"ouch"
Zephyr woke to a pounding in his head, like someone was hammering nails into his skull. Pain rippled through his body, sharp and unrelenting, making every muscle scream as he tried to shift even an inch.
Too much drinking last night, he thought, grimacing. But since when does a hangover feel like I've been run over by a cart?
The ache clawed at him, fierce and stubborn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove his mind elsewhere—a trick he'd used for years to deal with the mysterious sickness that had haunted him since he was a kid. A headache no doctor could figure out, no medicine could touch. But this time, it felt worse, sharper.
Is it getting bad again? The question snuck in, cold and heavy. Am I dying young? Still a virgin, too. Perfect.
Then, like a gift, a strange warmth washed over him. It was soft at first, like sunlight breaking through a stormy sky, then deeper, sinking into his skin and flowing through him. The pain didn't vanish, but it softened, melting under that gentle heat. For a moment, he felt light, free. A quiet "ahh" slipped out before he could stop it.
But the warmth faded fast, leaving just a dull throb behind. Still, it was something he could handle.
Was that even real? he wondered, cracking his eyes open.
The world was fuzzy at first, but as it sharpened, he saw a faint torch flickering beyond a row of iron bars. Bars?
His heart skipped. He was in a cell. The floor was cold and hard, littered with scratchy straw. The air hit him next—thick with the stink of wet stone, sweat, and something rotten.
Where am I? Panic bubbled up. Am I still drunk?
"You're awake," a soft voice cut through the gloom.
Zephyr's head whipped toward it. His gaze falling upon the shadowed corner of the cell. The torchlight did not reach that far, and he had not noticed before...he was not alone.
"Who are you?" he rasped, his throat scratchy and dry. "Why am I here?"
The figure moved slightly. "You don't remember me?" Her voice carried a hint of sadness. "Did they knock your head too hard? Ah ... Poor you."
Zephyr frowned, digging through the haze in his mind. His last clear memory was his eighteenth birthday. A big night. He'd just earned his doctorate—youngest in the country to do it. Not because he was some prodigy, but because he'd had no choice. That damn headache had pushed him to it. Keeping his brain busy with studies and puzzles was the only thing that dulled the pain back then. His rich parents had dragged him to every healer they could find, but nothing worked. Knowledge became his escape.
And that night, he'd found something new: alcohol. One sip, and the pain eased like magic. So he'd kept drinking, chasing that relief until the world went dark.
Now, stuck in this reeking cell, he fought to stay calm. "You know why I'm here?" he asked. "What is this place?"
The woman let out a dry laugh, sharp and bitter. "This is Goham Prison. And you? You got caught stealing."
"Stealing?" Zephyr's forehead creased. "Goham? Never heard of it. When can I get out?"
She went quiet for a second, then spoke slow and clear. "You truly do not remember ... Goham is a village in the northwest of the Eternal Empire. As for getting out … Count Geofri enjoys watching executions on the weekend."
Zephyr's breath stopped short. "Eternal Empire? Execution?" His voice spiked. "You're saying they're going to kill me? For stealing what?"
It had to be something big, right? Something worth a death sentence. He braced himself as the woman leaned closer, her face still lost in shadow.
"A piece of bread," she said, her tone flat but edged with dark amusement.