Taren sat on the cold stone floor of the prison, his back against the damp wall. He folded his knees up to his chest and wrapped limp arms around them as his head dangled forward. The dim torchlight danced across his face, deepening the shadows in his hollow cheeks. His jaw was clenched, lips drawn tight, and his vacant eyes stared ahead at the iron bars.
His thoughts stirred restlessly, like a tempest that couldn't rest. 'Why had I ventured into the tunnel?' This question nagged him back and forth, drawing him against his will to memories that could not be turned off. He shut his eyes as if he could close them on the images—the empty earth, the secret entrance, the monster. Now all seemed far away, shattered like fragments of a nightmare-turned-dream.
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if the pain might quiet his thoughts. 'What was I thinkin'? Why did I seek out trouble?' His chest felt tight, every breath a battle. Regret coiled tightly inside him, a suffocating presence that refused to let go.
The sentencing replayed in his mind with cruel clarity: the judge's cold voice, the courtroom's indifferent stares, the finality of the word "death." No one had asked questions; no one cared to hear his side. The label of "guilty" was stamped on him as easily as a signature, and just like that, his life was stripped away.
Taren's fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. The "why" screamed in his mind, but no answer came. He let out a shuddering breath, his head dropping forward. A bitter laugh escaped him, dry and hollow. "Nonsense," he muttered, the word foreign on his tongue. "It's all nonsense.
His voice was a shock to him, and he blinked as if waking from a trance. He puckered the word echoing oddly in his head. "Illiterate," he whispered, and his brow furrowed deeper. Why that word? It hung in the stale prison air, weighty and strange.
A faint, humourless smile tugged at his lips. "What the hell am I even sayin'?" His voice cracked with laughter that was dry and disjointed. "Illiterate. Aren't I the illiterate one here?" The chuckle died in his throat and left only the oppressive silence of the cell.
He sat back against the wall, letting his head recline, eyes scanning the cracks in the ceiling. The weight bore down on him again-harder than ever. His throat was dry, and though the questions churned and foamed, the answers were farther away than ever.
A clang came suddenly, shattering the quiet. Then a body hitting the floor, heavy and final. Taren's head jerked around toward the iron bars. Soft, deliberate footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder with each measured step.
A shadow formed at the edge of the torchlight, growing larger as it approached. Taren's muscles tensed, his hands pressing against the cold floor. The figure stepped into view—a man cloaked in black, his face obscured by a mask. Only his eyes were visible, sharp and unyielding, glinting like steel in the flickering light.
Taren's lips opened, but the words died before they formed. The man sank in front of the cell door, his gloved hands moving with practised efficiency. The tumblers of the lock clicked softly beneath his touch, the sound lost over Taren's booming heartbeat.
The door creaked open, the heavy iron groaning in protest. Taren's confusion deepened, his eyes wide. Before he could speak, the man lunged forward, a gloved hand clamping over Taren's mouth. The stranger's grip was firm but careful, silencing any protests before they could begin.
His eyes met, and Taren was caught beneath the stranger's gaze. The man leaned forward slowly, his movements slow and deliberate. He slipped an arm beneath Taren's legs and stood up without breaking his silence.
Taren's body stiffened, his fingers grasping for the man's cloak more out of reflex than choice. He turned, trying to see the face behind the mask, but the shadows and fabric told him nothing. The man's eyes remained cold and fixed as he took Taren toward the corridor.
The only sound was a faint shuffle of boots on stone. The man moved with quiet precision: each step fluid, fluid and purposeful. Taren's muffled protests vibrated against the man's gloved hand as he tossed his body into convulsions in a futile bid to break free. And the man did not fail.
Open air hit them when they slipped past the prison gates. Cool night air filled with a faint scent of dew and moonlight caught against iron bars in the distance. Taren's gaze darted about, catching fleeting glimpses of freedom, but the man kept moving without hesitation.
Taren squirmed again, the muffled voice straining against the man's grip. "Mmph—let me go!" He kicked out reflexively, his foot scrapping against the man's leg. The man didn't flinch much, readjusting his hold and still moving forward steadily.
Ahead, the yawning black mouth of a tunnel rose against the moonlit landscape. Taren's body stiffened, his pulse quickening as unease coiled in his stomach. The darkness loomed, thick and impenetrable, swallowing them as the man stepped across the threshold.
Inside, the tunnel was silent, the air cold and damp. The faint metallic tang of earth mixed with the musty scent of stone. Taren's breath quickened, his struggles slowing as the oppressive darkness closed in around them.
The man's steps were heavy and slow, each one measured and deliberate. The silence was almost unbearable, broken only by the occasional scuff of boots on uneven ground. Taren's defiance faltered, his body sagging slightly as he was carried deeper into the unknown.
The tunnel was seemingly endless, and its shadows writhed and twisted in the weak light. His mind was racing, his fear building a step at every moment. The man didn't stop or look back, his attention never wavering as they disappeared into the waiting dark.
The man entered the hollow chamber, slowing his pace as he approached the centre. Faint light streamed through cracks in the ceiling, poorly lit the jagged walls. Shadows danced, uncertain, in the stillness.
He squatted and set Taren down. Stumbling slightly, Taren's legs quivered beneath him, but his gaze remained locked on the man.
The stranger stood tall, his gloved hand rising to his mask. With deliberate slowness, he pulled it away, revealing dark, uneven hair that tumbled past his shoulders, catching the dim light. His pale face emerged, stark against the darkness, angular and sharp. But it was his eyes—piercing and weary—that sent a chill through Taren.
Taren's chest constricted. It couldn't be. His mouth opened, and the word spilled out before he could close it. ".Osric?"
Osric stayed still for a second. And then his eyes warmed up—he felt something warmer than the cool steel Taren recalled across the coldness of their prison. He strode into one step and closed it to Taren, yanking him into a hug.
Taren's mind reeled. 'Was it really him?' Before he could even react, Osric closed the space between them…
Taren stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. The scent of earth and leather clung to Osric's cloak, grounding him in a moment too surreal to process. Slowly, Osric's arms tightened around him—not just a gesture of relief, but of apology, a silent vow.
For one heartbeat, Taren did not move, but as Osric's hold relaxed the tension, something within him cracked. Slowly, hesitantly, he rose to meet the embrace again. His chest burned with anger, confusion, and a spark of hope, though that hope was fragile at best.