Sacrifice

Lucian's head jerked up at the sound of footsteps echoing through the damp corridor. The sharp clink of boots on stone rang out, steady and unyielding. It was a sound he had come to dread. The warriors were coming. His heart thudded in his chest, the rhythm slow and heavy, like a clock ticking down the seconds of his life. He tried to steady his breathing, to keep the panic at bay.

It was no use. This wasn't a routine visit for food or inspection. He knew why they were here.

The footsteps grew louder, the rhythm deliberate, each step radiating authority. Callen stirred beside him, his thin shoulders trembling as he clutched his knees. Across the cell, Ella shifted her gaze downward, her expression a mask of forced calm. Jaron, ever jittery, fidgeted with his chains, the faint rattling betraying his nerves. Only Maera seemed oblivious, her soft, maddening laughter bubbling up from where she sat. It wasn't her usual low chuckle. This was different, higher-pitched, and frayed at the edges. Her laughter filled the silence, bouncing off the cold stone walls.

Lucian's stomach twisted. He wanted to tell her to stop, but what was the point? She was too far gone, her mind already unraveled by the mark.

And yet, could he blame her? How much longer did he have before he ended up like her? The thought slithered through his mind, unwanted but persistent. He looked down at his hand, at the Joker's twisted grin burned into his flesh. The sight of it sent a shiver down his spine. Two months ago, he had been a boy with dreams, with hope. Now, he was a dead man walking.

The faint hum of energy snapped him from his thoughts as one of the warriors pulled a plain card from the case at his waist. Its face displayed a simple black key, glowing faintly as it activated. He pressed it against the door, and the lock emitted a soft click, followed by the low grind of gears. The door creaked open, and the warriors stepped inside. Their presence filled the cell like a wave, oppressive and suffocating.

Their uniforms gleamed faintly in the dim light, but it was their marks that drew Lucian's attention. The mark of the Diamond Suit was burned into their flesh, with its sharp edges framing the number "2" etched cleanly in the center. The marks appeared in different places. One bore it on his neck, another under his eye, and a third on his forearm. The marks seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive, a constant reminder of their rank and authority. Small cases of cards hung at their waists, the shimmering surfaces hinting at the latent power within. These warriors did not carry weapons. They did not need to. Their cards held everything they required to impose their will.

"On your feet. Move," the lead warrior barked, his voice cold and sharp.

Callen scrambled to his feet, his chains rattling loudly in the silence. Jaron followed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Ella rose last, her expression unreadable, but Lucian caught the slight tremor in her hands. He stood slowly, the weight of the chains around his ankles making every movement a struggle. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor. He didn't want to meet the warrior's eyes. He couldn't bear the look of contempt or, worse, the pity.

Maera, however, had no such hesitation. As the warriors approached, her laughter grew louder. "Oh, look at you," she drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. "Big, strong warriors. So serious. So important."

"Shut up," one of the warriors snapped, his tone laced with irritation. Maera just grinned, her head tilting as if she were examining them, dissecting them with her gaze.

Lucian winced. She was making it worse, poking at them like a child taunting a dog on a leash. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. She had to stop, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. What would it matter? She was already lost.

"Get moving," the lead warrior ordered. He jabbed a finger toward Maera, his frustration evident. She flinched, her grin faltering for a moment, but the laughter returned almost immediately. She muttered something under her breath, something Lucian couldn't catch, and shuffled forward.

One by one, they were herded out of the cell, their chains clicking with every step. The corridor outside was just as dark and damp as the cell, the air thick with mildew and decay. The flickering torches on the walls did little to chase away the gloom. Lucian's gaze darted to the warriors ahead of them. Their posture was rigid, their movements precise, their hands resting casually near their cards. The Diamond mark on their bodies gleamed with authority. They walked with the confidence of men who knew they were in control.

Lucian's breath hitched as they rounded a corner, the faint hum of voices reaching his ears. The platform was close. He forced himself to focus on his steps, on the cold, uneven stone beneath his feet. Anything to keep his mind from spiraling.

How had it come to this? The question burned in his mind, relentless. He thought of Vaelridge, of the ceremony that had changed everything. The Hollow Verdict. The memory was sharp, vivid, as though it had happened yesterday. He could still see the card, the way it shimmered, alive with an unnatural light. He could still feel the sharp pull as it drew something vital from him, leaving him hollow. He could still hear the laughter, mocking and cruel, echoing in his mind as the mark burned into his skin.

And he could still see the faces of the crowd. The shock. The disgust. The fear.

Lucian clenched his fists, his nails biting into his skin. He hated them for their fear, for the way they had turned their backs on him so quickly. But more than that, he hated himself. Hated that he hadn't fought back, that he had let them drag him away without a word. He had been so stunned, so overwhelmed, that he had done nothing. And now, here he was, shackled and broken, waiting to die.

"Keep moving," one of the warriors growled, shoving him forward. Lucian stumbled but caught himself before he fell. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright. He couldn't show weakness. Not here. Not now.

Maera's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and jarring. "You think you're better than us, don't you?" she sneered, her grin widening as she stared at the warriors. "But you're not. You're just pawns. Pieces on a board."

"Shut your mouth," another warrior snapped, his hand hovering near his cards. Maera didn't flinch. If anything, her grin grew wider, her laughter more erratic.

Lucian looked away. He couldn't bear to watch. Her defiance was useless, a futile gesture that would only make things worse. And yet, a part of him envied her. She wasn't afraid. Or maybe she was, and this was her way of hiding it. Either way, she had something he didn't, a spark, however small, that hadn't been extinguished.

The corridor ended in a heavy wooden door reinforced with steel. The warriors stopped in front of it, one of them reaching for the plain key card hanging at his waist. Without hesitation, he tapped the card against the door. The lock emitted a faint click, followed by a mechanical whir, and the door creaked open. Beyond it was a set of stone steps leading upward. The faint hum of voices drifted down, mingling with the steady crackle of torches.

Lucian's stomach churned as they climbed the steps. The weight of what was coming pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He glanced at the others. Callen's face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. Jaron's hands trembled, his chains rattling with every step. Even Ella, who had always seemed so composed, looked defeated.

And Maera? She kept laughing.

The platform loomed ahead, its surface bathed in the flickering light of torches. The air grew colder, the weight of the crowd's anticipation pressing against him like a physical force. Lucian's heart pounded, each beat echoing in his ears. This was it. The end.