Henry sat in the cramped cell, the damp chill of the stone walls seeping into his bones. The faint jingling of bells from the absurd Hat of Purity, now discarded on the floor just outside the cell, mocked him with every slight draft that stirred them; Why it was there, he didn't understand. He let out a groan, running a hand through his tousled hair.

"What is it with these small towns and throwing me behind bars?" he muttered, frustration and disbelief swirling within him like a storm. The events of the day replayed relentlessly in his mind—the ridiculous hat, the eerie specter, the inexplicable pink light—and, of course, his impulsive decision to throw the hat at the mist. Sure, it had worked, but apparently, that wasn’t enough.

Footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor, accompanied by the flicker of torchlight that cast wavering shadows on the stone walls. The village elder appeared, her presence commanding and austere. Her staff clicked methodically against the floor with each measured step, and her expression was a mask of stone, conveying equal parts disdain and satisfaction.

"Awake at last," she declared, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I was beginning to think the weight of your crimes had rendered you comatose."

Henry stood up, gripping the cold iron bars tightly. "Crimes?" he snapped, his voice bristling with indignation. "What crimes? I saved your village! You’d all be consumed by the mist if it weren’t for me!"

The elder chuckled, a sound as cold and unfeeling as the stone around them. "Saved us? Is that what you call it? Throwing the sacred Hat of Purity—a priceless relic of our traditions—like a common stone?"

Henry blinked in disbelief, his grip on the bars tightening until his knuckles whitened. "It’s a hat. An obnoxious, pink, bell-ridden hat that somehow worked exactly as you said it would. What’s the problem?"

The elder’s lips curled into a sneer. "The problem, boy, is your disrespect. You treated our traditions with scorn and mocked the very tools that protect us. That hat is more than a tool—it is a symbol of our unity against the mist. And you hurled it into danger without understanding its cost."

Henry threw up his hands in exasperation. "I threw it because your 'symbol' wasn’t doing anything on my head except making me look ridiculous! You all ran when the mist attacked. I actually did something!"

Her staff slammed against the floor, the sharp sound echoing through the corridor like a whip crack. "And in doing so, you undermined me and sowed doubt in my people. They need faith in our ways, not a reckless outsider breaking our laws!"

Henry’s jaw tightened, and he gestured toward the hat lying on the floor. "What a ridiculous law! The hat worked; I saved everyone! Isn’t that what matters?"

The elder stepped closer, her piercing gaze locking onto his with unwavering intensity. "Do you truly think the mist is gone? That there won’t be consequences for invoking such power recklessly? You are as naive as you are insolent."

Henry’s frustration boiled over. "This is insane! I saved all of you, and instead of a thank-you, I get thrown in jail for saving your stupid hat!"

She arched an eyebrow, her expression hardening further. "You’ve proven you cannot be trusted. Your actions, however effective, have made you a danger to our order. Perhaps a few nights in this cell staring at the hat will remind you of your place." She placed the hat on a table just outside the cell.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"My place?" Henry barked. "My place is anywhere but here! You can’t seriously think locking me up helps anything!"

The elder’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Your arrogance blinds you, boy. You don’t understand the cost of your actions, but you will. Enjoy your stay." With a sharp turn, she disappeared into the gloom, leaving Henry fuming in the flickering torchlight.

Henry paced the cell, his mind racing. Somewhere in the village above, people were probably whispering about him, calling him a fool, a troublemaker, or worse. Elara was missing, someone had stolen his wand, and now he was trapped here. He clenched his fists, muttering under his breath, "I save their lives, and this is my reward? Next time, I’ll let the mist have them."

He continued pacing his cramped cell, his unease growing with every passing moment, until a sound broke through the oppressive silence—a faint cough.

Henry froze, his heart pounding as he strained to locate the source. The sound wasn’t coming from the corridor but from the direction of the adjacent cell. He turned sharply, squinting through the dim light.

"Who's there?" he called softly, his voice wary but tinged with hope. He pressed himself against the cold iron bars, craning his neck to see into the shadows of the neighboring cell.

A shape stirred in the darkness. Small, slight, and trembling. As the figure moved closer to the dividing bars, the dim torchlight illuminated a face Henry knew better than his own. His breath caught in his throat.

“Sarah?” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.

Her pale face came fully into view, drawn and gaunt, her features etched with exhaustion. Hollow cheeks, wide, frightened eyes, and faint red lines tracing her skin like cracks in delicate porcelain. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose, one lens shattered and the frame bent. She gripped the bars between them with trembling hands, her knuckles white.

“Henry?” Her voice, barely more than a breath, carried across the space between them. Weak, trembling, but unmistakably hers.

Relief and despair collided within him, leaving him momentarily paralyzed. He stumbled to his knees before her, gripping the bars with desperate intensity. “I can’t believe it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The figure stirred, her head lifting slowly. Wide, familiar eyes met his—piercing and frightened, framed by pale, ashen features. “Henry?” Her voice was soft, barely more than a breath, but it reached him with the force of a scream.

Relief and shock collided within him, leaving him breathless. In three strides, he crossed his cell, dropping to his knees before her. His hands gripped the bars, his knuckles white against the iron. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

But the joy was fleeting. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the full extent of her condition came into view. Her hair hung limp around her shoulders, her face hollowed and shadowed by exhaustion. Her glasses perched crookedly on her nose, one lens missing, the frame bent. Red plague lines, faint but unmistakable, marred her pale cheeks like cracks in porcelain.

A chill swept through him, a leaden weight settling in his stomach. Oh God, not Sarah. He faltered, covering the crack in his composure with a cough that conveniently matched her own.

She gave a weak, trembling smile, but it faded as quickly as it appeared. “I thought… I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.

Henry swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze without letting his fear show. “You’ll be okay,” he said firmly, though the words felt fragile, insubstantial against the growing dread in his chest. “I’ll get us out of here.”

Her hands tightened on the bars, her knuckles pale against the rusted iron. “They said… they said I’m infected,” she murmured, her voice shaking.

Henry felt the air leave his lungs. He reached through the bars, his hand brushing hers. “We’ll fix this, Sarah. I promise,” he said, trying to summon a conviction he didn’t feel. “Whatever it takes.”

Her trembling fingers curled around his, and for a brief moment, the cold cell seemed a little less suffocating. But as her coughing fit began again, each hacking sound tearing at his resolve, Henry’s determination hardened. The village elder’s disdain, the villagers’ fear, the mist’s relentless threat—it all faded to the background.

All that mattered now was his sister. And no bars, no elder, no mist, would stop him from saving her.