chapter 4
The world came back in a haze, shapes and shadows coalescing into the dingy gray of a prison cell. Alejandro's head throbbed with a rhythm that felt like the echo of distant war drums. He was on a hard surface, the unmistakable stench of urine and vomit assailing his senses, intertwining with the heavy stench of despair that seemed to ooze from the very walls.
The blurry silhouettes around him gradually took form as his fellow cellmates, three other souls sharing this confined space meant for two. The air was stale, heavy with defeat, and every quiet rustle or resigned sigh seemed to resonate with a story of its own.
He was lying on something that barely passed for a mattress, its lumpy surface pressing uncomfortably against his back. As his surroundings started to become distressingly familiar, confusion clouded his mind, thick as fog. He blinked, trying to piece together how he ended up in this grim place. His last memories were fragmented, flashes of rage, grief, and a cacophony of screams and clashes. Where was he?
With effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing his temples as if that could somehow clear the disarray within. He squinted, surveying the cell. It was barely lit, but light enough for him to see the stained walls, the bucket in one corner, and the worn faces of his cellmates. They regarded him with a mix of curiosity, wariness, and something akin to camaraderie born of shared misfortune.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Alejandro croaked out a question, his voice barely above a whisper, "Where... where are we?"
The cellmates exchanged looks, before one, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a scar across his brow, let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "He's lost it, truly lost it," he muttered to the others, shaking his head.
The youngest among them, a wiry teen with a mop of dirty hair, snickered, echoing the sentiment. "What, did your fancy dreams not clue you in, prince? This here's the royal palace. They throw a grand feast nightly, just for us."
The others joined in the laughter, a sound devoid of any real mirth, resonating hollowly within the cell's stone confines.
Reality crashed down as his mind finally placed the puzzle pieces together. He was in a prison cell. How could it be? He was Alejandro Darwhai, the heir—Guard
Desperation surged within him, and he scrambled to his feet, the room spinning a little as he did. "Guard!" he shouted, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears, cracked and rough. Listen to me—, a mix of desperation and disbelief.
But then, it struck him. An onslaught of memory so vivid, so violent, that it robbed the air from his lungs. His father... the accusation... the executioner's merciless blade.
Alejandro's world imploded silently, stripping away his composed façade. His claims to identity and lineage dissolved, unspoken, into the cell's stifling air. In their place, a sorrow grew, a tangible, overwhelming entity that seemed to claw its way up from his devastated heart, spilling forth in a deluge of sobs that convulsed his frame.
The world outside didn't reach him anymore. The noise of the prison, the sound of metal doors, and the hopeless talks of other prisoners just turned into a dull background buzz. Alejandro didn't pay attention to them, overwhelmed by his own pain. He barely noticed the people around him, reduced to mere shadows compared to the darkness swallowing his thoughts.
The hard, cold floor under him was the only real thing, pulling him back from the nightmare he wished wasn't happening. He felt the roughness under his hands, looking for something solid to hang onto. But it didn't help. It only made it clear that this was real — he was truly here.
Even though he was lost in his sadness, Alejandro realized everything around him had gone quiet. The other prisoners stopped moving, maybe because they were shocked by his breakdown, or maybe they remembered who he used to be. But their quiet respect didn't matter to him now. In this place, his past life — his money, power, and old identity — meant nothing. He couldn't even see the stars from his cell, trapping him away from everything he once had.
So there he was, alone and broken, crying for a life he could never get back.
Break
In the suffocating cocoon of his cell, Alejandro's existence fractured. Seconds splintered into shards, moments shattered, leaving him grasping at the slivers of sanity within a distorted continuum. Silence screamed in his ears, a banshee's wail that eclipsed the stifled sobs and muted murmurs of his cellmates, rendering their presences ghostly.
Time? What did it even mean? It mocked him, twisted into unrecognizable forms, stretching seconds into eternities and compressing hours into panic-laden gasps for air. His mind, once a fortified palace, now lay besieged. Breath. Breath became the enemy, every inhalation a betrayal, drawing in the stench of iron and mortality that pervaded every stone, every molecule of his prison tomb. It clawed at his insides, a reminder of the visceral, the real, the now, while his soul reached for the nebulous sanctuary of denial.
The others in the cell ceased to attempt communication, each wrapped in their private hells. They afforded him a wide berth, the space filled with the tangible specters of his grief and rage, an atmosphere even the hardiest of confined souls dared not breach.
Alejandro's thoughts, traitorous and sharp, darted like jagged lightning through the tempest of his psyche. 'This isn't real,' they taunted, whispering in the chaos, 'How can this be real?' But oh, the senses don't lie, do they? The cold, hard truth of stone against skin, the fetid breath of despair shared by the damned—they anchored him cruelly to the present.
A laugh—was it his? The sound scraped against the walls of his confinement, raw and unhinged. It was a sound that knew no joy, only the bitter acknowledgment of a reality fractured, where the lines between the ludicrous and the tragic were irreparably blurred.
In the oppressive confines of his cell, Alejandro relived the haunting cycle of repetition, a personal theater of cruelty staged within the dark recesses of his mind. Unbidden and unrelenting visions assaulted him. History, with its cruel hand, forced him to witness the scene painted in harrowing detail — the metallic glint of unsheathed blades dancing mockingly in the sunlight, the sudden, jarring blossom of red on his father’s chest, starkly out of place
The gasps from the crowd, his father’s ragged breaths, mere actors in a grim play of betrayal and loss, taking their cues for an encore each time Alejandro hoped it was finally over. And just as the final curtain of this tragic performance seemed to close, granting a momentary illusion of reprieve, it was mercilessly yanked open again. The play refused completion, the scenes greedily clawing their way back to the commencement, demanding their existence in the spotlight of his fractured consciousness. A sun-drenched square materialized, the sea of faces re-emerged, hungry for the spectacle, and the blade—NO, he internally recoiled, but the past was merciless, drawing him back in despite his resistance.
His heart pounded, frenetic beats like a trapped bird battering against his ribs, desperate for escape. It seemed to mirror his own desperation, the futile entrapment within these unyielding walls of stone and iron. Each memory was a specter, ethereal and cruel, twisting the knife buried deep in his psyche, flaying open old wounds that refused to heal.
Alejandro's tears betrayed him, streaming down his face as he suddenly felt the weight of everything crashing down upon him. He couldn't contain the storm inside him any longer.
He threw his head back, a raw, ragged scream tearing from his throat, echoing off the unforgiving stone walls.
"Why?!" he yelled at the uncaring ceiling, his voice hoarse with pain. "What have I done to deserve this? Answer me!"
His breaths came in sharp gasps, hysteria bubbling at the edge of his consciousness. He was a broken man, the fissures in his psyche giving way under the strain.
"Is this my punishment?!" Alejandro continued, his voice growing louder, almost a howl. "Am I paying for sins I don't remember?! Speak to me, God, fate, anyone!"
He slid down against the cold wall, his body shaking uncontrollably. His hands clutched at his hair, pulling at it as if trying to physically rip out the torment within.
"Was I just a piece to you? A plaything to use and throw away?!" he cried out, his words laced with a mix of desperation and anger. "I didn't ask for this war! I didn't ask to be your pawn!"
His sobs mingled with his screams, an orchestra of agony in the lonely confines of his cell. He pounded his fist against the floor, the physical pain a mere echo of his inner turmoil.
"I want to know! I deserve to know!" Alejandro's scream dwindled into a whimper. "Is this my fault... or was I just caught in a game much bigger than myself?"
The outburst seemed to echo in the small, dank cell, bouncing off the walls and settling heavily around the inmates. For the youngest among them, a wiry teen, each word was like a needle poking at his already thin patience. He'd had enough of the world handing him the short end of the stick, and listening to a Man child's wails was the final straw. With anger flashing in his eyes, the boy sprung to his feet from the dark corner he'd slumped in. He stormed over to Alejandro, his young face twisted in a scowl, frustration from years of hardship fueling his movement.
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Without warning, he delivered a sharp punch to Alejandro's stomach. The air whooshed out of Alejandro, his thoughts scattering, leaving him gasping and reeling from the sudden physical pain.
Gasping, Alejandro barely registered being yanked upward by a ruthless grip in his hair. "Shut it," the boy hissed, annoyance dripping from each word. "All this noise, all these tears. You know who cry? The weak. The ones who can't stand on their own. and I can’t stand….."
From the shadows, a burly figure emerged, his grizzled beard and the scar marking his face highlighting a life of conflict. "You sure about that, kid?" he grumbled, eyes hard on Alejandro. "This spoiled brat's gonna get us all in trouble."
Stirred by the commotion, the last of their unwilling fraternity, a habitual drunkard, roused from his stupor. He squinted at the scene, dawning slowly. "Wine gets better with weeks," he slurred, nonchalant and eerily calm amidst the brewing storm. "Let him stew in this hell. Give it time... he'll toughen up."
A sinister laugh, low and rumbling, crawled through the space, but it was cut short as the burly man's patience snapped. "Weeks? I'm not waiting weeks, Drunkard. I'd rather just..." He surged forward, agitated, but stumbled, crashing into Drunkard’'s makeshift shelf. Bottles shattered, the sound of breaking glass piercing through the cell like a siren.
In an instant, the heavy footsteps of the guards resonated in the corridor. The prisoners fell silent, recognizing the new, more immediate threat. The game had changed — their internal squabbles overshadowed by the reality of their confinement. In that pause, filled with the guards' approaching shouts and the clatter of armor, they were united in a singular thought: survival.
The clatter of shattered glass had barely ceased when the grinding of metal, the heavy gate swung open, revealing guards clad in intimidating metal armor that reflected the meager light of the torches behind them. The air seemed to compress as they stepped in, the weight of their presence as heavy as the iron plates they wore.
"Hands up!" the lead guard commanded, his voice muffled slightly by the helmet he wore but no less authoritative. His hand rested on the hilt of a sheathed sword that hung at his side, a clear threat coiled in the calmness of the order.
Everyone raised their hands in hurried obedience, all except for the drunkard, who simply lay back down with an exaggerated eye roll and a heavy sigh, blatantly ignoring the command. His nonchalance in the tense situation was almost surreal.
One guard, nostrils flaring in anger, surveyed the remnants of the spilled wine and the glittering shards of glass. "You thieving rats! Stole from the guards' own supply, did you?" His grip tightened around the shaft of his spear, knuckles whitening.
"Keep it down, I'm trying to sleep," the drunkard grumbled without even bothering to open his eyes, a remark so audacious in the face of authority that it seemed to hang in the air.
The vein in the guard's neck pulsed ominously, his breaths growing shallow with bridled rage. "You dare—" he began, only for his comrade to place a gauntleted hand on his shoulder and shake his head slightly. The warning was clear: 'Not this one.'
Their attention snapped to Alejandro, their stares like the points of daggers. "Who's the thief?" the second guard asked, his voice a growl of contained fury.
Lying amidst his scattered bottles, the drunkard chortled before lobbing a careless accusation, "That big tubby over there."
Almost immediately, reinforcements arrived. Clad in similar heavy armor that glinted dully in the torchlight, they seized the accused man. Despite his protests, he was hauled away, the echo of his pleas bouncing off the stone walls long after he was gone.
The cell door banged shut, the sound a heavy punctuation in the thick air of the cell, underlined by the drunkard's resonant, unconcerned snoring.
Break
Alejandro awoke to a storm of discord. Around him, guards advanced, their armored footsteps echoing ominously. Instinctively, he began to kick and thrash, fear surging through him, his back pressed against the cold cell floor. The desperate cries of other prisoners merged with the guards' shouts, choking the air with an overwhelming sense of chaos.
Blurry at first, Alejandro's focus sharpened on the young, wiry teen as guards hauled him away. Their eyes met – a fleeting exchange laden with unspoken truths.
For a moment, time seemed to stretch, and in the brief instant their gazes met, a myriad of unspoken emotions passed between them: accusations, regrets, and an unsettling understanding.
Suddenly, the young prisoner was yanked away, disappearing into the shadows beyond the cell's gates. Alejandro was left standing, the weight of the teen's stare still burning on his skin, a chilling reminder of the volatile world he now inhabited.
In the midst of it all sat the drunkard, unaffected, an island of calm in the sea of turmoil. He caught Alejandro's bewildered gaze, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards in a sardonic smile. "Don't worry, This sort of thing happens all the time," he remarked casually, as if they were not in the middle of a commotion.
A wave of sadness began to rise within Alejandro, the uproar serving as a stark reminder of his traumatic past. He shook his head, trying to fend off the encroaching despair, and questioned, "What exactly is happening?"
The drunkard, still holding Alejandro's gaze, seemed to consider the question for a moment. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he replied, "Oh, the usual drama. Probably another interrogation, or well…" he made a slicing motion across his throat. Alejandro's eyes widened in shock, his heart skipping a beat.
Like I said, it happens all the time in this hellhole, So kar..kiddo… What was your name again?..." continued the drunkard, the casual lilt in his voice contrasting starkly with the bedlam around them.
Alejandro felt a twinge, a creeping shadow stretching across his consciousness, dragging him back to a place of despair. Every shout, every clang, seemed a cruel reminder of his reality, a world he still struggled to accept as his own. He shook his head as if he could physically dislodge the dark thoughts taking root, the memories of his former life and the echoing laughter of his descent.
Struggling to his feet, he moved closer to the drunkard, seeking some clarity within this madness. "Alejandro….Darwahi" he responded, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, drowned out by the surrounding noise.
The drunkard, with an eerie calm, quirked an eyebrow. "You're Alejandro? Heir of the Oasis Merchant?" He seemed to ponder this to himself, a knowing smirk tracing his lips. "Ah, yes... that adds up. They've thrown you and Ahmad in here, have they?"
At the mention of his father’s name, Alejandro's heart stumbled, a sharp pang of reality piercing his numbness. "My father is dead," he uttered, the words feeling foreign yet painfully true. He paused, the magnitude of the statement sinking in. "My father... he's dead," he repeated, his voice cracking under the weight of newfound grief and dawning reality. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the harsh lines of the cell around him.
The revelation seemed to amuse the drunkard profoundly. His reaction was immediate and jarring — a loud, booming laugh that seemed to shake the very walls around them. He laughed so hard that he sloshed his drink, the liquid spilling carelessly over his hand.
"All that talk, but he couldn't even HAHAH..." he roared, unable to finish his sentence as he succumbed to another round of uproarious laughter.
Alejandro stood there, aghast, his pain raw and exposed, the drunkard's laughter a harsh soundtrack to the turmoil he felt within. The situation was absurd, almost surreal, and Alejandro was caught between the urge to scream in frustration and the heavy, suffocating resignation that had become his constant companion in this hellish confinement.
The laughter that had filled the space slowly died down, and the drunkard wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. He then looked up at Alejandro, his expression softening.
"Ah, lad, I'm sorry," he said, his voice deep and raspy, yet the insensitivity that Alejandro had sensed earlier seemed to have dissolved. "I wasn't laughing at you or your father's fate. It's just... the situation reminded me of something from long ago."
He paused, taking another sip from his cup, seemingly savoring the drink before continuing. "I knew of your father, not personally, but he had a reputation — a good one. A man of principle, they said. He reminded me of someone I once knew, someone who had a similar kind of resolve. It's rare, you see, especially in places like this, with people like me and you."
Alejandro looked confused. "What do you mean, people like you and me? I'm not a criminal," he protested, the denial firm in his voice.
The drunkard chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Technically, kid, killing someone, even if it's for vengeance, is still murder," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "So, who'd you off? Must've been someone important, I reckon. Some noble sticking their nose where it didn't belong?"
Alejandro's heart raced, his confusion mounting. "I'm not a murderer... I didn't... I..." His voice trailed off as he stumbled back, falling to the ground. His hands found his hair, pulling in despair. "This is all a setup. It has to be..."
And then, like a whisper in the wind, Yusuf's words echoed in his mind, the memory piercing through the fog of his tumultuous thoughts. “Your father’s world, the one he plans for you, it’s not just silk, silver, and steel, boy. It’s life and death veiled in niceties!”
Alejandro's breath hitched. Those words, laden with a foreboding he hadn't fully understood at the time, now resounded with clarity in the confines of his grim reality. They taunted him, suggesting layers of intrigue and danger in a world he had been shielded from, a world that was now crashing down around him with unforgiving force.
The drunkard tilted his head, eyeing Alejandro as the realization dawned on the young man's face. The chaos around them seemed to fade into the background, a distant thunder compared to the storm brewing within Alejandro.
"You see, kid," the drunkard began, his voice a mix of gravel and sympathy, "this place, it doesn't care about our stories, true or concocted. To the world outside, you're now what they say you are. Remember that."
Alejandro's hands gripped his hair, the words of his mentor, Yusuf, echoing in his mind like a prophetic tune. How could he have been so naive? Politics, power, the interplay between merchants and nobility—it wasn't just a game. It was a battle, one his father had been entrenched in, and now him.
"I didn't... I didn't kill anyone," Alejandro muttered, the words tasting like bile on his tongue. It was the truth, his truth, yet it sounded so inconsequential in the dank, shadowed confines of the cell.
The drunkard sighed, leaning back against the wall. "Whether you did or didn't isn't something many here will fuss about. But it's clear you're tangled in a nasty web. Nobles, merchants... power doesn't take kindly to being upended. You're in the big game now, boy, like it or not."
The weight of his words settled on Alejandro's shoulders like a yoke, heavy and unyielding. His father's world, once veiled in affluence and stability, had shown its true face—a grotesque masquerade where a son paid for the unseen sins of his father, where life and death were currencies in a grand, relentless bargain.
Alejandro's eyes, hardened with resolve, lifted to meet those of the drunkard. "Then, if I'm to play," he said with a newfound steel in his voice, "I best learn the rules."
The drunkard gave a single, approving nod, a faint glimmer of something akin to respect flashing in his eyes. "Aye, that you should, lad. That you should." He extended his hand, in which a small cup sat. It was a modest thing, filled with the deep, rich hue of wine, the liquid catching the sparse light of their surroundings.