The pain I felt was all-encompassing, the deep physical and emotional scars of the past few days weighing heavily on my mind. When I stirred, the faintest warmth of healing magic prickled along my skin—a stark contrast to the chill of the stone floor beneath me. My body still felt tethered to the ground, too weak and broken to move. Slowly, my senses began to return, piece by agonizing piece.
The first thing I saw was the old man.
He sat cross-legged in the corner of the cell, his face illuminated by the dim, flickering light of a small magical orb that floated near his hands. I could see his robes in more detail now, though faded and patched, they carried an air of dignity, as if they once belonged to someone of great importance. Deep lines carved his face and his eyes—an unsettling mix of kindness and weariness—lingered on me with an intensity that would make anyone shiver.
"You survived the night," he said, his voice soft yet tinged with surprise. "I wasn't sure you would."
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw. All I could manage was a hoarse whisper. "Who... are you?"
"Someone who's been here far too long," he replied, the orb disappeared. As it faded, it plunged the room back into semi-darkness. He moved closer, the faint glow of his magic reigniting as he placed his hands over me. "Lie still. You're not in the clear yet."
Even if I wanted to move every muscle screamed in protest at the slightest movement. The man placed his hands over my chest and warmth spread from his palms. It wasn't the searing heat of the torturer's brand, but a soothing balm that reached deep into my wounds.
"My magic will stabilize you," he explained. "But your full recovery will take time—a season, at the very least. If there is no interfere to your treatment, you should regain full function by the end of autumn."
"Why... why are you helping me?"
A faint smile played on his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Because you're still breathing... and because they've taken enough lives already."
As the hours passed, he continued his work, pausing only to let his magic recharge. The pain, though still present, dulled to a bearable ache. Gradually, we began to talk. His name was Elenion, though the title he once bore carried far more weight.
"I was once a grand mage," he said, his tone had a touch of both pride and bitterness. "I served under the Supreme King himself. My counsel was sought by kings and nobles across the Seven Kingdoms of Man. I stood as a pillar of the realm, my knowledge revered... but power and influence came at a cost."
I listened in silence, as he told me his own story of conviction and betrayal. Elenion had been branded a traitor not for treachery, but for compassion. He had dared to use his magic to heal those the empire deemed unworthy: elves, beastfolk, orcs—any who bore the weight of prejudice. Worse still, he had delved into forms of magic the council deemed dangerous—magic that questioned the balance of life and death.
"And so," he concluded, gesturing to the cell around us, "I ended up here. A lifetime of service reduced to chains and shadows."
"Why risk so much?" I asked, my voice stronger now but still raspy. "Why not stay within the lines?"
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "The lines are drawn by men blind to the greater truths. Magic is meant to unite, not divide. That belief cost me everything."
We sat in silence, the weight of his words pressing down like a heavy fog. Despite the different paths that led us here, I felt respect for the old man. Some of his ideals, though dangerous, held a strange kind of purity.
The sharp clatter of boots on stone jolted us both. The guards were coming. Elenion stiffened as the cell door groaned open. Two guards stepped inside, their faces obscured by helmets. One carried a wooden tray of bread and water, their expressions betraying a distinct lack of sympathy.
"Still alive?" one of them muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Pity. The torturer will be disappointed."
The other guard snickered as they placed the tray on the floor. "Don't get too comfortable, old man. This ones luck won't hold forever."
They left without another word, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing through the cell. Elenion exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing.
"Your presence has already caused a stir. Seems like you are not great at making friends." he joked, yet his tone was reserved. "They'll be watching, waiting for you to fail."
I shifted, wincing as the movement sent fresh jolts of pain through my body. "I'm not planning to give them the satisfaction."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Good. Hold onto that defiance. Right now, it's the probably the only weapon you have left."
We shared the bread and water in silence, the stale taste doing little to quell my hunger.
I tensed as the sound of each cell door on our block creaked open, one after another.
The sharp bark of a guard's voice echoed through the corridors. "Yard time! Move it!"
Elenion's expression darkened. "Let me help you up. You'll need fresh air and I'll show you the lay of the land." He gripped my arm, helping me to my feet.
"Stay close," he murmured. "The yard is no place for the weak... and in your condition..." His voice trailed off.
Every movement tested my will, but I gritted my teeth and followed him. The guards' glares bored into us as we joined the line of prisoners shuffling toward the yard. My heart pounded, fear and anticipation tightening their grip.
Elenion leaned close, his voice low. "Don't make eye contact with anyone."
As we stepped into the open air, the prison yard's stark reality hit me. Desolate and surrounded by high walls, it was watched over by armed sentries. Groups of prisoners clustered together, their eyes darting between us and the guards. The tension was palpable, an unspoken understanding that violence could erupt at any moment.
Elenion guided me to a shaded corner near the perimeter, where we sat on the ground. "Listen carefully," he said. "The prison operates on a strict schedule. Morning yard hours, labor assignments, then evening yard hours. Meals are sparse and fights are frequent. Stay out of trouble if you can."
He gestured subtly to various groups. "See them?" He nodded toward a cluster of men near the center. "Sons of Iron—mercenaries, murderers. They run the black market here. Steer clear unless you have something valuable to trade."
He pointed to another group. "The Crimson League—assassins and thieves. Dangerous but mostly keep to themselves."
Finally, he indicated a solitary figure leaning against the far wall. He was a towering beastfolk with the looks of an elephant "And him? That's Varos. A former prize fighter. He's killed more men in the yard than I can count. Avoid him at all costs."
I took it all in, my gaze sweeping over the yard. "And what about you?" I asked. "Where do you fit in?"
Elenion smirked. "If you hadn't figured it out yet, I'm just the healer. That gives me a certain immunity. Everyone needs me at some point, whether they'll admit it or not. While you are still recovering stick with me and you'll have some protection. But don't mistake it for invincibility. You'll still need to watch your back."
Before I could respond, a group of prisoners approached, their eyes fixed on me. The largest of them, a man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward.
"Well, well," he said, his voice a low rumble. "What have the guards brought us today..."