It is said that sorrow and solitude are twins—one screams that you are alive, while the other whispers from the depths that you are dead. And you shall not know the answer until the day you awaken.
In a dark and wretched corner of one of the deepest dungeons, where dampness had long taken root and the stench of decay clung to the air, rats scurried freely as if they were the rightful lords of the place. The ceiling was low, the walls cracked, laced with fissures through which the foul waters of the underworld seeped.
A man leaned against the fractured wall, his breath steeped in the putrid air, though he had long since grown accustomed to it. Shackles bound his wrists, yet his fingers trembled ever so slightly as he held a faded, yellowed letter—reading its words for the tenth time.
> "My son, whom I take greater pride in than anything I have ever possessed… even more than my own power.
By the time this letter reaches you, I will be gone. It may pain you for a time, but you are a man, and men do not fall from mere cliffs.
I know your mother's death left scars upon your soul. I was harsh in raising you, denying you the warmth and kindness you had lost. But I do not regret it—not for a moment.
I know the words of a dead man do not turn back time nor erase sins. I did not write to seek forgiveness, nor to be understood, but only so that you would know… that what I did, what you endured—was for you alone.
I am sorry… for everything left unsaid, for everything left undone, and for everything I never showed you."
Drip… drip… drip…
The man clenched his jaw tightly as drops of morning dew trickled unbidden from his eyes. He tried to wipe them away, but they refused to cease.
It is said that the tears of an innocent beast can shake the hearts of men, that a woman's sorrow can rouse armies, but the tear of a man, true and unfeigned, holds a majesty that silences thousands.
Tap… tap…
Footsteps echoed through the corridor, steady and measured, drawing closer to the cell. The iron door groaned open with a grating screech.
A man stepped forward, carrying an oil lamp. His features were veiled in shadow, yet the aura of power and respect surrounding him was unmistakable. Two guards flanked him, standing in silence.
Advancing a few steps, the man surveyed the prisoner. His brows furrowed as his gaze fell upon the disheveled figure before him—long, unkempt hair partially veiling hollow eyes, a beard left untamed, and a body reduced to near-wasted form.
"Those bastards… they didn't even feed him properly."
He set the oil lamp down with deliberate care, then leaned against the wall beside the prisoner. Striking a match, he lit a cigarette.
"It has been five years since you've been here, correct?" The prisoner, Sairon, spoke at last, his voice a whisper of eerie calm.
The man inhaled deeply from his cigarette. "Yes… five years. A long time—long enough for many things to change."
Exhaling a slow stream of smoke, he continued, "Today is your final hearing. The head of the family will pass judgment upon you. If it were anyone else, they wouldn't have told you… but he has ordered all branch family leaders to be present today."
"What?"
Though Sairon's reaction was minimal, it was enough to make the guards tense, their hands instinctively reaching for their swords.
The man raised a hand, signaling them to stand down.
Sairon lowered his gaze slightly. "Are they coming too?"
"I do not know."
…
The man turned to Sairon, reaching into his pocket before placing a small, cold object beside him. A key.
"Forgive me… this is the most I can do for you now."
Sairon cast a brief glance at the key before shifting his weight, rising slowly. A quiet smile played on his lips—yet it was not one of warmth, but of something far more unnerving.
"Let's not keep them waiting. After all… we wouldn't want to be late for the feast."
The man studied him for a moment in silence before standing as well, gesturing toward the door. "Tonight, you are the guest of honor."
Sairon did not hesitate. He seized control of the moment.
With slow, deliberate movements, he pushed back his hair, revealing the full extent of his features.
As he passed the guards, their eyes flickered toward his face for but a second, yet it was enough to send a warning chill down their spines—a beast had awakened.
Stepping beyond the threshold, his footsteps echoed through the corridor, slow and deliberate.
He walked between the guards, head held high—not as a prisoner, but as if he himself owned the place.
Not once did he falter, nor did the weight of his chains drag him down.
The only sound that filled the passage was the rhythmic clanking of heavy iron
shackles, ringing with each step—like the prelude of an approaching storm.