"It's night, old man. Time to eat," the guard said, impatiently knocking on the cell door.
With no response, he furrowed his brow and knocked again, this time more irritated.
"Where's the plate, old man...? Hey, are you listening to me?" the guard insisted, leaning forward to peek through the small opening in the door, where they usually placed the food.
What he saw made him step back for a moment, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Damn it..." he muttered in disbelief.
He quickly backed away, calling for one of the other guards down the corridor.
"Hey! We've got a problem!" His voice echoed through the prison walls.
The second guard approached, somewhat disinterested. "What is it? He's always awake..."
"It's the first time he hasn't said 'thank you' in... what? Thirty years, maybe more?" the first guard replied, still in disbelief.
The third guard, the oldest, approached, looking at the scene with a mix of disappointment and indifference.
"Dead," he stated, as if it was a long-expected inevitability.
"How?" the second guard asked, now showing some interest.
"Looks like he fell out of bed," the first guard responded dryly, trying to explain the obvious.
"He's a bit dirty, don't you think?" the second guard commented, observing the lifeless body.
"What did you expect after thirty years without a bath?" the oldest guard responded with a near-sarcastic tone, the decades of routine in the prison erasing any trace of empathy.
"Come on, help me get him into the bag. We'll talk to the warden later." The first guard ordered, tired of the scene.
"One... two... three!" With effort, the guards lifted Nathaniel's frail body and placed it in the canvas bag.
"It's over. Let's get this done," said the third guard, eager to finish the job.
The second guard hesitated for a moment as he locked the cell door again, despite knowing there was no need.
"Huh? Why are you locking it? You think he's gonna get up and escape?" the second guard asked with a bitter laugh.
"Force of habit, I guess," the oldest replied, giving a tired smile in return.
They all shared a brief, hollow laugh, the sound echoing in the dark corridor.
As soon as the guards left, the cell fell into deep silence. That's when Varian, who had been motionless until then, finally moved. Cautiously, he opened the bag where old Nathaniel had been placed.
"Goodbye, my master..." he whispered, his voice heavy with restrained sorrow. "You're free now... more free than I'll ever be."
As the words left his lips, a thought struck Varian, something he had never considered with such weight before. "Free..."
***
"Who would've thought... that old man finally died," Anor muttered, almost mockingly, as he looked at the canvas bag with Nathaniel's supposed body inside. "Take him away."
"Yes, sir," the guards responded mechanically, long used to Anor's indifference toward the prisoners.
"Let's just throw him away," Anor continued, shrugging as he adjusted his cloak.
"He feels heavier now..." one of the guards remarked, frowning as he lifted the bag.
"Hurry up, I don't have all night," Anor urged them, then chuckled to himself. "Actually... I guess I do. Hehehe..."
The guards carried the body toward the cliff, the spot where Anor usually discarded the dead. The darkness of the night enveloped the scene, and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below echoed in the distance.
Meanwhile, back at the prison, the guard in charge of feeding the prisoners approached Varian's cell with a look of disdain.
"Come on... Hey! Hurry up!" He knocked on the metal door, expecting a response. But this time, there was none. A heavy silence filled the corridor.
"What the...?" The guard pushed open the small slot used for passing food and peeked inside the cell. His eyes widened in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me..."
The floor of the cell was shattered, revealing a large hole, and Nathaniel's body was nowhere to be seen.
"Hm?... Oh no..." the guard muttered, feeling panic creep up his spine. He then shouted: "Lord Anor!!!"
At the cliff, Anor and his guards continued to carry the bag where Nathaniel's body was supposed to be.
"Mother of mercy, we commit the remains of your humble servant... or something like that," one of the guards said, half-heartedly, casting an indifferent glance at the bag. "I don't remember the rest, but... well, doesn't matter. He's dead now."
Anor, on the other hand, seemed lost in his own thoughts, reflecting on the treasure Nathaniel had once promised but was never found.
"Did he really know where the treasure was?" Anor pondered aloud, casually. "Doesn't matter anymore. Whether he did or didn't, the legend died with him."
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the prison corridor. The guard in charge sprinted desperately toward the cliff.
"Get out of the way, damn it... Lord Anor!!!" the guard shoved the other soldiers aside, his voice loud and filled with urgency.
Near the cliff's edge, the two guards holding the sack with Varian started arguing.
"What do you mean, do we throw on 'three' or after 'three'?" one of the guards asked, confused.
"After 'three'!" the other replied, impatient.
Anor, standing beside them, was distracted, lost in his thoughts.
"Lord Anor!" the running guard finally shouted, trying to get closer.
"Hm? Did you hear that?" one of the guards asked, readying himself to throw the sack.
"What?" Anor frowned, still far from grasping the situation.
"Doesn't matter. One..." the guards started counting.
"Lord Anor, stop!" the guard continued shouting, now desperate.
"Two..." the guards braced to toss the body.
"Don't throw the body off the cliff!" the guard yelled one last time, but it was too late.
"Three!" And the guards hurled the sack into the abyss.
Suddenly, something happened. A hand emerged through the tear in the sack, grabbing the keys hanging from Anor's belt just as Varian was thrown over the cliff.
"Ghaaaaa!!!" Anor screamed in shock as Varian's hand pulled him by surprise, throwing him off balance.
Anor tumbled with a desperate cry, his body plummeting toward the sharp rocks below. The impact was fatal, and his body lay motionless on the stones.
Varian, however, plunged into the sea. The waters were fierce, and he sank quickly, his lungs burning as he struggled against the current. Desperately, he worked to unlock the shackles that bound him to the weights, his fingers deftly manipulating the keys with nervous precision.
As his breath started to leave him, Varian finally freed himself. With one final effort, he swam to the surface, gasping for air. The waves continued to toss him around, but he managed to stay afloat.
Looking toward the shore, Varian saw Anor's shattered body on the rocks. The man who had caused so much pain in his life was now dead. Varian, however, did not feel the satisfaction he had expected. Only an emptiness consumed him.
He then looked around. In the distance, an island rose on the horizon. Without a second thought, he began swimming toward it, determined to leave everything behind.
"This is bad, isn't it?" one of the guards said.
"No kidding!" replied the other.
Varian would be the first and last prisoner to escape that dark place. Although his name remained unknown, his escape would catch the attention of the authorities, especially the Inquisition, which would hunt him in secret. He would become known only as "The Man Without a Name," with vague and fragmented descriptions of his appearance shared among the inquisitors. No one knew who he truly was, and even less what he planned to do next. Now a ghost to the world, Varian carried with him the promise of an uncertain future—a mystery that hunters feared to uncover.
He was an Æther, a creature whose mere presence brought drastic changes, whether for good or for ill. Wherever his people appeared, the balance of the world was disturbed, generating fear and distrust.