Voryn fingers the pendant hanging from his neck, its surface worn smooth by restless hands. It is a haunting remnant, a relic of revenge, or perhaps a twisted shard of hope. The pendant, the sole possession he'd been allowed to keep after sentencing, weighs heavily on his chest, both in form and in spirit. His thoughts stray to Dorian, a constant torment, and he wonders where the man is while he rots in this infernal pit. The promise of vengeance is the only fire that warms the cold hollow inside him. Blackspire might be a prison unlike any other, but like all prisons, it has a weakness—It must have—and Voryn will find it as he has in others.
A piercing scream snaps him from his spiraling thoughts. Across the molten expanse, the old man crumples to his knees, his brittle frame convulsing as a warden's clawed foot slams into his gut, sending him sprawling into the jagged stone. The sickening crack of bone echoes. The infernal warden stalks closer, its molten eyes searing with cruel intent.
Without thinking, Voryn moves, shielding the old man with his body. But to his surprise, the old man shoves him away with trembling hands. The warden halts, a guttural incantation rumbling from its throat like the growl of an ancient beast.
Agony strikes Voryn like a hammer. The brand seared into his back ignites as though his flesh is being peeled away. He falls to the ground, arching violently as the searing pain drags a primal roar from his throat. His vision blurs, the air filled with the scent of sizzling skin.
Through the haze of torment, he sees her—the woman. She watches from the shadows, her lips curling in dark delight as she shakes her head slowly, as if mocking his futile bravery.
When the warden finally tires of its sadistic game, the pain recedes, and the glow of the brand fades like the embers of a dying forge. Voryn collapses onto the stone floor, the relief of stillness almost worse than the torment.
Zias rushes to his side, rolling him onto his stomach and pulling up the tattered tunic to inspect the damage. The brand still smolders faintly, the flesh around it angry and raw, but the glow is extinguished. For now.
"That thing is alive," Zias mutters, his voice tight with fear as he stares at the mark.
Voryn doesn't respond—he can't—his breath coming in ragged gasps. Vowing silently, Blackspire may bend him, but it will not break him. And one day, he will make Dorian feel this same fire.
Blackspire is a crucible, where prisoners are not merely incarcerated but systematically broken by the prison's own infernal design. In Blackspire, death is not the worst fate—it is the mercy denied to all who dwell within. And yet, despite insurmountable odds, Voryn conspires to once again refine what is possible.
"We'll only have one chance at escape," Voryn whispers to Zias.
"When the Blackspire spirals north?"
He nods eagerly. "Exactly. Another's damnation will be the vessel of our salvation. We are unfettered, so we are free to fight. We need only to get past the infernal ones. The capital custodians I can slew easily enough, even on my own."
"There is a reason we are unfettered," Zias says and slaps a hand on his shoulder. "Our brand."
"Pain," Voryn dimisses. "Something we can push through with the glimpse of our freedom to empower us. All we have to do is to be on the swivel when the Blackspire ascends. For we'll never know when we shall hear that deep reverberating sound, so we need to be ready. It could be a fortnight."
"Or a summer, or two, perhaps more."
"So we remain ready," Voryn affirms.
"Despite the impression of mortal deficiency, you are strong and shrewd. Why risk another variable like I?"
"Your ability to melt insides might come useful," Voryn answers with dry humour.
Zias stares back at him, unamused.
"To my great disdain, two is a number that has served me well in the past. But if you prefer I abandon you to languish—"
"I am ready to flee this place; I do not even deserve to be here."
Voryn's eyes flick up, his brows drawn together. "Says the one who caused people to explode."
"You say that like you have never killed anyone?"
"I've never caused them to explode, no," Voryn retorts with a wry twist of his brows.
"And yet here we sit, our suffering shared," Zias says with a smile, a jarring thing in such a horrid place.
Voryn and Zias stay the course, clinging to time's back as it marches on.
The wait for the spiral's descent—a chance to escape—becomes its own kind of torment. Until that moment arrives, Voryn and the others keep their heads low, shoveling or sleeping like the rest of the condemned. Still, Voryn trains, though he feels unbalanced without the familiar weight of his sword. It's a strange kind of grief—an emptiness he didn't expect. He left Nytheris behind without regret, yet the sword gifted by the Warmaster for his valor is the one thing he longs for most.
"You're doing it again," Zias murmurs, his voice soft in the gloom. He lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, his bent leg crossed lazily over the other. "That look. The one that darkens the entire room. A feat of its own, considering we reside below the underworld itself."
Voryn meets his gaze but says nothing.
Zias presses on, his tone laced with curiosity. "Do you think of the treachery against you that condemned you here?"
A shadow flickers across Voryn's face, his scowl deepening. "I wasn't. Not until you brought it up."
Unfazed, Zias shrugs. "What could have been done to you to serve your soul to hell's own?"
"My crimes earned my place," Voryn admits. "But he ensured my ruin."
"How?" Zias leans forward intently.
Voryn turns his back, his silence heavy and deliberate. Zias respects the boundary, sensing he's pushed far enough. He reclines again, his eyes wandering across the open cell, where other prisoners lay scattered on the stone floor. His gaze collides with the sole woman huddled in the corner. Her sharp, beady eyes meet his with a piercing, unsettling intensity.
He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling with mischief. "In another life, I'd fetch you a draught of ale. Since you don't seem to be the type to be fond of flowers."
Without turning, Voryn reaches out and yanks Zias's tunic, pulling him roughly to the ground. Zias's laugh echoes, low and half-hearted, as he collapses beside him.
"Do not provoke her," Voryn mutters. "She has more muscle than you."
Zias stretches out on his back, hands resting on his stomach. "I like my women strong. The kind who can fold me six different ways like a parchment."
Time slips by in the unrelenting heat, its passage immeasurable and cruel. Voryn's body refuses to adapt; the oppressive heat digs deep, an undying adversary. Others have succumbed, collapsing from both exhaustion and heat, their fates sealed without the mercy of a torturer's hand. Despite it all, Zias's persistent cheer remains unbroken. Even now, shoveling in the sweltering gloom, their tunics tied at their waists, Zias chatters endlessly. Voryn barely listens, the words washing over him, a background murmur to the suffocating atmosphere. Not even offering so much as a responsive nod.
Until—
A guttural growl cuts through the air. A massive Lycan, matted with fur and trapped in his mortal form, seizes Zias from behind. The creature towers over them both, almost twice their size, his voice a low snarl in a terse tongue. Zias doesn't know what he is saying, but Voryn's formal training required him to be well versed in the primary languages belonging to each of the five quadrants. So he does know.
"My ears bleed from your ranting," the Lycan growls, tightening his grip on Zias. "Another word, and I'll silence you permanently."
Zias winces but manages an undaunted quip. "My apologies. I don't speak beast," he says in Erlin, a universal language known amongst the five.
The Lycan's growl deepens, his claws digging into Zias's shoulder, forcing a cry of pain. Voryn moves without hesitation, his shovel plunging into the eternal fire until the blade glows white-hot. Approaching swiftly, he drives the blazing metal into the Lycan's leg.
A deafening roar echoes through the chamber as the Lycan releases Zias and crumples to his knees. He snarls and begins to rise, but Voryn is already there, the blunt end of the shovel pressed firmly against his throat, singeing his skin. Voryn can end him right there but decides against it.
"Your ears will bleed, or your neck will split," Voryn says, his tone cold and calm. "The choice is yours."
The Lycan exhales sharply, a growl of both anger and acknowledgment, but he stays down. Around them, the prisoners stare, astonished by the boldness of the act. Voryn withdraws the shovel and steps away, resuming his task without fanfare.
Turning to Zias, he raises an eyebrow, his voice tinged with faint sarcasm. "What were you saying before?"
Zias exhales shakily, clutching his shoulder but grinning despite himself. "Do you truly care to listen?"
"No," he says bluntly. "But anything is better than the hauling of stone against the deafening silence."
***
Zias often speaks to the woman despite her apparent disregard—he even named her. Zias calls her Arla, ironically, named after a bloom that flowers only from the outer reaches of his homeland. His voice carries through their open cell, weaving stories, musings, or personal questions that go unanswered. She never responds. Sometimes she will watch him blankly as if with a detached pity, dimly indifferent towards the seemingly slow erosion of his sanity, but Voryn accepted that is simply his personality. Other times, she will turn away altogether. But her apathy never stops Zias from talking to her, as if his words can bridge the void of her silence.
Meanwhile, Voryn toils under the crushing weight of heat and exhaustion. As he shovels ice coals into the ever-hungry furnace maw, a fleeting thought grips him: to throw himself into the inferno and let it end. But a sudden sound shatters his grim reverie—a grinding noise, faint and mechanical, unlike anything he's heard in this hell.
He drops his shovel without hesitation and sprints toward the spiral, the grinding sound his beacon. Zias isn't far behind, but the others—the prisoners, the wardens—they only watch in eerie stillness. Voryn reaches the base of the spiral, launching himself onto one of the platforms, and turns to offer Zias a hand. Together, they begin their ascent, the winding staircase stretching impossibly upward.
The ascension is half an eternity, and yet the spiral rises with supernatural speed. It dawns on them that they must have been there much longer than they anticipated because even the air pressure, the higher they ascend, feels faint for a few moments too long. The air grows thinner, making Voryn's chest burn, but with every gasp comes a growing clarity.
"I can't believe this," Zias breathes, awe lacing around his heavy rasps.
Voryn's face breaks into a smile, so unfamiliar to his face, the glimmer of hope even sends a rush through him as he claps a hand on Zias's shoulder, shaking it with exhilaration.
"The wardens did nothing to stop us?"
His expression darkens once more. "It matters not," Voryn says, his voice resolute, his will unchanging. "Nothing will stop me from seeing freedom. For both of us."
The spiral eventually gives way to a cobblestone passage, the walls jagged and pulsating faintly, like a living organism. The air is cooler here, almost clean. But as they step forward, their brands awaken. Agony ignites in their backs, the searing pain like molten iron pouring directly onto their spines.
Zias falls to his knees, his cries of anguish echoing in the narrow corridor.
"Fight through it," Voryn says, his own voice strained with pain. He yanks Zias to his feet, half-dragging him forward as their shared torment threatens to overwhelm them.
Then, from the shadows behind, a thunderous rumble. Voryn glances over his shoulder, dread tightening in his chest. A creature alike to an infernal warden emerges, smaller than the others but no less menacing, its molten gaze fixed on them. Its mask is absent, revealing a face twisted with malice and hunger.
Before Voryn can react, the creature strikes with terrifying speed, a backhand sending them sprawling. Voryn scrambles to his feet first, only to be met with a crushing blow to his gut that launches him further down the passage.
Zias lay on his back, paralyzed by pain, staring in horror as the creature looms over him, jaws parting to tear out his throat. But before it can strike, a shadow falls across its form.
The woman descends from above. She wields a shovel overhead, its jagged edge glinting in the dim light. With a primitive scream, she drives the weapon into the creature's throat from behind, a sickening explosion of ichor splattering across the corridor as the creature collapses beneath her.
She lands on its back, her breathing ragged, the shovel still protruding from the creature's neck. For the first time, she lifts her face to Zias and Voryn who are still wincing from the sear of the brand where barely a flicker of pain touches her face.
Voryn clambers back up to assist Zias.
"Ye'll never make it out——hell's wardens lie in wait yonder these halls," the woman warns.
The echo of another thundering gallop fills the air, growing louder, a harbinger of the creature's charge. The woman turns on her heel, shovel in hand, ready to confront it head-on.
"Arla, no!" Zias shouts, his voice cracking with desperation as the burn of the brand is eclipsed by a pain far deeper.
Voryn's grip tightens around Zias's arm, dragging him forward. "She can handle herself," he says harshly. "And she'll join us when she's ready."
Ahead, the corridor widens into an impossible tableau: two full-sized infernal wardens and interspaced between them are city custodians and a scattering of prisoners.
Voryn's determination surges, adrenaline flooding his veins. Without hesitation, he dashes into a sprint. As he nears his adversaries, he propels himself onto the wall, slicing across the rough stone. His body moves with practiced precision, defying the wardens' notice until he flips mid-air and lands behind an unsuspecting custodian.
In a single, fluid motion, Voryn yanks the custodian's sword from its scabbard and whirls around, driving it deep into the gut of an infernal warden. The creature's guttural bark is cut short as Voryn tears the blade free, spinning to decapitate the custodian in one savage stroke—blood spraying the air.
The voices of the infernal wardens rise in a chilling chorus, dark words spilling like poison from their mouths. The brand on Voryn's back intensifies with unbearable fury. He collapses to the ground, a cry of agony ripping from his throat as the sword slips from his grasp, clattering uselessly beside him.
Zias, his own strength waning, forces himself into a stumbling run with his breaths ragged gasps, and the edges of his vision blurring. Summoning the last remnants of his will, he raises a trembling hand—gold sparks at his fingertips.
He falls to his knees; the effort tearing him asunder. As his head lifts, his eyes luminous with his chest aglow with bright dragon fire, his mouth snaps open and a blinding surge of light explodes forth, slamming into one of the infernal wardens. The creature let out a piercing wail as the light rips a gaping hole through its monstrous form before it drops to the ground with a heavy thud.
The cost is immediate and devastating. Zias's body crumples as the dark-weld brand drains the last vestiges of his lifeforce, consuming him entirely. His once-vibrant form withers in an instant, leaving behind only a shriveled corpse.
Voryn, still writhing in pain, can do nothing but watch as his companion's lifeless body falls. The last thing he sees before darkness envelops his world.
When Voryn wakes, he is suspended like a broken silhouette in the blistering glow of the frame of the furnace maw. His arms stretch in a tortured Y-shape, wrists bound and hoisted high, leaving him to dangle over the searing heat. The blistering air licks at his back, the cruel proximity to the fire bubbling his flesh. Pain surges with every pulse of his heartbeat, yet he clenches his jaw to stifle a scream. Tears streak his dirt-streaked face, carving paths through the grime, but when the thought of Zias pierces through the haze, a wrenching scream rips from his throat, echoing into the infernal chamber.
Below, the prisoners begin. One by one, they raise their shovels, striking them against the ground in a slow, rhythmic cadence. A haunting, wordless dirge of defiance and honour. The sound reverberates—Voryn, neither the first nor the last to commit such a foolish bravery.
His vision tilts, edges blackening as his strength ebbs. Consciousness slips, drowning him in merciful oblivion.
When his mind claws back to awareness, the scene shifts. He lies face-down on the rocky floor of an open cell. His back feels aflame, but beneath the fire, cool relief seeps in—volcanic soil is layered by careful hands. The woman crouches beside him, her expression unreadable as she spreads the handmade salve across his ravaged skin.
The pain drags him under once more, a black tide pulling him into death's embrace—or so he hopes—as his vision dims. His head lolls to the side, and his eyelids grow heavy before they droop close.