Opening her eyes, Wallona found herself beneath a black stone ceiling, intricate veins resembling blood vessels coursing through the surface. The room was shrouded in darkness, a faint ray of light barely illuminating the space. As her eyes adjusted, she realized she was confined within a small, dismal cell, devoid of any furnishings except for her own body and a high slit on the wall, filtering in the feeble light. Outside, the night enveloped the surroundings, the moon casting an eerie glow, illuminating just enough for her to discern her grim reality.
She was well aware of her predicament; no genius was needed to deduce her fate. Taking the lives of her parents had led her here, a place where murderers were destined to dwell. Despite the gravity of her crime, she found herself oddly detached, perhaps a defense mechanism against the overwhelming guilt. None could comprehend the agony of ending the lives of those she loved with her own hands. It was a pain deeper than witnessing their demise; it gnawed at her soul, especially knowing that their lives could have been spared with a little wealth.
Wallona’s fragile state of mind teetered on the edge of madness. To shield her sanity, she resolved not to dwell on that fateful day, attempting to embrace a state of non-thinking in search of elusive peace. However, her tranquility was shattered by echoing footsteps outside her cell, growing louder until they ceased right at her doorstep. The door creaked open, flooding her cell with blinding light. Shielding her eyes, she discerned the silhouette of a muscular figure in the doorway.
The man, a prison guard, scrutinized her, his disdain evident in his eyes. “Get up,” he commanded, his voice resonating deeply.
“Where are you taking me?” Wallona inquired, but the guard’s stern expression silenced her. Attempting to rise, she found herself unusually weak, her strength sapped as if she hadn’t eaten for days. Her legs wobbled, making standing a daunting task.
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Suddenly, her right hand was seized in a vice-like grip, sending jolts of pain through her. Suppressing a cry, she managed to stand with his assistance, careful not to make a sound. As she tried to regain her balance, she didn’t notice the man releasing her until it was too late.
Her right hand was swiftly bound by a cold, metallic shackle, sending shudders through her veins. The sensation was unsettling, as if her very blood rebelled against the shackle, draining her strength. Though she dismissed it as illusion, her other hand was soon shackled, intensifying the feeling. She suspected the shackle was the cause, but the guard’s stoic silence offered no confirmation.
He gripped her arm roughly, guiding her out of the cell and into a dimly lit corridor. The walls were as dark as her cell, illuminated only by the flickering light of torches. Three cells adorned the corridor, each locked, and guards stood sentinel by the staircase, their presence marked by a badge displaying a red fist. With each step, Wallona’s heart pounded, uncertainty overshadowing her every move.
Descending the stairs, Wallona moved through the prison’s depths, each floor expanding in size. Bars replaced doors, and the cries of imprisoned voices filled the air, contrasting with the eerie silence of her former cell. As she descended further, the guards around her subtly recoiled, avoiding her gaze. Their unspoken judgment intensified her guilt, making her quicken her pace, seeking solace away from prying eyes.
On her descent, the guard, breaking his silence, explained, “These cells are for lesser criminals, normal offenders. The higher floors are reserved for the heinous and the Unshackled.” His eyes, however, conveyed a harsher truth: she was the worst of them all, deserving the highest level of isolation.
The pain etched into her heart grew, numbing her to the stares that haunted her. With a heavy heart, she realized she had to accept her status as a pariah. A grand hall came into view, bustling with activity, yet a hushed silence fell upon the occupants as they noticed her presence, their whispers and pointing fingers echoing like accusations.
Stopping at the reception desk, the guard requested an escort for “prisoner no. 703.” A woman in black robes, bearing a badge with a white brush, directed him to a group of guards, ensuring he took the strongest ones available. Wallona was joined by five more guards, their imposing figures reflecting their elite status within the Vaeril guard force, marked by the red fist badge.
Stepping outside, Wallona was ushered into a black carriage, flanked by guards on either side, the windows deliberately absent. The journey, marred by her attempts to escape her own thoughts, eventually came to a halt. Before her stood a colossal pyramid, its right side painted green, and the left side, blue, casting a shadow over her uncertain fate.