Shadows of the Past
The iron door to Everett's cell groaned open, and the clatter of a metal plate echoed through the cold, damp space. A guard shoved a plate of scraps across the floor, his expression a mix of disgust and pity.
"Eat, if you can stomach it," the guard sneered before slamming the door shut.
Everett glanced at the plate. Stale bread, a few remnants of vegetables, and a chunk of dried meat barely recognizable as food. He let out a low, mirthless chuckle, his chains rattling as he shifted.
A Memory of Hunger
As he stared at the meager offering, his mind wandered back to a time long before the empire, before the battles, and before he became a weapon.
He was a boy, invisible to the world. The orphanage was overcrowded and underfunded, with too many mouths to feed and too few resources to go around. Meals were scarce, often fought over by the older children, leaving Everett with the scraps.
Yet, even then, he found solace in those moments of hunger. He would sit in the shadows, watching the other children fight and bicker over crumbs, and he would dream. Dream of a life where he wasn't invisible, where he wasn't just another nameless orphan.
The plate before him now was no different from those scraps of his past, and for a fleeting moment, he smiled—a faint, weary curve of his lips.
The Weight of Helplessness
The smile faded as quickly as it had come. The chains around his wrists and ankles felt heavier than ever, their cold steel biting into his skin. He leaned back against the wall, his head tilting up to the dim light filtering through a tiny barred window.
Everett had always been a man of action. On the battlefield, he was decisive and relentless. But here, in the suffocating stillness of the prison, he was helpless. A prisoner to both Alcardia and his own failures.
The distant murmurs of other prisoners reached his ears, their voices tinged with anger, despair, and fear. They hated him, blamed him for their suffering. And perhaps they were right.
The Intrusion
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the occasional footsteps of patrolling guards. Everett remained motionless, his mind a swirling tempest of memories and regrets.
Then, the air shifted.
The faint sound of heels clicking against the stone floor reached him, sharp and deliberate. The sound grew louder, closer, and with it came an unfamiliar presence—one that exuded grace and authority.
The other prisoners fell silent, their whispers and curses replaced by a palpable tension. Everett's curiosity stirred, but he didn't move.
The footsteps stopped just beyond the bars of his cell. He lifted his head slowly, his gaze meeting the figure standing before him.
A Lady of Grace
She was young, no older than her mid-twenties, yet she carried herself with the poise of someone far beyond her years. Her gown was elegant but practical, a deep crimson trimmed with gold embroidery that marked her as someone of high status. A soft glow seemed to emanate from her, her porcelain skin and striking emerald eyes captivating in the dim light.
Her gaze lingered on Everett, studying him with an intensity that felt almost invasive.
For a moment, the world seemed to still.
"Everett," she said, her voice smooth and commanding, yet laced with curiosity.
Everett's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind racing. Who was she? What did she want with him?
Before he could speak, the woman smiled—a small, knowing smile that sent a chill down his spine.
"Welcome to Alcardia," she said, turning to the guards. "Prepare him. The matriarch has plans for this one."
And with that, she disappeared down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Everett was left in silence once more, his heart pounding with a mixture of unease and intrigue.