The prison door groaned open, its slow, deliberate creak sending a chill down Azael's spine.
He looked up and saw a giant of a man stepped into the dimly lit cell, his sheer size making the cramped space feel even smaller.
He was tall, absurdly tall with his head grazing the low stone ceiling. A brown robe hung loosely over his frame, though it did little to hide the muscular bulk underneath. His face was half-covered by the hood of the robe, but his eyes... his eyes gleamed like cold steel, sharp and predatory.
Azael's survival instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up. He dropped to the floor with a thud, limbs sprawled out like a marionette with its strings cut. He stilled his breathing and let his head loll to the side in a mockery of unconsciousness.
'Play dead, stay alive. It worked for possums, right?'
"Kid." The man's voice cut through the air, deep and gravelly, like the rumble of an avalanche. "Stop the act."
Azael kept still, willing his body to remain limp.
"I said, stop." The voice sharpened, a hint of annoyance creeping in. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to fall for that?"
Azael's eyes snapped open in a panic, his ruse crumbling like a poorly built sandcastle. He sat up so quickly that his head nearly spun, and when he looked at the man again, the oppressive aura around him felt like it had doubled.
"Smart move," the man said, his lips curling into a humorless smile. "If you'd stayed down there, I'd have crushed your skull. I don't have patience for idiots."
'Noted.' Azael thought, swallowing hard.
The man took a step closer, his boots scraping against the stone floor with a weight that seemed almost deliberate.
"The name's Bellipher," he said, his gaze locking onto Azael like a predator sizing up its prey. "And I know exactly who you are. Azael, the bastard son of southern Duke, Right?"
Azael froze. His name sounded like a curse when Bellipher said it, each syllable coated with disdain. He nodded slowly, his throat too dry to speak.
"Good," Bellipher said, his tone as cold as the stone walls surrounding them. "That saves me the trouble of introductions. Now, let me tell you why you're here, kid."
He loomed closer, his shadow swallowing Azael's own.
"We offered your father a deal. You, in exchange for just a few demands of us. A simple trade, wouldn't you say? But do you know what that pompous bastard did?"
Azael shook his head, though the answer felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
"He refused." Bellipher's lips twisted into a sneer, his voice dropping to a venomous growl. "Didn't even hesitate. No negotiations, no counteroffer...just a flat-out no."
Azael's stomach twisted into knots.
Bellipher chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of humor. "Do you know what that means, kid? It means you're worthless. Not even worth a single coin to your own father. How pathetic is that?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Azael opened his mouth, hoping to conjure a retort, but nothing came. What could he say? The truth was etched plainly in Bellipher's sneering face.
"And now," Bellipher continued, straightening to his full, towering height, "you'll make yourself useful another way. Starting today, you'll work in the mines. Hard labor, no rest. In few weeks, we'll sell you at the noble market. Maybe some spoiled lord will find a use for you. Until then, welcome to your new home."
Bellipher turned toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing like a death knell. He stopped just before leaving and glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh, and kid? Don't get any ideas. If you try anything stupid, I'll make you wish you'd never been born."
With that, he disappeared into the corridor, the door slamming shut behind him.
Azael let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he gripped his knees. His chest heaved as though Bellipher had physically crushed the air out of him.
"That man," Azael muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper, "is a walking nightmare."
He sank back against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart.
'Alright, Azael, think.You have been handed a second chance at life, and this is how it stars? A mine slave? Sold to nobles?'
Absolutely not.
His mind raced, piecing together fragments of plans. 'If I stay here, I'm dead—or worse.
I need an escape, and I need it fast. But first, I need to figure out—'
The door creaked again.
Azael's heart leaped into his throat.
'Oh, what now?! Can't I get five minutes to plot my survival without someone barging in?'
This time, the figure... no figures stepped inside the cell were different.
Azael pressed himself against the cold, damp corner of the cell as the heavy door creaked open once more. His gaze snapped to the entrance, and his stomach twisted.
'Four more? In this shoebox of a cell?'
One by one, they filed inside, a trio of men and a woman. They didn't look like guards or overseers. No, their ragged appearances made it clear: they were slaves too, just as unlucky as he was to end up here.
The men were bare-chested, their only clothing tattered pants that barely held together at the seams.
Despite their shabby state, they moved with a certain vitality, chatting animatedly among themselves as if the dire situation was nothing more than an inconvenient camping trip.
Their voices bounced around the cramped space, loud and unapologetic, carrying laughter that felt out of place in this suffocating dungeon.
"Did you see his face? That guard looked ready to soil himself when the chain snapped!" one of them said, slapping the shoulder of another with a booming laugh.
The second man, taller and leaner, smirked. "Yeah, and you ran like a headless chicken while I did all the work."
"Ran?" The first man raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "I was creating a diversion! It's called strategy."
The third man, the quietest of the bunch, merely shook his head with an amused snort. He seemed older, with a grizzled beard and a gaze that lingered a moment too long on Azael as if trying to size him up.
And then there was the woman.
She moved silently, slipping into the farthest corner of the cell like a ghost. Her body was wrapped in scars, each one a story that she clearly had no intention of telling. Her only clothing was a rough piece of fabric tied around her waist, leaving the rest of her thin, battered frame exposed to the biting chill of the cell. She clutched her knees to her chest, her fingers trembling slightly as they gripped her arms, but her face remained stoic, detached.
If the men's boisterous energy made the cell feel smaller, her presence was the opposite—a quiet void that seemed to swallow the noise around her.
Azael's eyes darted between them. The cell had been small, to begin with, but now, with five people crammed inside, it felt more like a sardine can.
He let out a slow, exasperated sigh, muttering under his breath, "Lovely. Just when I thought things couldn't get worse."
One of the men, the tall, lean one, caught his words and grinned. "Cheer up, kid. Misery loves company, right?"
Azael shot him a glare but said nothing.
The first man flopped down onto the floor with a dramatic groan, stretching out as if he owned the place. "You new here, or just shy? What's your story?"
"Not interested," Azael replied flatly, leaning back against the wall. He had no intention of bonding with strangers when he barely knew how he was going to survive.
The man snickered, undeterred. "You'll loosen up. Everyone does eventually. My name's Tarek, by the way. That's Milo," he said, jerking a thumb at the tall one, "and the old guy's Hargin. Don't mind him—he's more bark than bite."
Azael raised an eyebrow but still didn't respond.
"And she is—" Tarek continued, nodding toward the woman in the corner.
"Leave her alone," Hargin growled, his deep voice cutting through the air like a warning.
Tarek held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just trying to be friendly."
The woman didn't even glance their way. She stayed curled up, her chin resting on her knees, her eyes fixed on some distant point as if the rest of them didn't exist.
Azael couldn't help but steal a glance at her again. There was something unsettling about her silence—not fear or sadness, but an almost unnatural calm, as she'd already seen the worst life could throw at her and come out on the other side, scarred but unbroken.
'Interesting group', he thought, though he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
Tarek, oblivious to Azael's internal monologue, leaned back against the wall with a sigh.
"Well, looks like we're all stuck here together for a while. Might as well make the best of it."
Azael resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'The best of it? Sure. Let's all hold hands and sing while we wait for the mines or the noble market to chew us up.'
Still, he stayed quiet, watching the others with cautious curiosity. They might have been loud, scarred, or downright annoying, but they were also alive. And in a place like this, that was worth noting.