With no natural light in my cell, it was nearly impossible to tell how long I had been there. A bitterness lingered in the back of my mind—why was I locked up like a prisoner? Lord Thorne had said I was to be trained. So why this?

My legs were my only distraction. They felt rubbery and sore from the grueling run, aching with every small movement. My face, still slightly swollen from the knight's strike, made it uncomfortable to lie down. So instead, I sat against the cold, rough wall, facing the cell door.

I tried to close my eyes, hoping sleep might come. Anything to take me away from this miserable place, even for a little while.

I didn't know exactly when they had arrived, but when I opened my eyes, I saw a small group of people in the cell adjacent to mine. They looked peculiar, their clothing mismatched and their ages varying wildly. The oldest among them was unmistakably near the end of his life, his frail form a stark contrast to the youngest, who seemed only a few years older than me.

I watched them for a while, curiosity tugging at my exhaustion. The elder noticed my gaze and shifted closer to the bars of his cell. With deliberate care, he lowered himself to my eye level, his movements slow but steady, as though every action carried purpose.

"Poor child…" he murmured, his voice low and gentle, like the rustle of leaves in a quiet breeze. "What misfortunes could have brought you here, to a place such as this? Come closer, let me see if the mark upon your face is serious."

I hesitated, my feet refusing to move toward the door. Something about this group felt… off. Their mismatched appearances and the strange calm in the elder's tone made me uneasy. What if these were the cultists the knight had spoken of? I didn't know exactly what a cultist was, but it didn't sound good.

Keeping my distance, I tried to mask my unease. My hands fidgeted nervously at my sides as I shook my head slightly, unwilling to close the gap between us.

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The elder's expression softened further, as though he could sense my fear. "Dear boy, it's okay," he said, his tone warm but tinged with a quiet sadness. "You need not fear us. We are followers of the Immortal Flame of Rebirth. We are here because we tried to help people escape this accursed kingdom."

His face radiated kindness, but the people behind him didn't share the same demeanor. Their expressions twisted, as though the mere mention of the kingdom had left a bitter taste in their mouths. I had never considered the possibility of anything beyond this kingdom, so his words sparked a strange curiosity in me. Why would leaving it be better?

I wanted to move closer, to ask questions, but the feeling from earlier returned—only stronger this time. It was a strange, split sensation. My mind urged me to step forward, to learn more, but a tightness bloomed in my chest, centered near where the hard new organ had been placed. It was as though something deep within me was warning against it, holding me back even as my thoughts pushed me forward.

The feeling in my mind won out. It had helped me before, and I had no reason not to trust it now. Slowly, I moved toward the cell door, my small feet scraping lightly against the stone floor. The rawhide coverings on my feet, worn and tattered from age and neglect, hung like chewed-up rags—hardly worthy of being called shoes.

As I drew closer to the door, the flickering firelight illuminated me more fully. The elder's face transformed. His eyes widened, and his mouth curled into a strange, unsettling smile. He let out a soft gasp before doing a little shuffle in place, almost like a child overwhelmed with excitement. Grabbing one of the others in his group, he shook them enthusiastically.

"See! I told you he was a blessed one!" he exclaimed, his voice nearly a shout.

The sudden shift made my stomach twist with regret. Every instinct screamed that I shouldn't have approached. Slowly, carefully, I began to back away, not wanting to provoke him further. Each step felt heavier than the last, my mind racing with thoughts of what "blessed" might mean to someone like him.

But then, I thought back to what the contractor had said—the strange ritual, the flames, the mark I now bore. Could there really be something to this? The thought lingered, pulling at the edges of my fear. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to what had happened to me than I realized.