Children of Gehenna

Darkness. Cold stone. The steady drip of water echoed in the silence, a silence occasionally broken by the cries of the incarcerated and the screams of the tortured.

Sir Tristan Aldevar sat on the damp prison floor, his back against the wall, wrists raw from the iron shackles binding him. The dungeon smelled of mold and decay, the odor of long-forgotten prisoners who had wasted away in these cells. A single torch flickered in the corridor beyond the rusted bars, casting wavering shadows that danced like specters on the walls. Days? Weeks? He had lost count of the time that had gone by. Darkness, blurring the days together and destroying his internal clock. Tristan didn't know if it was night or day for… who knows how long.

A rat scurried near his boot, but he didn't move. He had fought wars and faced horrors on the battlefield. Yet this—rotting in a cell, stripped of his honor—was the cruelest fate of all.

How did it come to this?

His mind drifted, unbidden, back to the night that had sealed his fate.

The grand halls of Castle Alden shone with golden torchlight, the banners of the kingdom swaying gently in the evening breeze. A royal feast was in full swing, nobles drinking and laughing, their voices filling the chamber with warmth and excess. Tristan, ever the dutiful knight, stood watch at the edges of the festivities, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

He should have felt at ease. Yet something was wrong.

Across the room, Duke Varos whispered to King Edric, his lips barely moving. The moment Tristan's eyes landed on him, the duke's gaze flickered toward him—cold, calculating. The kind of look a man gave before drawing a dagger. 

Tristan knew that look well, and a chill crept down his spine. Then, the music stopped suddenly as the entrance to the grand hall was slammed open.

A knight—Sir Rodrick—stormed into the hall, his face pale. "Your Majesty! The western gate has been breached!"

Silence gripped the room, and then…panic. The nobles whispered frantically as King Edric rose from his throne, his expression turning to stone.

Tristan's instincts flared. The western gate was supposed to be impenetrable.

Then, the second blow fell.

"It's the Blackthorn Mercenaries—they're inside the city," Rodrick continued. "They're targeting the royal treasury. Someone gave them access!"

Tristan barely had time to process the words before Rodrick turned, his sword already drawn.

"And that someone was you! Tristan!"

The accusation struck like a hammer to the chest. The room erupted into chaos. Those standing close to him, took a few hurried steps back, as they instinctively sought distance, their expressions shifting from curiosity to apprehension. Tristan's hand went to his blade, but he did not draw it—he knew better than to brandish a weapon in the king's hall as his accusor had just done.

He took a step forward. "Rodrick, consider what you are saying carefully."

"I do not need to think," Rodrick spat. "We have the proof!"

After grabbing something from the inside of his satchel, he threw a parchment to Tristan's feet, the royal seal of Eldoria broken at its edges.

He hesitated—then picked it up.

His blood ran cold.

A forged order, authorizing the western gate to be opened for a "supply transfer". The kind of order only a knight trusted by the crown could make...someone like him. And at the bottom of the page.

There it was, his signature.

A perfect setup.

Tristan looked up, his heart hammering. "This is a lie! I never—"

"Spare us your deceit!" Duke Varos interjected smoothly. "The Blackthorn Mercenaries were led straight to the treasury. And somehow, they knew exactly where to strike."

He opened his mouth to retort, but it wouldn't matter what he said. He could see it in their eyes, They had already made up their minds.

And then, the final betrayal.

"Father," a familiar voice called.

Prince Alric, his expression unreadable, stepped forward.

"I saw him," His voice was quiet, but it sliced through the chamber like a blade through silk. "I saw Tristan speaking to a cloaked individual two nights ago–in the lower corridors."

Tristan turned sharply. "Alric, that is simply not true!"

But the prince wouldn't meet his eyes.

The king's face darkened. His knuckles whitened around the pommel of his opulent sword.

"Enough!" he said, his authoritative voice echoing through the hall.

And in that moment, Tristan knew—there would be no trial.

Tristan exhaled slowly, pushing away the bitter memories.

The door to his cell creaked open. Heavy boots thudded against the stone floor. A guard loomed over him, face unreadable beneath his iron helm.

"It's time."

Tristan didn't move at first. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, he stood.

He had known this moment would come.

He knew they weren't going to execute him. There is a more severe punishment for people accused of crimes like his.

Gehenna.

The cursed island. The place of exile, where men were sent to be forgotten.

As the guards dragged him toward his fate, Tristan clenched his fists.

They could strip him of his title. They could brand him a traitor. They could banish him to the darkest corner of the world.

But they would not break him.