Time passed in a haze as the carriage rattled and lurched along the rough path. Despite the discomfort and his fraying nerves, Zelaes found himself dozing off, exhaustion overtaking him like a heavy shroud. The rhythmic creaking of the wheels and the occasional jostle lulled him into a restless slumber, but his respite was short-lived—an abrupt jolt brought the carriage to a sudden halt, and Zelaes's forehead collided with the hardback of the seat in front of him, snapping him awake.
Pain flared where his head had struck, a dull throb that pulled him from the fog of half-sleep. Blinking away the disorientation, Zelaes straightened, his eyes darting around as he took in his surroundings. The men who had captured him were still there, their voices a rough murmur against the backdrop of a bustling camp. The war camp loomed before him, far larger than he had anticipated.
Iron pillars stood like ancient sentinels, their tops crowned with torches that burned with hungry flames, casting a warm yet foreboding glow across the entrance. The gate—an imposing barrier of wrought iron—towered ahead, its blackened metal emblazoned with a myriad of scratches and dents, scars from countless encounters. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and sweat, the atmosphere charged with the unyielding determination of survivors who had carved out a fragile existence in this merciless world.
"Alrrriighty. Open up, ya' bloodspilled idiots!" the man beside Zelaes shouted, his voice cutting through the noise with a notable lisp that made the demand sound almost comical. Zelaes, still bound but alert, sat up straighter, his senses sharpened by the prospect of entering this fortress. From one of the towering watchposts, a sentry leaned over the edge, his silhouette barely discernible against the fiery glow.
"Who's the new guy?" the sentry called down, his voice carrying an edge of suspicion.
"A prisoner. He's got valuables, now let us in!" the man beside Zelaes retorted, his brows furrowing in irritation. Zelaes watched closely as the exchange played out, noting the tension between the men and the guards. This information was valuable, each interaction a piece of the puzzle he would need to escape. The sentry on the tower gave a resigned sigh, then reached for a lever, pulling it down with a grunt.
The gate shuddered to life, the heavy iron groaning as it parted in the middle, opening with a rush of wind and the grinding clink of chains. Zelaes committed every detail to memory—the guards, the levers, the procedure—every scrap of knowledge could be his key to freedom. As the carriage rolled through the now-open gate, Zelaes scanned the scene beyond. What he saw caught him off guard. This was no mere encampment of soldiers or mercenaries—this was a full-fledged community.
A ragtag assembly of survivors, patched together by necessity and grit, bustled about in the dim light. Men, women, children—all ages and sizes—moved between tents and makeshift shelters, their faces worn but determined. The air buzzed with the low hum of conversation, the clatter of tools, and the occasional bark of laughter. A blacksmith hammered at his forge, sending showers of sparks into the twilight, while traders bartered over wares salvaged from the wastelands.
A pang of recognition rippled through him. Of course they have cells, he thought grimly. They wouldn't have taken me if they didn't. The reality of his situation sank in, but Zelaes couldn't find himself caring as the carriage came to a stop in front of the squat, foreboding building.
Rough hands yanked Zelaes from the carriage, his arm wrenched as he was pulled to the ground. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his muscles, and he stumbled, barely catching himself as he was hauled toward the building.
"Take 'im to the slammer," the leader of the group cackled, his voice dripping with a sadistic glee that sent a shiver down Zelaes's spine. Zelaes felt a surge of resistance bubble up within him, his instincts screaming to fight back, but he quelled the urge. He couldn't afford to make a scene, not now. With a heavy sigh, he shut his eyes, forcing himself to endure the rough treatment.
They stripped him of his bindings long enough to search him, hands patting him down in a thorough, invasive sweep for hidden weapons. His hatchet was long gone, all that remained were the tattered remnants of his clothing—a dirty, brown linen shirt cinched at the waist, and equally ragged trousers that hung loosely around his legs. He was a far cry from the warrior he had once been, reduced now to a prisoner in a land that had stripped him of everything but his will to survive.
Once the search was complete, the ropes were reapplied, eating into his wrists with renewed vigor. Zelaes was shoved forward, his steps faltering as he was led toward the open cells. His captors were busy with another prisoner, a woman who looked just as weary and battered as he felt.
The leader, his keys jangling with each step, unlocked a particularly large cell and unceremoniously tossed the woman inside. As he turned his gaze back to Zelaes, a sneer curled his lips. "Don't do anything stupid, Charming," he mocked, untying Zelaes's bindings just long enough to shove him inside.
Zelaes hit the ground hard, skidding across the cold, damp floor of the cell. The impact jarred his already aching bones, but he pushed himself up, eyes darting around the confined space. The cell was stark, its stone walls slick with moisture, the air was heavy with the scent of mold and despair. He glanced briefly at the woman beside him, her features gaunt and hollow, but he made no move to speak.
Slowly, he positioned himself against the wall, drawing one knee up while letting the other leg stretch out in front of him. He sat in tatehiza, his back straight as he settled into the cool stone. His breath steadied, and he closed his eyes, allowing the sounds of the camp to wash over him—the distant clamor of iron, the crackling of torches, the murmurs of people going about their business. He would wait. Wait for the right moment, the right opportunity to prove he was no threat. And when that moment came, he would be ready. He would find a way out of this place.
Zelaes watched as the woman beside him stirred, her body twisting as she gradually woke from the haze of unconsciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing irises that gleamed like molten gold, radiant and piercing against the dim, flickering light of the cell. Her skin, a dark, rich hue that seemed to absorb the faint glow around her, was marked by the remnants of battle—scratches, bruises, and a sheen of sweat that clung to her brow. Her hair fell just to her lower back, the strands an abyssal black, like ink that bled into the air around her. But where her hair ended upon her bangs, a streak of deep, angry red marked her head, the color of fresh blood mingling with her dark locks, giving her an almost spectral appearance.
Despite the fierce look she bore, when she spoke, her voice was soft and fragile, like the whisper of a breeze through a forgotten tomb. "Where… Where am I?" she asked, her tone laced with confusion and disorientation. He met her eyes briefly, then looked away, "A war camp," he said simply, closing his eyes as if to shut out the reality of their surroundings.
He kept thinking back. The cell felt almost too familiar. He had never been in a cell however. It felt like a distant memory.
The woman's gaze lingered on him, her eyes narrowing as if searching for something beyond the surface. "You look absolutely stunning," she murmured, her words carrying an edge of amusement that cut through the silence. Zelaes let out a low groan, the compliment grating against his weariness. "You look as if a tomato was smashed against your head," he replied, his tone dry and unflinching, his expression a mask of stone. He wasn't sure if he was joking or simply stating the obvious—her wound was severe, and the humor felt brittle, but it was all he could muster.
The woman shifted, easing herself into a sitting position beside him. She moved carefully, her breath catching as she straightened her back. "I am Odessa," she said, her voice gaining a bit more strength. Zelaes gave a slight nod, his gaze still fixed on some unseen point beyond the cell bars. "Zelaes."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy like the damp air that clung to the cell walls. Zelaes's eyes drifted to the right, drawn by a subtle movement at the edge of his vision. He tensed, his senses alert. "There's someone else in here," he muttered. He gestured with a tilt of his head toward the far corner of the cell, where a dark figure hunched against the wall—a tall, unnaturally thin man cloaked in shadow.
The man's presence was unsettling, his form barely visible in the gloom. Long, blood-red hair spilled over his shoulders, tangled and wild, framing a face that seemed almost human but not quite right. His eyes were hollow, blackened pits that gleamed with a dull, sickly light. He stood with his finger to the wall, one bony hand dragging a fingernail across the stone, etching erratic patterns into the surface with an endless, repetitive motion. His lips moved, barely a whisper, mumbling incoherently in a voice that trembled with madness.
"Don't speak to him," Zelaes warned.
Odessa leaned closer, her curiosity evident as she glanced at the figure. She seemed unfazed, almost intrigued by the man's odd behavior. "Why shouldn't we?" she asked, her voice dipping low as she leaned into Zelaes's space, her eyes fixed on the shadowed figure as if drawn by some invisible thread.
Zelaes hesitated, his gaze flickering back to the man. The figure's posture was off—twisted, unnatural, as if his bones had forgotten their purpose. There was something deeply wrong about him, something that set Zelaes's instincts on edge. "He… doesn't feel right," Zelaes murmured, his brow furrowing as he observed the man's presence. "You can see it too, right?"
Odessa followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing as she tried to discern what Zelaes saw. Around the man, a faint aura seemed to shimmer, a swirling miasma of green that pulsed and writhed like a living thing. Within the sickly light, twisted faces flickered in and out of existence—warped, anguished expressions that stretched and contorted as if they were souls trapped in an eternal torment.
Within that terrifying presence bore hundreds, if not thousands of warping white and black faces. He could feel it, the absolute sheer number of bloodlust that rolled around the man, and he seemed to leak a poisonous air.
"He isn't normal," Zelaes said, his voice hushed. "He's... wrong. Broken."
Odessa raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at her lips. "I think we're being a bit judgmental, no?" she remarked, her tone lightly teasing. But as she glanced back toward the man, her smile faltered. Zelaes could see it—her unease, the subtle shift in her expression as she too sensed the darkness that clung to the stranger.
Zelaes looked back at the man, and as his eyes focused, he realized with a jolt that the figure had moved. The man was no longer slumped against the wall.
Instead, he stood, tall and gaunt, his figure looming unnaturally close. Zelaes's heart lurched, his body tensing as he prepared to defend himself. But the man did not attack. He simply stared, his eyes glowing with a red, eerie light that cut through the shadows like a blade. His lips twisted into a crooked, unsettling smile, his long, pale finger rising to point directly at Zelaes.
"You… You're new. New. Very new, yes," the man whispered, his voice was a rasping, hollow echo that filled the cell. "Welcome."
Zelaes's grip on his unease loosened slightly, a flicker of doubt passing through his mind. Perhaps he had misjudged the man—maybe he was just another lost soul, driven mad by the weight of this wretched world.
Zelaes met the man's gaze, his own eyes softening just a fraction. "Hello," he said, cautiously returning the greeting. "Thank you… for the welcome."
"I am..." The man paused, a flicker of confusion clouding his gaze as if he were grasping at a memory just out of reach. His brow furrowed, and he muttered to himself with a raspy, incoherent murmur.
"What was my name..?" He glanced around before he let out a frustrated grunt that echoed against the stone walls. "I'll just think one up! Call me... Marchel." His voice was oddly cheerful like a forced enthusiasm.
Zelaes nodded slowly, his eyes flicking to Odessa, who stood beside him, her posture poised and composed despite the grime and the gloom that surrounded them. She met Zelaes's glance, and with a soft, almost graceful motion, she extended her arm to Marchel, offering a handshake.
"Odessa," she said, her voice calm and steady, "Pleased to meet you… Marchel."
Marchel stared at her outstretched hand as if it were an alien artifact, something he had never encountered in his life. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and confusion.
He made no move to accept the handshake, simply took a step back, his movements jerky and uncertain. Odessa, however, seemed unfazed by the refusal; her expression remained gentle, understanding.
Zelaes leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Maybe we misjudged him," he said, his eyes still on Marchel, who now sat down abruptly, legs folding beneath him in an awkward cross-legged position.
The man swayed slightly, his movements twitchy, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There was something deeply unsettling about him, but also a vulnerability that Zelaes couldn't ignore.
Odessa turned her attention back to Marchel, a thoughtful look crossing her features. "Will we be fed?" she inquired, her voice soft but laced with concern.
Marchel's head snapped up, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air between them seem to crackle. "Food?" he echoed, as though the very concept were foreign to him. He pulled his legs up, wrapping his bony arms around his shins, rocking slightly as he considered the question.
"Ah, food is... very rare," he finally admitted, eyes distant as if he were speaking of a bygone era. "It's not to be expected."
Zelaes exchanged a glance with Odessa, their shared concern hanging unspoken between them. Marchel's answers were evasive, laced with a resigned fatalism that Zelaes found unnerving. But still, they needed more information. "Hm... Very well," Zelaes said, his tone firm. "I will... find a way."
Marchel's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing with sudden alarm. "FIND a way?" he stammered, his voice rising in agitation. "What—... What is that peanut in your head thinking?" His words tumbled out in a frantic rush, and then, just as quickly, he fell silent, his gaze darting away as though he had lost the thread of his thoughts.
"Do what you two fools think will help. It won't." His speech was slow and deliberate, each word carefully enunciated as if he were struggling to make sense of his own mind.
Zelaes pushed himself to his feet, his muscles stiff and protesting the movement. He gestured for Odessa to follow, stepping toward the iron bars that separated them from the rest of the camp.
Beyond the cell, the war camp was alive with activity, the air thick with the acrid smoke of cooking fires and the pungent stench of sweat and iron.
Flames licked skyward from braziers perched atop pillars, casting wavering shadows that danced across the camp's uneven ground, illuminating the faces of weary men and women as they went about their business.
"There," Zelaes said, pointing toward a figure moving among the crowd—a shorter man, his features sharp and alert. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye, his skin a deep brown like Odessa's, and his hair was cropped short, the edges bristling against the collar of his rough-spun shirt.
Zelaes recognized him instantly—the man who had knocked him down at the barn. "He has the keys to this cell. I suppose you wouldn't know a way to get them, right?" Zelaes asked, his voice low as he turned to Odessa.
Odessa followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing as she sized up the man. "I would… But I'm not exactly full of energy right now," she admitted, a note of frustration creeping into her tone. She pressed a hand to her forehead, wincing slightly. "I need to rest, and gods, my head aches!"
Zelaes nodded thoughtfully, his mind already working through possible plans, but he could see the fatigue etched in Odessa's features—the weariness that mirrored his own. He glanced back toward the eyepatch-wearing man, then to Odessa. "Go rest," he urged, his voice softer now.
"No. You should come too." Odessa's hand reached out, her fingers curling around Zelaes's forearm. Her eyes, those radiant pools of gold, met his with a quiet intensity. "Your eyes, they look… Like a man who hasn't had real rest in months."
Zelaes stared at her, taken aback by her words. There was something in her gaze that spoke of genuine concern, a kindness that felt foreign and yet strangely comforting.
He nodded, a slow, reluctant acknowledgment of the truth she saw. With a weary sigh, he cast one last look toward the man with the eyepatch, then allowed Odessa to lead him deeper into the cell.
They settled against the far wall, the cool stone pressing against Zelaes's back as he sank down beside her. He closed his eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion pull him under.
The sounds of the camp faded to a distant hum, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to rest.
Rest…
Rest..
Rest.