is suspected of doing so, you will Harvest with no Shroomveil." A guard no doubt.

Different voices rushed to reply. Murmured voices said that they would never help a Foundling and "long live the queen." Footsteps shuffled off in every direction. He would find no friends here.

A thick stench wafted through the bag covering his head, reaching his nose. The familiar scent of dirty men. Not just men that hadn't bathed in a couple of days, but the stink of men who hadn't bathed in months to years. He focused on his breathing to calm himself. No use panicking yet. The cart that he was tied to came to a halt. He slowly raised upright. The bag was ripped off his head. Light flashed in his eyes as they adjusted.

Rows of rough, dodgy wooden buildings surrounded the area. The buildings could hold a hundred men each. A hundred and fifty if you crammed them, which the Crimson Guards did.

All around him skinny, destitute-looking men moved to various assigned jobs. Their eyes were lifeless and dull. They moved with a dragging pace unless a guard paid attention to them. Crimson Guards walked around everywhere with a notched whip. Their crimson armor, shining in the sunlight, contrasted the dull brown land. The guard that whipped Ansel's back undid the straps holding him down while another guard tied his hands tightly with rope.

The guard cracked his whip. "Hurry up, Foundling. I can't afford any more time wasted or Prince Dayne will have my throat."

By the Divines, I'm going to be a prisoner again. I nearly drowned for nothing. Panic turned to anger. I'm done playing along. He turned his head to the guard and spit in his face. Something hard rammed into his gut, wrenching his breath away.

Folded over, Ansel let out a moan of pain. The guard stood over him and raised his armored foot, ready to stomp him while he was down.

The guard he spat on put a hand up. " We can't have the prince thinking we hurt him too badly. Let's not hurt him anymore or he'll have our hides."

The guard put his foot down and nodded. The two of them gripped both of his arms and escorted him further into the encampment. I'm done being a prisoner, I have to find a way out of here. The instincts his Foundling training gave him sounded off in the back of his head.

Rule one, mark all exit points in your mind.

He peered around while they escorted him, saving all details in his memory. He needed to learn the layout of the camp. The rotten wooden buildings were in every direction, row after row. Tall watchtowers in the distance stood over the wooden buildings. Lookout towers, to catch any runners. From that height, the Crimson Guards could see everything. That was something to remember.

Random men passing by spat at Ansel, the occasional dribble hit him on the face or the neck. Warm anger spread through him. They're prisoners just like I am. They're being told to hate me, I can't blame them. They think I'm the source of their punishment to a degree. His fists twisted in knots. When he got back to Reven, whoever framed him was going to pay.

A rough shove from a guard made Ansel focus on what was in front of him. Straight ahead was a hulking tent, the size of four wooden buildings combined. The sigil of Reven – a sun peeked over a crooked mountain – imprinted across the front of the tent was quite an impressive sight. Also quite an impressive target to the Native Races. I doubt they'll be happy the Crown claims this land is theirs now. Another thing to remember.

Two figures stood to the right of the entrance, a guard watched over them. His breath caught in his throat. The two men were the ones from the brig that attacked him. Sven - the dark-haired man - and the man with the scar whose name he didn't know. Seeing Ansel, the scarred man sneered, his hand clutching the side that Ansel had stabbed with the nail.

The scarred man said, "Welcome to your new home, Foundling. We will see you later. We promise." Ansel stared, unblinking until the guards shoved him into the tent entrance. How had the man lived with that wound? I need to do something about those two.

Focus, he reminded himself. He needed to remember the layout if he wanted any chance to escape. The tent was even bigger on the inside than he imagined. Half-naked women walked around, giving food out to the high-ranking Crimson Guards that accompanied Prince Dayne. Many of the old men whispered in the women's ears, smirking. They knew they were getting what they wanted. The smell of lavender filled the air. Here, it doesn't feel like we're in a prison camp anymore.

One of the guards smacked him on the back of the head. "Keep moving Foundling."

They must think I'm looking at women. He looked around. The hallways lead off in many different directions.

The tent was big enough to be a maze. The Crimson Guards led him through different hallways until they reached the prince's room. Everything was crimson and gold, from the furniture to the clothes being unpacked by servants. Prince Dayne, in his golden-trimmed crimson armor, stood close to the prestigious man from the ship – Celibrik – discussing things in hushed and angry tones. The Crimson Guard with the whip walked up to the prince and bowed, waiting to be acknowledged. Prince Dayne spun around, hand raised to strike the guard. Until he looked past the man and noticed Ansel. Noticing the prince's gaze, the guard standing next to him cut his bindings and ripped off his sleeves to show his spiraling black tattoos. He tried to pull his arm out of the guard's grip but didn't succeed.

Prince Dayne smirked. "Well, look who's finally turned up." He gazed down at the Crimson Guard kneeling. "Good man Vern. Go and enjoy the women to your heart's content. You've earned it."

"Yes, Sire. Thank you for your kindness." He shouldered past Ansel on his way out of the room with the other guard.

Once the Crimson Guards were gone, Celibrik shifted to Prince Dayne.

"Your obsession with this boy is understandable my Lord, but shouldn't we focus on more important things? You can always enjoy torturing him at a later hour, but what about-"

"I'm in charge Celibrik, not you. Remember that or you will find yourself face down in a ditch. My father sent you to help me as my Viberium Counselor, not to tell me what I should or shouldn't do. This boy murdered my mother. I will make him live many years of pain before I end his miserable life. You nor anyone else will ever take that from me."

A shiver ran down Ansel's spine. This goes beyond just revenge. He's obsessed with me.

Celibrik nodded before looking at Ansel with a face filled with pity. The look disappeared in a flash. What was that look?

"Fine my Lord, I won't push anymore. But we really need to handle-"

"Not another word around the prisoner, Celibrik. We can continue this conversation after you escort this Foundling to his new home. First, get him some water. I can't have him dying on me yet."

Celibrik clenched his jaw but handed Ansel a nearby flask. He snatched it out of the man's hands and drank heavily. The water was the best he'd ever had. Celibrik grabbed it out of his hands before he got more than five gulps.

Ansel wiped his mouth and kept quiet. He wanted more water but asking would stoke their anger, which would only bring more pain and misery. He needed time to plan. His mind was one of the best in the Foundlings when it came to memorizing layouts. I need to see more of the camp before I can make a plan to escape. Just play along for now. He kept his face blank as possible.

Prince Dayne turned his head from Celibrik back to him. "You'll find life here, even out of my sight, unbearable. I've already found some people here who aren't big fans of you or the Foundlings.

He smirked again with that dark look in his eye. "I will visit later tonight to ensure your situation is exactly how I want it. Take him to Building 49, Celibrik."

Celibrik walked forward and grabbed Ansel's arm to lead him out. Ansel peered back over his shoulder at the prince, who was looking at himself in the mirror, shaking. Shaking from laughter or crying?