The depths of despair

"Hey, brat! Get your ass over here!"

The voice cut through the air like a whip, rough and commanding. Robin, the man who had spoken, was a seasoned warrior, his presence alone radiating danger. He stood tall, battle-hardened, with scars running along his arms like grotesque trophies of countless battles. The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows over his face, making his smirk all the more menacing.

Ian, the one being called, could not move. His body was frozen, paralyzed with fear. His legs trembled so violently that he felt as though he might collapse at any moment. His heart pounded against his ribs, the overwhelming terror drowning out every other sensation.

Robin sneered, stepping closer, his boots crunching against the dirt floor. His gaze raked over Ian with undisguised contempt. "Hey, is this really the prince?" he asked, voice laced with taunting amusement.

A chuckle rippled through the men around him.

"What can you expect from a pampered young master of an empire?" another man scoffed. His voice was deep, unbothered, as though Ian's fate had already been sealed the moment he stepped foot into their territory.

Ian wanted to speak, wanted to defend himself, but his throat had tightened into a painful knot. The words refused to come.

"Take him to the prison until the Emperor gives his orders," Robin commanded, his tone making it clear that this was not up for discussion.

Two soldiers stepped forward, their iron-clad hands clamping around Ian's arms. Their grip was unyielding, cold as shackles. Ian did not resist—what could he do? He had neither the strength nor the courage to fight back. He was utterly powerless.

As they began to drag him forward, a question escaped his lips before he could stop himself.

"Wh... what will happen to me?"

His voice barely rose above a whisper, trembling, weak. Yet the moment the words left him, the room erupted into cruel laughter.

"Hey, kid, you think you're some kind of guest here?" one of the soldiers sneered. "You're not royalty anymore. You're just a prisoner."

"Better get used to it," another added with a smirk. "You'll rot in that cell, boy. Wait for the day when torment finally takes you. Or until we put you out of your misery."

Ian's chest tightened. His vision blurred as tears welled up in his eyes. The realization hit him like a hammer—there was no escape. No mercy. No salvation. He was nothing more than a discarded pawn in the grand game of power.

The cold truth settled in his bones like an unshakable curse. He was alone. Helpless. Doomed.

As the soldiers yanked him forward, forcing his legs to march, he no longer had the will to resist. The weight of his fate pressed down on him, suffocating, unrelenting. His tears spilled silently down his cheeks, but he did not wipe them away.

For what use was pride when he had already lost everything?

*****

The long, dreadful walk toward the prison felt like an eternity. Ian's legs ached, his body weak from fear, but the soldiers dragging him forward showed no mercy. Each step echoed in the damp stone corridors, the air growing heavier with an unbearable stench. The torches mounted along the walls flickered dimly, casting long, grotesque shadows that twisted and danced like specters. The deeper they went, the colder it became, as if even the warmth of the outside world had abandoned this forsaken place.

After what felt like a half-hour of mindless walking, they finally arrived at the entrance to the prison itself—a massive iron door, rusted at the edges, its surface scarred by time and violence. The moment the door creaked open, Ian was hit with a stench so vile, so overwhelming, that his stomach churned violently.

The reek of blood, sweat, and filth clung to the air like a physical force, wrapping around his throat, suffocating him. His body reacted before his mind could stop it—he bent over and vomited onto the cold stone floor, his entire body trembling.

"Ugh, disgusting brat!" one of the soldiers spat, his voice filled with pure disgust. He yanked his hand away from Ian as if touching him was suddenly beneath him.

Before Ian could recover, a sharp pain exploded in his back. One of the soldiers had kicked him, sending him sprawling to the ground, his already weak body collapsing like a rag doll. His palms scraped against the rough, damp stone, but the pain was nothing compared to the humiliation burning inside him.

"Get up," the second soldier growled. "Move!"

Ian gritted his teeth, forcing himself to swallow his nausea. His legs wobbled as he slowly pushed himself upright, his breaths ragged. His eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings for the first time.

The prison was eerily silent.

There were no other prisoners. No chains rattling, no distant screams of suffering—just the unsettling quiet that gnawed at his sanity.

His heart pounded as a realization crept into his mind like a venomous whisper. Why was it empty?

One of the soldiers chuckled darkly, noticing his confusion. "Don't be so surprised, boy," he sneered. "You're a special guest. We wouldn't dare put you with the common filth."

Ian's blood ran cold.

The second soldier smirked, stepping closer. "This place is different from the other prisons," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "Here, no one will hear you scream."

Ian's breath hitched.

He had heard of prisons like these before—dark, hidden places where prisoners were never meant to be found. Places where screams of agony never reached the outside world, where hope was a meaningless concept.

"Now move."

He was shoved forward once again, his feet dragging against the cold floor. The walk felt endless, each step taking him deeper into a nightmare from which he could not wake. The walls around him were stained with old, dried blood, the only proof that people had suffered here before him.

His mind raced. Was there any way out? Was there anyone coming for him?

No.

He was truly alone.

After ten agonizing minutes, they reached the last cell in the prison. A thick iron door, rusted but still formidable, loomed before him like the gaping maw of a beast waiting to devour him whole.

"Stop."

Ian halted, his body tensing involuntarily.

The soldier grinned cruelly. "This will be your home from now on."

Before Ian could react, a boot slammed into his back, sending him crashing forward into the dark cell. His body hit the stone floor hard, pain shooting up his limbs.

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty corridors like a death sentence.

"Enjoy your stay," one of the soldiers mocked before their footsteps faded away, leaving nothing but silence in their wake.

Ian didn't move. He remained sprawled on the cold, damp floor, his body aching, his soul shattered. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought the sobs threatening to consume him. But he was too weak, too broken.

Tears spilled from his eyes, streaming down his face as a sob finally escaped his lips. He was alone.

Truly, utterly alone.

He thought of his mother. Her warm embrace, the way she would run her fingers through his hair when he was troubled. He thought of his father, the strength in his voice, the firm yet kind gaze in his eyes.

Were they still alive?

Did they even know where he was?

Or had they abandoned him?

The thought made his chest tighten painfully. What if he was already forgotten? What if no one was coming to save him?

He cried for what felt like hours, his sobs the only sound in the suffocating darkness. His body trembled as exhaustion overtook him, his mind unable to fight against the weight of despair.

Eventually, the darkness claimed him, pulling him into unconsciousness.

And for the first time in his life, Ian truly understood what it meant to be powerless.