The two massive polar bears lumbered through the icy tundra, their powerful muscles straining as they pulled the gleaming prison wagon made of Nebieski, a rare and potent metal alloy that shone like a mirror reflecting the pale sunlight. A prisoner sat huddled inside the armored cage, her breath misting in the frigid air as she gazed out at the hostile landscape passing by.
The platoon of soldiers surrounding the wagon marched, half of them on mooseback, their Nebieski armor glinting in the weak light, a stark contrast to the thick fur and dark coats they wore to protect themselves from the biting cold. The air was sharp and filled with the scent of snow and ice, the crunch of boots on the frozen ground was the only sound breaking the eerie silence of the Arctic wasteland.
In the distance, looming like a dark specter against the bleak horizon stood Sne Fæstning, a maximum-security prison. The mere mention of the prison name made the few people that knew of its existence to feel frantic. She had heard the stories of the brutal treatment meted out to those deemed Dark Horses, the branded Evil Thaumaturgists. Everybody knew that the prison warden, Fiona Sørensen, was a figure of fear and respect in equal measure, her influence reaching far beyond the confines of the prison walls.
As they drew closer to the prison, the prisoner could see the imposing Rococo dome that marked its entrance, the dark stone infused with some spell casting a sense of dread that seemed to seep into her very bones. The rock, a deep black tinged with red, loomed overhead like a silent sentinel.
A blizzard threatened to engulf them, the wind howling like a banshee as the convoy pressed on, determined to reach their destination before the storm descended in full fury. The entrance gates of the prison swung open with a groan, revealing a small squad of guardsmen waiting to receive them. The soldiers dismounted their moose steeds and led the way inside, their breath forming frosty clouds in the freezing air.
The captain of the squad approached the cage, his expression grim as he consulted a notebook, reciting the prisoner's data with a detached air that sent a chill down her spine. "Habondia Xana, 22 years old, female, born on November 22nd, 1864. Castletown, Isle of Man. 12 years of confinement."
Habondia's heart pounded in her chest as she was led out of the cage, her hands trembling as she signed the documents that sealed her fate. The air inside the prison was thick. It was as if she could smell the scent of fear and despair, and hear the sound of muffled sobs echoing off the stone walls.
Habondia's body felt like a fragile shell, her skin translucent and chilled to the bone, a stark contrast to the dark bags under her tired eyes. The white dress draped over her emaciated form did little to shield her from the biting cold that seeped into her very being. She shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering in a symphony of misery as the guardsmen, their faces grim and unyielding, dragged her along the cold, black-tiled corridors of the prison.
A doctor, also a guardsman clad in Nebieski armor, examined her with a clinical detachment, his touch cold and impersonal against her fevered skin. With a syringe filled with a potent serum, he injected life back into her veins, the warmth spreading through her body like a flickering flame in the darkness. The world regained its color, vibrant hues replacing the muted tones of despair that had clouded her vision. She didn’t know what it was but the drug made her recover from hypothermia almost instantly. However, her body now felt more tired and heavier than ever.
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As Habondia struggled to stand, her weakened legs trembling beneath her weight, the guardsmen led her down into the depths of the prison, each step a painful reminder of her own frailty. The granite stairs open before her, a descent into the bowels of hell itself, the air heavy with the scent of lamp oil. At last, they reached level -4, the lowest of the low, where the most dangerous of criminals were held in chains of Nebieski.
Habondia's eyes fell upon a figure shrouded in darkness, a phantom of despair chained and shackled in one of the cells as she passed by. The veil that obscured their face whispered of untold horrors, of a past too terrible to gaze upon.
With a rough shove, the soldiers pushed Habondia into her cell, the cold stone floor welcoming her with a cruel embrace.
Days blurred into nights, a never-ending cycle of agony and despair, until one morning, a sliver of warmth pierced the darkness. An older woman, her eyes sharp and knowing, entered the cell flanked by two guardsmen who carried a tray with soup and bread in their hands.
First, the prisoner in the neighboring cell was fed by the guardsmen who didn’t even lift the veil covering the head. Habondia couldn’t notice any physical features. That other prisoner was still a mystery that left Habondia with more questions than answers.
Later, the guardsmen placed a bowl of soup before Habondia, the lukewarm liquid a poor substitute for the nourishment her body craved. She ate without any utensils with desperate hunger, the taste bland and unappealing, but the food was still a welcome reprieve from the gnawing emptiness within. She had been fasting for about four days.
Once she had finished, Habondia's gaze flitted from the empty bowl to the guardswoman standing before her.
The older guardswoman's features remained inscrutable, a mask of detachment that belied the intensity of her emerald eyes. Framed by a cascade of gray hair, her expressionless face held Habondia captive. The piercing gaze that met Habondia's own seemed to strip her away of any emotion.
Clad in the same uniform as her fellow guardsmen, the older woman stood out only in the absence of armor, a subtle yet significant deviation that marked her as a figure of authority rather than brute force. The fabric of her attire whispered of meticulous discipline and precision.
“Habondia Xana. A pretty young girl,” the woman said.
Habondia nodded with the little strength she had left.
“I’m this prison warden. I am Fiona Sørensen, the Jana of the Glacier, however, you must only address me as Lady Sørensen, Lady Warden, Countess Sørensen, or Colonel Sørensen. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Habondia nodded.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, The Witch of the Fairies,” the woman relaxed her military posture.
Habondia, her body weary and her spirit battered, could barely muster the strength to acknowledge Fiona's presence. The weight of exhaustion pressed down upon her, forcing her to lean against the cold, unforgiving stone of the cell wall for support. Fiona, mirroring her movements, settled beside her.
"What did you do? Why did you kill those fellows?" Fiona's inquiry cut through the silence. Her words, like shards of ice, pierced Habondia's fragile facade, drawing forth a flood of tears that traced glistening paths down her pallid cheeks.
"I didn’t kill them. It wasn't me," Habondia's voice wavered.
“Sure,” Fiona's skepticism only served to deepen the chasm of doubt that yawned between them.
"Habondia,” Fiona rose to her feet. “I hope you don’t care much about religion, otherwise, you won’t tolerate a crazy woman like Gudit praying all day."
“Gudit?” Habondia mumbled staring at Fiona who then pointed at the other prisoner, the person with a veil covering her head.
Gudit remained stoically silent, the prisoner didn’t react.
With a dismissive flick of her hand, Fiona departed, leaving Habondia alone once more in the shadowed embrace of her prison cell. The heavy clang of the grille reverberated through the chamber once the guardsmen closed, a final punctuation mark on their brief interaction.