The light of a candle filters through the iron bars of the cell again. He’s walking by, just a guard. Making his rounds, like he’s been. I haven’t broken yet. No food for hours, no water, save from that which falls from the ceiling. No sign from the outside other than guards walking by quietly. They say nothing. Mocking me, staring at me. The son of some noble, who is surely dead, by now.

  I look up from the cracks in the ground as I hear a metal rattle outside of this cell. I imagined it. Nothing. Nobody there.

  Deora. My mind moves to her again. She was walked by my cell, purposefully, days ago. It’s been days since we were captured, I think. It’s hard to tell. They’re keeping me in a cell with a door, maybe they think I’m not as much of a threat as her, because she’s not in any of the cells that mirror my own. Maybe they threw her in an oubliette. Maybe she’s dead. No. I don’t think they would just… Maybe. She is only a half-elf.

  In a way, the cell is comforting. It gives me a goal to pursue—escape. However, beyond this, nothing else in the cell is comfortable in the slightest. Chains are still bound around my wrists, and I’m quite sure early signs of muscle atrophy have already begun. It’s been a few days, I think. Maybe only hours, but with no sun, I can’t tell. My ribs still sear with pain with every adjustment I make. I’ve drifted in and out of sleep like this. It’s inhumane.

  “Samir.” He stands outside the cell, crept up on me. A familiar voice, certainly. A voice which I now despise, and hoped to never hear again.

  “Father.”

  “It appears you received my letter.” I turn my head to look over at him, but don’t grace him with my saying of anything else.

  “Hmph. You would never understand. Service to the Emperor Daurellian is more fulfilling than you could ever understand. You’re too far stuck in your notions of ‘comfort’ and ‘pleasure’ that you could never.” He stands there, mocking tone in his voice.   “The Emperor will see to it that I am among the heroes celebrated when the Ascendancy begins. When the Golden Child comes, I will be among the members of the court who raise the boy. I will find my divinity as the elves themselves will.”

  “You’ll find nothing but your throat slit and your corpse dumped into the river that flows through this city. Let me be in peace.” A guard walks up behind him, and whispers something into his ear.

  “I will come around later to ensure you are fed and kept breathing to see your father achieve his aspirations, and you will celebrate, as the Amar name will live in fame.”

  “Infamy.”

  “Hmm? No matter. Sit here and rot, or come around and understand your place in life, and rot nonetheless. You can be a sheep, or you can be a wolf. Those are the last words you will ever hear from my mouth. Goodbye, son.” He turns heel and walks away.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Another period of silence, save for the drip-drop of water. I look around my cell more, examining my surroundings. The stone is hewn intricately, but has rotted away in its service as a prison. Designs have faded and been worn, moss covers some surfaces, and water causes metals to rust and paint the grey stone with orange streaks. The bars of the cell, the door out, they’re covered in a coat of thin rust as well. Weak, maybe. The chains around my hand are rusted, too. Everything in this damp cell is covered with signs of wear.

  Rap. Rap. Rap. A small rapping, through one of the walls. Rap-pause. Rap, rap. Rap. Rap-pause-rap-pause. There’s a pattern, though not one I can decipher. Suddenly, another set of knocks breaks out from a different wall. Rap. Rap-rap-rap. Rap-pause. Rap, rap, rap-pause, rap. I pull my hands down off of the wall as hard as I can manage to as things begin to make sense. No guards are around me, not in the hall. This is a chance. The bolts holding my chains up to their fasteners against the wall fly loose. They hit the ground with a tink-tink-tonk. My hands, now behind my back, are free, though still bound.

  “Well, well. I knew you had some sort of gut.” A voice behind me speaks, and I turn around from the ground. A set of grey eyes peek through the hole that I inadvertently created when ripping my hands free. “Breaking loose, hm?” The eyes pull back from the hole, and I move closer. A man who can only be described as “aesthetically pleasing” sits behind the hole, legs crossed, staring at my eyes. “The Amar scion in all of his glory. What, no green robes?” Rugged, handsome, with a defined jawline, and wavy, brown hair trailing down his neck. “Xahee, you want a name, yeah? Comes from the Malkyn, they gave it to me.”

  “Malkyn? From S’bileh?” My voice croaks as I say the name, the northern swamps and marshlands of the far east reaches.

  “Aye, partner. I lived and hunted with them for a while. Wound up here after leading six of Daurellian’s lackeys into an ambush and having them all strung up by their throats.” He gives a crocodilian grin, and his eyes shine with pride. The hunting he did with the Malkyn wasn’t just bestial, certainly. “Well. Amar, the chance is now. How injured did they keep you? I figure you received quite a beating before being thrown in the old dungeon.”

  “Samir. And, a few broken ribs, injured hands, maybe broken arm, not certain. Hurts regardless. Bloodied my face, bruised up.”

  “Can you walk?” I stand to my feet, with a bit of struggle, but I have to hunch back down to see through the hole. “Good. My associates in the prison are ready to escape us. Care to come with?” I walk to the edge of the cell, and look out the bars.

  “There’s somebody here because of me, I need to free them.”

  “Well, aren’t you the sweetest little altruist? Ah, well. Take advantage of the chaos, then.” Suddenly, I hear a metal thunk, and as I turn to look back into the hole, see that Xahee has freed his hands from their bindings.

Suddenly, the building erupts in an energy that I can only feel to be chaos. Shouting erupts, metal clashes with metal. Guards begin pouring into the hall, multiple explosions. Coordinated, yet chaotic. Almost artful.

  “Well, little scion?” Xahee peeks through the hole once more, and gives that reptilian smile once again. “Free yourself, free your friend, your choice. But, do run. The guards won’t like this one bit.” He nods, and steps free from his cell through melted bars. I turn to the bars on my own cell, and they’ve been torn off by a chain, and I see a large, imposing figure standing, wearing the uniform of the Royal Guards. A Hondari man. Wulfhard.