Caleb

The constant drip of water echoed through the chamber, a twisted companion in this symphony of misery. It dripped from a single crack high in the vaulted ceiling, each drop a tiny hammer blow against my sanity. I shifted in the rickety wooden chair, the ropes that bound me digging into my wrists. My muscles screamed in protest, a dull ache that had become a constant companion.

The flickering torchlight did little to dispel the monotony. Same damp chamber, same stale air thick with the stench of fear and mildew. Same weasel-faced Inquisitor with his monotonous questions that bounced off the stone walls like pebbles. Honestly, even the pain was getting predictable. A dull ache here, a throbbing pulse there – nothing that a good night's sleep (which I hadn't had in months) wouldn't mostly cure.

Boredom gnawed at me like a persistent rat. Silence had been my weapon at first, a shield against their relentless questioning. But even a shield can get rusty with disuse. Besides, these dullards weren't exactly known for their intellectual prowess. Maybe a new tactic was in order.

I remembered my training at Falcata. The relentless push to the breaking point. Pain, poisons, deprivation – they'd used everything to mold us into unbreakable tools. How fitting that their own methods were now turning against them.

A slow smile crept across my face. They wanted information? Fine. I'd feed them a smorgasbord of useless trivia, laced with enough sarcasm to choke a horse. Maybe it would crack their stoic facade and give me a glimpse of what truly terrified them. What secrets were they so desperate to keep hidden beneath their practiced indifference?

"Alright, Caleb," Inquisitor Thorne rasped, his voice like sandpaper on stone. "We've tried the pleasantries. Now, let's get down to business. Where is the rebel base?"

Pleasantries? Hardly. Thorne's "pleasantries" consisted of sleep deprivation, stale bread, and enough beatings to leave a lesser man whimpering. But I wasn't a lesser man.

I gave Thorne a sardonic smile, my lips chapped and cracked. "Lost my memory, you see. Happens when you get the living daylights beaten out of you."

Thorne's face contorted in a snarl. "Don't play games with me. You know what I want."

"Oh, I know," I drawled, my voice rough from disuse. "You want a map, a list of names, a detailed plan for the upcoming rebellion tea party. Unfortunately, fresh out of all three."

The inquisitor's eyes narrowed. "Tea party, eh? Sounds like you've gotten awfully chummy with your captors."

A humorless chuckle escaped my lips. "Chummy? Hardly. More like Peter is starting to bore me with his snoring at night. And poor old Barnaby seems to have misplaced his keys again. Can't imagine the King's thrilled about that."

Thorne's thin lips twitched in annoyance. "Don't be a fool, Caleb. You know the King's patience is wearing thin."

"Is it now?" I feigned surprise. "Well, that's a shame. Here I thought I was his favorite plaything."

A flicker of something akin to anger sparked in Thorne's eyes. He slammed a fist on the table, the sound echoing through the chamber. "Don't test me, rebel. You wouldn't like the consequences."

"Oh, I assure you, Thorne, I'm well acquainted with your 'consequences'." I gestured towards the torso-length scars marring my chest, a souvenir from a particularly enthusiastic session with the whip. "Perhaps a little more… torture might help jog my memory?“

Thorne's face contorted in disgust. "Don't be ridiculous. You know the King wants you alive. For now."

"Ah, so there is a deadline?" I tilted my head, feigning curiosity. "Do tell, Inquisitor, when does my usefulness expire?"

Thorne's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. I knew they wouldn't kill me yet. The King was desperate for information, for a crack in the rebellion's facade. And I, broken as I may appear, was the only leverage they had.

Inquisitor Thorne droned on, his voice a monotonous litany of questions I could recite in my sleep. Where did we get our supplies? Who were the leaders? Utter drivel. They'd abandoned the theatrics of torture – they'd learned the hard way that pain forged defiance, not submission. Now, their strategy was a monotonous grind, hoping to wear me down. Newsflash, weasel-man, boredom was my middle name.

I turned my gaze to the guards flanking the door. One, a hulking brute with a shaved head, shifted uncomfortably under my scrutiny.

"You, with the impressive collection of neck-rolls," I said, a sardonic smile playing on my lips. "Ever considered a career change? Maybe something in… rodent control? Seems like your skillset would be a perfect fit with the local fauna."

The brute grunted, his face reddening. The other guard, a scrawny fellow with a face like a peeled potato, remained glued to the spot.

"And you, my friend," I cooed, tilting my head towards the potato-faced one. "Have you considered a haircut and some salves for that… condition?"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The guard's hand flew to his cheek, his eyes widening in bewilderment. "Condition?" he stammered. "What condition?"

"My apologies," I feigned remorse, the smile widening. "I wasn't aware it was just a chronic case of dullness."

Before I could finish the sentence, the potato-faced guard lunged, his fist connecting with my jaw in a sickening crunch. A metallic tang filled my mouth, the familiar warmth of blood dribbling down my chin.

A groan escaped my lips, but a triumphant grin stretched across my face. Finally. A reaction.

"Ah, that's more like it," I rasped. "You were starting to bore me to tears."

The guards, their faces stormy with a mixture of frustration and bruised pride, hauled me to my feet. My jaw throbbed, a dull ache blooming where the guard’s fist had connected. But the pain was a small price to pay for the victory I'd just won.

"Feeling a little peckish after that workout, spud-boy?" I rasped at the guard, relishing the flicker of anger in his eyes. He mumbled something unintelligible, his grip tightening on my arm.

"Don't worry," I chirped to the other guard, the brute whose name I still didn't know, "I won't bite. Much."

The brute grunted, his expression unreadable behind the mask of his shaved head. Perhaps he wasn't as thick as he looked, I mused.

The walk back to my cell was a slow shuffle, punctuated by the rhythmic scrape of their boots against the stone floor. Small talk, it seemed, wasn't part of a prison guard's training regimen. Maybe I should offer some pointers?

"You know," I drawled, trying to lighten the mood (though judging by their scowls, it wasn't working), "a little conversation goes a long way. You could start with the weather. Everyone loves talking about the weather, right?"

Silence, thick and suffocating, was my only response. Well, two out of three attempts wasn't bad, I thought.

The heavy door of my cell creaked open with a groan, and they shoved me unceremoniously inside. Landing on the cold stone floor in a heap, I winced at the renewed throb in my jaw. Still, a small price to pay for a day that wasn't entirely devoid of entertainment.

As the door slammed shut, plunging me back into darkness, a sliver of unease wormed its way into my chest. It had been a couple of days since the King's… unwelcome visit. The silence, while preferable to torture, held its own brand of dread. I just hoped he wouldn't decide to grace me with his presence again anytime soon. Maybe they'd finally realized that brute force wouldn't break me. But with the King, you never could be too sure.

All these years, I'd held onto the fragile hope that my bargain – to become his eyes and ears in the rebellion in exchange for my friends' safety – would hold. A web of carefully spun lies, a performance I perfected until exhaustion became my constant companion.

But the mission… that damned mission with the wolfsbane had turned everything upside down. Erin, bless her sharp aim, had nearly ended the King's reign with a single arrow. Left for dead in the wilderness, I'd returned a broken shell, the fabricated loyalty act cracking under the pressure. The sight of those hundred innocent men, their faces etched with despair, had forced my hand.

I gambled. I gambled on the cacophony of a hundred tortured souls drowning out the truth, the whispers of rebellion hidden within my own tormented memories. The King, bound to hear the cries of his victims, wouldn't be able to discern my secret plan – at least, that's what I clung to.

But my gamble backfired spectacularly. He hadn't just heard the prisoners' screams. He'd heard mine too. He'd heard everything. The meticulously crafted web of lies, the truth lurking beneath, the plan I'd hatched fueled by the desperate need to protect my friends.

My final act – infiltrating the throne room alone, a twisted act of self-sacrifice – was meant to be a surprise. A loyal spy returning, cup in hand, to deliver a poisoned wine in a moment of unguarded trust. In my naivety, I believed the King would be alone in the throne room, unaware of the rebellion closing in.

But there was no waiting King. Just a chilling silence and a dawning realization – he knew. He'd known all along. My carefully constructed facade, the shield I'd used to protect my friends, lay shattered at his feet.

Fighting back was a futile notion. Even if I could overpower him, any harm I inflicted would be mirrored on myself. The King, that cursed creature, would heal within minutes, leaving me a mangled corpse. Cowardice, a bitter pill to swallow, became my only option.

Silence became my weapon once more. I wouldn't utter a word, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of another lie, another morsel of information about the rebellion. My forced stillness must have looked like unwavering loyalty to him, a chilling performance that would undoubtedly paint me as a traitor in the eyes of my friends. Hatred, a cold fury, simmered within me alongside the despair. They would despise me, believe I'd betrayed them all along.

The damp stone floor offered little comfort as I huddled against the wall. Traitor. The word echoed in the emptiness of my skull, a venomous snake coiling around my heart.

Kass' words, sharp as a viper's strike, replayed in my mind: "You can go fuck yourself, Caleb." The look on her face, a mixture of betrayal and fury, was burned into my memory.

Then there was Kira's scream, raw and primal, echoing through the halls.

Finally, Erin. I saw her slump to the floor, her shoulders slumped in defeat, her eyes reflecting the same crushing hopelessness I felt.

Would they come back for me? To risk their lives on a fool's errand, on a traitor… the thought was unbearable.

But they were alive. That knowledge, fragile as it was, clung to me like a lifeline. They were out there, somewhere, wounded and angry, but alive. And that meant the fight wasn't over. They would rebuild, regroup, and the rebellion would continue. Even if they never forgave me, the rebellion would be my legacy, a testament to the cause I had sworn to fight for.

Then, a sound, almost imperceptible at first, sliced through the thick silence. A muffled scratching, faint but persistent, emanating from the wall beside my head. I tensed, every muscle coiled in anticipation. The scratching continued, a rhythmic rasp that sent a jolt through my core. Was it… a message?

Suddenly, a chunk of mortar crumbled, showering the floor in dust. The scratching intensified, followed by a grinding sound. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum solo against the backdrop of my despair. As the sound of crumbling stone subsided, a gap appeared in the wall, a jagged hole revealing a sliver of darkness beyond.

A voice, barely a whisper, drifted through the opening. "Hey you."

I turned towards it, my eyes glued to the hole. A sliver of light glinted from the other side, illuminating a single, watchful eye peering back at me.