Shackled

A treacherous valley stretched endlessly between two monstrous, spear-like mountains. Their jagged peaks stabbed into the heavens, casting cruel shadows over the land below. The air was thick with an eerie mist, curling around the valley floor like the grasping hands of something long forgotten. Beneath these towering behemoths, a small convoy rattled along a broken path.

The carriages, worn from years of use, groaned under their own weight as they were pulled forward by strange, sinewy creatures—beasts of unnatural design, their bodies bound in shackles of intricate, rune-carved metal. Their reins weren't mere leather but mechanical constructs infused with some strange magic, forcing them into obedience.

Inside one of the carriages, the scent of unwashed bodies and damp wood mingled in the stale air. Shackled figures sat in silence, their gazes hollow, their spirits beaten. Yet, one voice disturbed the hush—grating, smug, and full of unearned confidence.

"Hah! You lot should consider yourselves lucky to share a space with someone of my status," the haughty young prisoner sneered, lounging against the carriage wall as though it were a throne.

He was a chubby boy of fine clothing, now sullied with dust but still flaunted as proof of his superiority. "You don't understand, do you? My parents hold power, real power. This is nothing but a misunderstanding—an inconvenience. Unlike you wretches, I won't be rotting away in chains for long."

His words were directed at an old man sitting across from him. The elder's frail frame barely seemed alive, his wrists thin enough that the iron shackles looked loose around them. He gave no response—his lifeless, sunken eyes remained fixed on the wooden floor.

Annoyed by the lack of reaction, the boy scoffed and muttered, "Pathetic," before turning to his ever-loyal lackey. "Can you believe this? These bottom-feeders don't even have the decency to acknowledge their betters. Filthy, miserable, and ungrateful. They should be groveling at my feet for the honor of being in my presence."

The lackey, eager to please, nodded with fervor. "Absolutely, young master! They don't know respect. It's disgraceful."

"Hmph. Are there any here who actually know how to respond properly?" the boy asked, irritated.

The lackey was about to say no—until something caught his eye. A figure.

Slumped against the carriage wall, chains coiled around his limbs like metallic vipers, sat a young man. His head was bowed slightly, wild strands of long crimson and black hair tumbling over his face, obscuring his expression. His arms rested lazily on his legs, yet there was something about him—something that made the lackey hesitate. His body, though lean, bore the marks of countless scars, some old, some fresh. How had he not noticed him before?

Frowning, the haughty boy turned his gaze toward the figure, only to be met with the same unsettling realization. He hadn't noticed him either.

Curious, he sneered, "You there. Come closer."

The lackey, grimacing as his shackles strained against his wrists, obeyed his master's demand and dragged himself closer, forcing the chains to shift and tighten as he brought them within reach of the strange prisoner allowing his master to get closer.

Now face-to-face, the haughty boy observed him properly for the first time.

His suspicions grew.

Unlike the rest of them, this one wore more chains—thicker, heavier. A shackle adorned his neck, and another bound his waist, restricting his movements even further.

His gut told him that this was no ordinary prisoner.

Smirking, he prepared to introduce himself, perhaps to flaunt his status, but before he could speak, the shackled youth finally stirred.

Without even raising his head, the figure muttered, "Lower yourself to my height or go away. I'm not interested in talking to someone whose stomach is big enough to block my view."

The haughty boy blinked.

Then his face twisted in outrage. "W-what did you just say—?"

His lackey, equally stunned, gawked. "What view? What are you even looking at?"

The shackled youth exhaled, almost as if he were disappointed by the question. "The carriage floor," he replied dryly. "It's far more handsome than the walking tank blocking it."

The carriage fell into silence.

Then, the haughty boy's face turned red with rage.

"You—!"

"Shut up for a second."

The youth's voice was low, casual, but carried an undeniable weight.

The haughty boy, mid-rant, froze in disbelief.

Then, everyone in the carriage heard it.

Dull footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Approaching.

The shackled youth's lips curled into a dark grin. His scarred fingers flexed lazily against his restraints. "Hah. Maybe I will get some exicitement today."

The haughty boy was livid. His face, already red with rage, twisted into something ugly. "You lowly piece of filth—!"

His lackey, still shaken from the earlier exchange, had his eyes locked onto the shackled youth's grin. There was something wrong about it—something that made his stomach turn.

"Young master—" he started, but the haughty boy didn't listen.

"How dare you ignore me?!" He lunged forward, awkwardly dragging his shackles as he closed the distance between them. "I'll teach you some respect, you—"

Then, it happened.

A glint flickered in the boy's crimson-black eyes.

He moved.

A simple shift of his body, yet it shouldn't have been possible. His chains were heavier, more restrictive—he shouldn't have had that kind of freedom, it was why the haughty boy even tried to attack him.

And yet, in the instant, he leaned aside—

SHKKK!

A long, jagged spear tore through the air and pierced straight into the haughty boy's stomach.

A wet gasp escaped his lips. His body jolted, eyes wide in stunned horror as blood pooled around the metal lodged in his gut.

From outside the carriage, a voice hummed, almost in mild surprise.

"Huh."

Then, without hesitation—

SHKKK!

The spear was yanked back and driven forward again, this time with enough force to lift the boy slightly before slamming him back onto the floorboards.

A sickening gurgle slipped from his mouth as blood spilled down his chin. His body convulsed, fingers twitching, unable to process the agony fast enough.

The lackey could do nothing but scream.

The spear-wielder outside gave another vague "Huh," before the sound of more footsteps joined his.

And in the middle of all this, the shackled youth laughed.

Low at first—more of a whisper, a breath. Then it grew, the sound reverberating through the carriage, hollow and unsettling, like a distant echo in a vast, empty space.

"Hah… The hog finally got the toothpick to clean his teeth... Though you really shouldn't have tried to get it with your stomach," he mocked.

The lackey clutched his bleeding master, trembling. His mind screamed at him to do something—anything—but what?

The youth, still chuckling to himself, leaned his head back against the carriage wall. His crimson-black hair, wild and untamed, framed his sharp features. He tilted his head slightly, speaking as if no one else was there.

"You sure outdid yourself this time, Zayne…"

The words were mostly for himself, but now the lackey infront of him—silent but still horrified—was finally hearing his name for the first time.

Zayne.

The laughter faded. Zayne exhaled, shifting back into a relaxed posture, his head resting against the cold wood as if nothing had happened.

The haughty boy, now nothing but a pathetic, bleeding mess, let out broken sobs. His hands clutched his wounds in a desperate attempt to undo what had just happened—to somehow deny reality itself.

Zayne's gaze lowered to meet his.

"Next time," he muttered, voice smooth but utterly detached, "before you go running your mouth like an annoying little prick, remember something—"

His boot pressed down against the boy's tear-streaked face.

"When you're in chains, everyone's equal."

CRACK.

The boy whimpered as Zayne ground his face into the floorboards for a moment before withdrawing his foot.

Then, he simply returned to his seat.

He leaned back again, stretching slightly as though nothing of consequence had occurred.

His gaze flicked up, settling on the lackey—who had witnessed everything.

The lackey, frozen in place, couldn't bring himself to move, barely able to breathe under Zayne's stare.

Zayne smirked.

Then, slowly, he closed his eyes.

Like he was about to take a nap.

Like none of it had ever mattered in the first place.

The carriage lurched to a stop.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

Then, heavy footsteps. Armored. Purposeful.

The door slammed open, and figures clad in darkened steel entered, weapons gleaming under the dim light. One of them—holding a spear dripping with blood.

They scanned the interior, their sharp eyes searching for something—or someone.

The leader's gaze fell on the haughty youth's lackey, who still knelt beside his bleeding master, his trembling hands hovering uselessly over the wound.

The guards stepped forward, towering over him.

A female guard, her voice edged with boredom, asked, "What happened here?"

The lackey stiffened. What happened? That was a question he didn't want to answer.

His eyes darted toward Zayne, who remained exactly as he had been—head resting against the carriage wall, eyes closed, as if completely unaware of their presence.

A bead of sweat trickled down the lackey's forehead. He knew Zayne was awake. He could feel it.

His thoughts raced.

If I tell them the truth… what will he do to me?

He glanced at the other prisoners, searching their faces for some kind of support, some hint that he wasn't alone in this.

Nothing.

They all remained still, their expressions blank, indifferent. Not a single one of them cared about what had happened. Not a single one was going to speak up.

The guard's voice snapped him back to reality.

"Answer me."

The lackey flinched. He had to say something.

"H-He… my young master was just—" his words fumbled out. "He was speaking to one of the other prisoners… standing up… and, um… he got a little angry and raised his voice."

The female guard raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And then—" the lackey swallowed, his throat dry. "He… he was suddenly stabbed. I don't even know from where! He just—he just fell!" His voice cracked. He couldn't stop himself from crying.

The female guard stared at him, unimpressed. "Right. So who was he yelling at?"

The lackey's mouth opened—then hesitated.

But the guards were waiting.

His survival instincts took over.

His shaking hand pointed at the woman sitting beside Zayne. "Her! He—he was trying to talk to her, and she kept ignoring him!"

The female guard slowly turned her head to look at the accused woman.

Then back at the lackey.

Then back at the woman again.

Finally, she scoffed, her expression unreadable. "…Seriously?"

The lackey nodded frantically, refusing to look at Zayne, who still hadn't moved.

The bloodied spear-wielding guard clicked his tongue in mild irritation. "Tch. Damn. Guess I hit the wrong one."

The female guard shot him an incredulous look. "You think?"

The man scratched the back of his helmet sheepishly. "Look, when I went for the stab to shut him up, I aimed to get it over with. One and done. But the first hit didn't feel right. Went in too deep or something. So I thought I missed. Tried again just to be sure." He shrugged. "How was I supposed to know I was hitting the wrong guy?"

The female guard stared at him in absolute disbelief.

Then, she just sighed. "You're an idiot."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. I don't really care. Not a huge fan of nobles anyway."

The lackey almost sagged in relief as she added, "But we can't have a high-profile prisoner dying before he reaches the execution block. That'd cause a whole mess of paperwork."

She turned to the spear-wielding guard and gestured lazily. "Bring him out. We'll patch him up enough to keep him breathing. Not that it'll do him much good in the long run."

The haughty youth, still barely conscious, let out weak, broken wails as he was hoisted up, his wounds tearing further as he was dragged out of the carriage without a hint of care.

Then, silence returned.

The lackey, still pale and shaking, turned slowly to where Zayne had been sitting—expecting him to still be in the same position.

He wasn't.

Zayne was staring straight at him.

His eyes—sharp, focused, displeased.

The lackey's breath caught in his throat.

Why?

Why was he looking at him like that?

His heart pounded as he fought the urge to scream.

What he didn't know was that Zayne's mind was elsewhere entirely.

'That was it?'

That level of pain was enough to break him?

'What an absolute wuss...'

For a brief moment, a strange thought crept in.

'Maybe… maybe his reaction was normal?'

'Maybe I'm the weird one.'

The thought sat in his head, unwelcome. It made his brow twitch, his fingers flex.

And then, just as quickly, he shoved it away.

No.

It wasn't realistic.

He wasn't the one crying like a pathetic, sniveling brat over a stab wound.

And if that was what normal meant, then he was fine with being different.

He could care less about it.

After all, there were more interesting things to bother with.

It wasn't like he was in chains on the way to be executed, right?