Chapter 9: Ephraim Makes a Move

Ephraim entered the dungeon with a metallic tray in hand, the sound of the tray's surface clinking softly against its contents—a bowl of steaming soup. He walked with a gentle reverence, as if every step could disturb the fragile peace that enveloped Carl, who lay battered and worn on the cold, hard floor. The dim light flickered from a single torch mounted on the wall, casting shadows that danced across Carl's bruised body, highlighting the pain etched into his features.

Ephraim placed the bowl carefully by Carl's side, his heart heavy with pity and compassion. He turned to leave but paused, unable to tear his gaze away from Carl's suffering. Memories of Mark's warnings echoed in his mind, reminding him of the danger that lay in bringing the soldier to their master, and the consequences of that choice. Regret washed over him.

As he stared at Carl, he noticed the visible bruises marring his skin, the patched lips that spoke of torment, and the swollen face that bore witness to the unspeakable cruelty he had to endure. "If I had not brought him here," Ephraim thought bitterly, "he would be dead or recovering somewhere far from this hell." The realization struck him like a lightning bolt—he was responsible for Carl's suffering.

A rising flame of determination kindled in Ephraim's heart. "I can't let him die," he whispered to himself. "I am the cause of his suffering." His gaze fell to the floor beneath Carl, where dried patches of blood told stories of torture and pain. Memories flooded back—the screams that had echoed through these cold stone walls whenever Absalom had delighted in inflicting agony upon Carl.

Ephraim recalled one particular day when Absalom had forced Carl to eat from the floor like an animal after pouring his food out in a cruel display of power. The image twisted in Ephraim's gut like a dagger. "I will save him," he muttered fiercely, resolve hardening within him.

Turning on his heel, Ephraim walked out of the room, each step lighter than before but burdened with thoughts of escape plans swirling in his mind. He needed to act quickly; time was not on their side.

That evening, Ephraim could be seen walking alongside one of the hooded guards toward his own room. The guards were always cloaked in dark hoods, instilling fear and mystery—just as Charles Braim preferred. As they reached Ephraim's door, it closed behind them with a soft click. A few muffled sounds could be heard from within, but nothing alarming.

After a short while, Ephraim emerged with food on a tray once more. His heart raced as he made his way back toward the dungeon; each beat echoed loudly in his ears as if announcing his intentions to anyone who might listen. The corridors were mostly deserted at this hour, their polished floors reflecting the flickering torchlight and amplifying an eerie sense of desolation.

When he arrived at the dungeon door, he found it unguarded. Charles Braim had deemed it unnecessary to guard this door since they had stripped Carl of his powers; he was no longer a threat in their eyes. He would never be able to use magic again in this lifetime.

Ephraim took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy door and stepping inside once more. Inside the dungeon, Carl lay still, but there was a flicker of awareness in his eyes as Ephraim approached. "I brought you something," Ephraim said softly, placing the tray down beside him. He watched as Carl struggled to sit up; every movement seemed to cause him pain.

Carl sat up slowly and stayed seated as his vision became clear. He could see the silhouette of a man staring at him with concern. Carl stared at the chains dangling from his hands. Before he could speak, Ephraim began feeding him the soup.

"Don't speak," Ephraim urged gently but firmly. "Just eat." He watched as Carl hesitated before taking a sip of the warm soup. Relief washed over Ephraim as Carl gobbled down the warm soup.

The soup was tasty and refreshing. He could feel energy coursing through his body. His fatigue began to lessen. His weariness became diminished.

At this point in time, Carl greedily drank the remaining soup. He gulped down the last remaining portion of the soup, tilting it to be sure he had drunk it all. He felt somewhat rejuvenated. He looked at Ephraim and the two men understood each other, merely by staring into each other's eyes.

"Thank you," Carl said and bowed gently.

"You don't need to thank me," Ephraim responded. "I am the reason why you are in this mess in the first place."

"What do you mean?" Carl asked, confusion written all over his face.

"You don't need to worry about that for now, my dear man. I intend to make things right," Ephraim whispered." Let's get out of here."

Carl shook his head. "Why should I trust a complete stranger? I don't even know your name."

"Ephraim was beginning to become anxious. "I'm Ephraim."

"Ephraim…" Carl muttered to himself.

"Carl," Ephraim began cautiously, "I have a plan."

Carl looked up at him with weary eyes filled with both hope and skepticism. "What kind of plan?"

"Just trust me," Ephraim said quickly.

Carl frowned slightly, shaking his head weakly. "It's too dangerous… You could get caught."

Ephraim leaned closer, determination etched into every feature. "And what about you? If we don't act now, you might not survive another day in this place."

Carl's gaze softened as he considered Ephraim's words; there was an unspoken bond between them—a shared understanding forged through the meal which Carl knew he wasn't supposed to have enjoyed. He could sense that Ephraim had added several precious resources to the soup. That was why he felt a bit rejuvenated. Beyond that, he could sense Ephraim's sincerity.

He further thought, "I have nothing to gain by remaining here. The situation is dire, and every moment spent in this place feels like a step closer to oblivion. However, there is a chance—albeit small—that if I leave with him, we might find a way to escape. The prospect of freedom, however slim, is far more appealing than the certainty of staying behind.

If we are captured, at least I will know that I did my best to fight for my survival. I would rather take the risk than remain paralyzed by fear. If it turns out to be a trap, then so be it; I will face whatever comes with courage. But sitting idle will only lead to one thing: death. Inaction guarantees that I will never see the light of day again, and I refuse to let fear dictate my fate."

"The army will be coming for me tomorrow morning," Carl said, looking dejected. "I have lost all my powers. I will not be of any help during the escape."

"That is a greater reason why we need to escape now." Ephraim shook his head, and then added, "One step at a time."

"Alright," Carl finally relented, though doubt still lingered in his eyes. As night fell over the Braim mansion, Ephraim prepared for their escape while keeping an ear out for any signs of approaching guards or Absalom's return. He felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through him as he moved quietly through the darkened corridors.

When he reached the main hall where guards typically gathered for their nightly watch, he took a moment to gather himself before stepping into view.