Prison

Lucian shifted, the bite of cold metal on his wrists and ankles pulling him from uneasy slumber. The faint light seeping through the cracks of the cell barely illuminated the gloom, enough only to catch the dull gleam of the chains that bound him. Every slight movement made them clink, loud in the oppressive silence. His body ached, arms stretched unnaturally, legs trembling under the strain of restraint. The stone wall at his back was damp, the chill seeping into his skin. He kept still, breathing shallowly, his senses sharpening as the fog of sleep cleared. The scent of mildew was thick, mingling with the stifling weight of despair.

Two months. Two long months since his capture. His mind drifted back, unbidden, to the day of the ceremony in Vaelridge that should have marked his fifteenth birthday as a celebration. Instead, it became his condemnation.

The Hollow Verdict. It was supposed to reveal one's destiny, a mark of what lay within, chosen by the mysterious suits that governed their world. The ceremony was overseen by the House of Blades, the ruling power of Eryndor and weapon masters from the Diamond Suit. Their presence alone turned the air heavy with tension, their crimson and steel banners a constant reminder of the authority they wielded. At the heart of the ceremony stood the Verdict card. It is smooth, shimmering, and alive with an eerie hunger. Its face bore the image of a jack that shift ever so slightly, its outstretched hands reaching as if to grasp the soul of its next victim.Most faced the ceremony with nervous anticipation, hoping for a mark that promised greatness. The steel-like Diamonds represented unyielding strength, a symbol of power and authority destined for the warriors of Eryndor. The Classical Suit, marked by a staff crowned with a pulsing gem, signified a connection to the primal forces of the elements that is an affinity for the arcane. The Spade Suit, its mark a crossed carving tool embedded within a black spade, spoke of precision and discipline, its bearers destined to forge powerful cards and shape the tools of society. Each mark carried its own weight, its own path, and its own role in the delicate order of the world.

But there was another mark. A curse. The Wildcard.

Lucian had felt it the moment the card touched his skin. Its pull was sharp, invasive, like claws raking across his very essence. He had seen how the others' energy flowed smoothly, twisting and reshaping before bursting into light to reveal their marks. His was different. The card hesitated, flickering erratically, violently, as if resisting what it had drawn. The energy inside it churned like a storm before finally lashing out. The pain was blinding, and there was a hollow and mocking laughter echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than the searing burn on his hand.

When the light faded, the grotesque face of a Joker stared back at him, its twisted grin frozen in time. Gasps rippled through the hall, followed by a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. The overseers stepped back, their faces unreadable, their authority undermined by their fear. Then the warriors moved in, their weapons drawn, their movements swift and precise. There was no deliberation. The mark of the Wildcard Suit wasn't just a stigma, it was a death sentence.

Now, here he was, shackled in the depths of Rismond, the reality of his fate more suffocating than the cell. Around him were five others, all bearing the same cursed mark. The Joker's grin varied in size and placement, but it was the same brand, a scar of chaos and madness. They all bore it differently: some concealed beneath their ragged clothes, others etched openly across arms or necks. The mark wasn't just a symbol. It was a reminder of what they would become.

The silence in the cell wasn't peaceful. It was heavy, filled with unspoken fear and desperation. Occasionally, someone would murmur, their voice barely above a whisper. Callen, the youngest among them, broke the quiet this time.

"Ever thought about joining the Gilded Shovel and becoming a Dabbler?" he asked, his voice cracked but hopeful. "I mean... before all this."

Lucian glanced at him. Being a Dabbler, the lowest rank of the Spade Suit. He'd dreamt of it once, back when dreams felt possible. But now? He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.

"Doesn't matter what we wanted," he muttered. "The world made its choice."

Callen's shoulders slumped. His hands trembled as he stared at the floor. "I thought I had a chance," he murmured. "Practiced every day. Carving. Shaping. But after this…" He raised his hand, the Joker's mark glaring back at him. "What's left?"

Nothing. That was the truth. The mark wasn't just a curse. It stripped them of their hope, identity and control. Lucian had tried to hold on, but the weight of it all was unbearable.

"We'll all end up the same," he said, his voice low. "Mad. Lost. Puppets to whatever this is." He held up his hand, the grotesque face staring back mockingly. "This isn't just a mark. It's a promise. And none of us are escaping it."

Callen fell silent, the flicker of defiance in his eyes dimming. Around them, the others murmured in low voices, their words blending into the oppressive gloom. Above, faint laughter and music filtered through the wall, cruel reminder of the world outside. The Innocence Parade was coming. Lucian clenched his fists, the mark on his hand burning as though mocking his resolve.

They'd be the centerpiece of it all. Mocked, feared, paraded as monsters. But deep down, Lucian felt the madness wasn't just inevitable. It was already there, creeping closer with every passing day.

The rest of the cellmates murmured quietly, their voices blending into a hazy background noise as they spoke of the futures they had once dreamed of. Jaron, a wiry boy with nervous eyes, whispered about his dream of joining the Classical Suit scholars. Ella, soft-spoken and calm despite her circumstances, had wanted to become a Tender under the Hearts Suit. Each story, each ambition, was a bitter reminder of what they'd lost. The cell grew colder with every word spoken, as if their dreams themselves were draining the warmth from the air.

Not all of the prisoners clung to memories of better times. Erik and Maera were different. They had been here the longest, dragged into this pit a month after the last Innocence Parade back in February. Whatever fight they once had, whatever dreams they might have held onto, had long since withered. Their marks, the Joker's mocking grin etched into their skin had already evolved. The twisted face now bore a "1" within its gaping mouth, a grim testament to how far into madness they had fallen.

Erik was a shadow of a man, his eyes darting ceaselessly, lips twitching as he muttered under his breath. "Stab… stab… stab to the heart…" His voice wavered, an unsettling mixture of fear and frenzy, like he was caught in an endless loop of some grim prophecy. Maera was worse. Her laughter came without warning, sharp and jarring, slicing through the silence like a blade. Her hollow eyes seemed to look through everyone, as though whatever part of her was once human had unraveled and drifted into some dark, unreachable place. When her gaze did land on Lucian, it was piercing, chilling in its emptiness, as though she saw something in him he didn't yet understand.

Yet as Lucian looked at Erik's twitching form and heard Maera's broken laughter, he couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the rest of them joined her in the abyss.

Lucian kept his distance from them, but he couldn't ignore the way their presence seemed to pull at him. The air around them felt heavy, like a storm brewing. The Wildcard's mark wasn't just a symbol. It was a tether, dragging them all toward the same inevitable fate.

"We're just waiting to die," Lucian muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. The others didn't respond. They didn't have to. The truth of his words hung in the air, undeniable.

Above, the sounds of festivities grew louder. Laughter, music, and the faint crackle of fireworks filtered down into the cell. The Innocence Parade was nearing, the celebration that marked the new year. But for the Wildcards, it meant something else entirely.

The parade wasn't for them. It was about them. A twisted spectacle where they were paraded through the streets like trophies, their lives reduced to entertainment for the masses. The term "Innocence" was a cruel joke. Those who bore the Joker's mark but hadn't yet descended into full madness were deemed "Innocents." It was a mockery of their condition, a label that served as a reminder of what they would soon become.

As the noise above grew, His gaze flicked to the mark again, the mocking face of the joker etched into his flesh. Its laughter seemed to taunt him, as if daring him to give in to the chaos it represented. The laughter he'd heard during the ceremony still echoed in his mind, a taunting reminder of the chaos inside him. The mark wasn't just a curse. It was a promise of what lay ahead. Madness, destruction, and the loss of everything that made him who he was.