The Prisoner

Inside the deepest dungeons of the Bloodwyne Castle, the worst criminals of Valora echoed their screams.

A guard's duty was to remain true to his lords, and thus, each one carried no sympathy for the desperate screams of terror and horror coming from the cells.

Each cell, except for one, was made of solid granite, impenetrable to most siege machines. Not that one would fit underground.

The dungeon smelled of rust and piss, with barely any sources of light.

The shadows danced along with the echoing screams, creating an eerie scene.

Torric of the Blacktide was one of the two guards responsible for the black box. A prison cell made of a mystical black metal, harder than any stone, and colder than any cage.

He and a few others were tasked with guarding an unknown prisoner, who was supposed to be the most dangerous in the stinking dungeons.

Today, Torric had spent most of his guard shift staring blankly at the wall in front of him, as if mesmerized by the shadow dancing with a flickering torch.

"Lord Redwyne's wasting good steel on this," his comrade, Merrik, grumbled beside him. "I would never complain about the pay of this job, but a man chained like that? He's not going anywhere."

Torric did not share his comrade's opinion. Shaking his head in disagreement. "You've only been here for a few days, Merrik." Torric shivered. "I have been on duty in this dungeon for more than two years, and never have I heard a word from this man, let alone a cry or a scream."

Torric turned to look at his junior. "Some nights, you can even see him glaring at you through the bars of the door."

A scream resounded from the deeper parts of the dungeon, as the skittering of mice resounded grossly.

Torric grunted. The worst part was that the prisoner never screamed. Others in the dungeon begged, wept, and sang confessions. That part he could get used to, as cruel as it may be. But silence was haunting in such a terrifying place.

This one only sang that, only silence. Silence that clung to the bone. It was unnerving, to say the least.

"By the sun and stars, Torric, don't scare me like that." Merrik swallowed hard, audibly. "My shift is almost over. Have fun staring at the ghost by yourself. I'll send over Jacob to take your place in a few minutes."

Merrik moved with hurried steps, almost tripping on the stairs up and out of the dungeon.

Alone now, Torric stared at the cell's barbed window. He always tried to avoid staring at his unknown prisoner. He was afraid the man might look back. Again.

He refused to admit his fear, though. He would be a laughing stock for his comrades if he did. There was nothing scary about a chained man who could only glare back if he thought about it.

Torric felt bored on his own, with nothing but the mice and the mute prisoner keeping him company. So he decided he was going to ask the prisoner to tell him his story. What could he have possibly done to deserve to live in the black box for more than two years?

'Could he have killed some high-born? A spy for another Lord? Maybe even a warrior who deserted?'

Torric pressed his eye to the cell's barbed window. Then held the torch close, trying to see his captive.

The prisoner hung like a butchered stag, his arms wrenched overhead by manacles, his legs hanged above the floor. Blood matted his hair, dying it in a deep crimson color. Or maybe that's what it looked like to begin with.

The chains had sunk deeper into the prisoner's wrists, the skin around them swollen and gray. His body was littered with scars, burns, and… something else.

Weird marks covered all his body, all crested with blood. The scars stretched from the prisoner's face to toes that hung limply over the floor.

Despite how little they fed him, his build never lost its shape, and his muscles only got more defined, but black spots appeared all over his body, like a bad infection.

Today, the prisoner's head lolled forward, hair obscuring his face. Torric could not see him well from the cell's door, but he was sure that the man lacked any movement.

Torric's pulse jumped. His morbid fascination suddenly turned to worry.

Many died in the dungeons, but this one was meant to be kept alive. Torric slammed on the metal door in panic. "Hey. Hey, you still breathing?"

Torric resented himself for the worried tone he used. He was supposed to be the scary captor here, not the other way around.

No response came from the cell, not even a mild movement.

Torric's jaw tightened; he was torn between opening the door and checking on the prisoner, or waiting for the guard replacement to have his back.

'Wait, why am I so cautious? Merrik is right, what can a chained man do?'

He decided to check on the rotten prisoner's pulse. Grabbing the keys out of his hip, Torric unlocked the door with a loud clank.

"Hey, bastard, don't play any games with me." Torric's breath suddenly felt damp, as the smell of piss and rot escaped the black box, and invaded his senses.

The door hinges screamed as he pulled the heavy door open. But the prisoner didn't stir.

The torch in Torric's hand illuminated the black box, revealing a granite bed at the corner, a few dead rats littered on it like meals.

'he eats rats?' That explained why he didn't lose as much weight as other prisoners. But he must be full of diseases and rot from eating such rotten meat. That explained the black spots.

The shadows stretched as Torric came closer to the prisoner. And his heart drummed louder the longer he stared.

Shallow breaths escaped the prisoner's mouth as his chest rose and fell softly.

Torric felt relieved that the man was alive, but also annoyed at the unnerving act the prisoner kept up.

"Still playing corpse, eh?" Torric snapped, "What did you do anyway? How'd you piss off the Bloodwynes for them to condemn you to this for the rest of your life huh?"

Silence. The prisoner did not even twitch.

"Your secret is safe with me, so what did you do? Seduce some lord's daughter? Or maybe someone's wife?"

The man twitched, ever so slightly, but Torric did not miss it.

His taunt had worked, he could finally know whose cell he was guarding for two whole years.

Torric stepped closer, his hand twitching with excitement. "I heard multiple lords came to visit you. Just how many enemies can a man make?"

The man remained still, back to playing dead.

Now that Torric was close to the soon-to-be corpse, he could feel how cold the cell was. The prisoner's unnerving silence only added to the sinister atmosphere, as if mocking his words.

Torric was done with the nonsense. He stepped closer in a flash, striking a trained stance, then drove his fist into the prisoner's gut. "Answer me, you mute bastard."

Suddenly, the manacles overhead clattered, then unspooled from the ceiling like dead snakes. The prisoner reeled back from the punch, but his feet found the floor. His hands extended forward. The chains fell, lashed out, and wrapped themselves around Torric's throat before his knuckles even left the prisoner's flesh.

No

The chains tightened, closing in on Torric's windpipe, snuffing out a horrified scream. He clawed at the links, but his nails broke against steel. The torch clattered to the ground, flames guttering, casting light on the prisoner's blood-crested face. The prisoner stepped forward, chains wrapped between his fists.

Torric's vision tunneled. His knees struck stone. Tears and snot started drooling out while above him, the prisoner stood watch, still silent, as if this was just another day.

Torric pleaded with his gaze, but one look at his assailant, and he could see that his life was worth less than a dungeon rat's in the man's eyes.

Darkness crept in, and Torric felt himself drowning on dry land, his lungs were burning, his eyes bulged from the pressure, and he felt his pants turn wet.

The last thing Torric heard was his own pulse, hammering, as if his heart was trying to break out of his ribs.

And then nothing.

The chains clattered to the ground, right beneath the prisoner's feet. Right beside Torric's limp corpse.

The prisoner knelt beside Torric's body, fingers probing the guard's neck for a pulse he already knew wasn't there. He peeled the Valoran officer's uniform off like skinning a rabbit, ignoring the wet stain spreading across Torric's trousers.

Minutes later, the prisoner walked out of the cell in Torric's neat red office suit. He hid his crimson hair under an officer's hat and mirrored the deceased officer's posture.

At the door, he hesitated. Then locked it, leaving Torric to rot in the black box. Now, he was the guard. After all, he had years to practice. Watching.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, too light to be Merrick's. The replacement.

"Blacktide." A nod from the new guard, barely glancing up as he approached. Bored. The prisoner grunted, the way Torric always did, and spat to the side. The glob landed exactly where Torric's would have.

He waited for the new guard to pass him and stand by the other side of the metal door. The prisoner shifted his weight, letting the replacement catch a glimpse of "Torric's" profile, just enough to recognize, not enough to scrutinize.

 Then he walked away, each step measured. Not too slow; Guards didn't dawdle. Not too fast; Running drew attention. The urge to sprint itched in his muscles, so he crushed it.

He didn't have a lot of time to escape the castle before someone notices that he escaped and sounds the alarms. But the prisoner knew the castle well. But he had to retrieve something before he flees.

 He walked like a man with nothing to hide, past the torture chambers where screams had echoed, toward the stairs that smelled of damp and despair.

The prisoner abandoned the torch at the crossroads, its dying light licking the stones as he vanished into the castle's corridors. The cap rode low over his eyes, not enough to hide, just enough to discourage questions.

Two guards passed, swaying in drunken laughter. With a flick of his wrist, Torric's key ring swapped from one belt to find another. Replaced by a similar, but smaller key ring.

An alloy door waited for him where he remembered, its surface pocked with age but still unyielding. The hinges screamed as it opened. The man entered, not a guard's sloppy entrance, but the slow, deliberate motion of a man who'd waited years for this moment.

Torric's sword bumped against his thigh. Useless steel. Mundane swords could not compete with what his enemies carried. He refused to be captured again for his carelessness.

Inside, the armory stank of oil and ambition. Halberds stood like a metal forest. Polished breastplates reflected his stolen uniform, distorted. He walked past them all, boots clicking in a rushed panic, until he reached the anvil at the back.

Beneath oilcloth pouches, two pristine star-forged curved swords slept, Orange flame frozen in one edge, cyan frost trapped in the other. His fingers found the pommels before his eyes did, caressing them as if they carried fond memories. The right one's grip still bore the groove from his smallest finger.

The twin blades slid into their sheaths with a whisper of steel on leather. He secured them in the oilcloth pouch, the weight familiar across his shoulders.

He turned around towards the door, and found a guard standing frozen in the threshold, torchlight catching the whites of his widening eyes.

"Who goes there? Identify yourself"

The prisoner moved. Torric's service sword flashed from its scabbard. Not the elegant arc of his reclaimed blades, but a butcher's stroke—practical, brutal. The edge caught the guard under the chin, splitting his windpipe before the man could gasp.

The prisoner caught the body before it could clatter against the weapons rack. Blood seeped through the guard's fingers where they clutched his throat, dripping on the stone like an hourglass' sands.

He dragged the corpse behind the anvil, arranging limp arms with grotesque care. The spreading crimson pool would be someone else's problem.

The alloy door shut behind him with a click, not a slam. Life continued uninterrupted. No bells. No shouts. Only two lives claimed. For now.

The prisoner passed through the castle's outer ward as the first alarm bell shattered the dawn. His stolen boots scuffed the same cobblestones Torric had worn smooth over years of patrols. Behind him, shouts erupted near the barracks, too distant, too disorganized. They'd check the armory last.

The gate captain barely glanced up from his ledger. "You're out early." He scrunched his nose in disgust. "You know what? You stink, go get a shower."

The prisoner touched his cap in Torric's habitual gesture and stepped through the gate's threshold. Zion's stink hit him first. Forge smoke, and the reek of too many unwashed bodies. The city boiled with its usual morning chaos. Bakers shouted prices. Beggars clutched at passing cloaks. Perfect cover.

At the nearest alleyway, he finally looked back. Bloodwyne Castle loomed above the fog, its towers clawing at the sky. No different than the day they'd dragged him in. Forged on blood and war, cries and screams. The only way that kept a kingdom without a king running.

As he stared in a trance, the prisoner felt something deep within his soul extinguishing. A coldness that would never reignite ever again.

The pouch across his back grew heavier. The twin blades within seemed to hum against his spine. So when he finally peeled his gaze away from the castle, he turned his back to it.

And vanished into the crowd.