Dion’s first night was hard in more ways than one. In a literal sense, the base of the cage was made of cold iron. Without any proper pillow or padding, he rested on his side, using his arm to support his neck. His back still stung, and he was worried he would tear it again in his sleep, but there was little advantage in waiting to test it later.

In a less literal sense, he was lost and confused. He still had a supply of food within reach, but it would likely only last him a couple days. He’d have to ration it.

After it ran out…

Rest didn’t come easily. The pain and discomfort was part of it—a large part. Yet even as his body ground to a halt, his mind sped up, searching for an escape. Already, he was out of ideas.

His lockpicking plan had been his last meaningful idea, and he’d tried that before he even laid down to sleep. His attempts had stalled at the first step. He was stuck in a cage with a grand total of nothing in his pockets. Whoever had bandaged him had taken his shirt, leaving him with less than a shirt on his back. The cage was isolated from everything in the room minus the bag of apples. The closest thing he could find to a lockpick was a thinned apple core, which had gone predictably terribly. After the thin slice of apple had broken in the lock he’d actually had to be careful to remove as much of it as possible, less his captors caught on to his food supply.

No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t think of a way to escape. That thought nawed on him as he tried to sleep. He’d die a prisoner without ever commiting a crime. He wasn’t falsely convicted. He was collateral damage.

Sleep eventually came to him, though it was impossible to know when. The room was windowless, leaving him without a sun to indicate the passage of time. If there was a silver lining to his injuries, his body’s clear demand for sleep made finding rest easier. If not, who knows if he’d have found rest that night at all.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of someone else in the room—not the boy, another of the grey-skinned people. The man grabbed a pair of bags, presumably filled with food, and ignoring Dion entirely, exited the room with them in tow.

The day passed slowly. There wasn’t anything to do in the cage, just the cruel nothing of solitary confinement.

At first, Dion tried to be proactive with his time, continuing to think through possible methods of escape, but short of convincing someone to unlock his cage, he was coming up blank. He spent nearly an hour in constipated focus trying to teleport again.

By mid-afternoon—or whatever he thought was mid-afternoon—he’d switched to just looking for ways to pass the time. He counted all of the food too far away for him to reach. He sang songs, first real ones, then later little nonsense songs of his own creation.

He snuck a couple more apples throughout the day, but at this point, he was rationing them. Already, his diet was more water than food. It was hard to know if his goal at this point should be to die slowly. Rationing might just prolong his suffering.

No. There was still a chance someone would slip up. There’d be a chance to escape if only he waited.

There was no guarantee. On some level he knew that. But hope is a powerful thing. He needed to believe.

Later the boy returned carrying another waterskin. Like the first one he set it down just outside the cage bars, collecting the old one as he did. There were bags under his eyes, but he stood with more poise than the night before.

“How are you feeling?”

“Do you care?”

Dion took a more biting tone than he intended—or perhaps exactly as biting of a tone as he intended. The boy struggled to respond, but he’d lost the sad puppy-dog eyes. Puppy-snake eyes? Regardless—

“I—I do. If you wish me to leave I shall. If you’d prefer not to wait for hunger to take you I can also… put an end to this. I just thought you might be bored without companionship to talk to.”

Frustratingly, he thought right.

Internally, Dion sighed. If he was going to have a chance of escaping he needed information. There wasn’t time to let his pride get in the way—or his anger.

“What’s your name?”

The boy relaxed, his grim expression lightening slightly. Slowly he took a seat. The two sat opposite each other, separated by bars.

“Ash. And you are?”

“Dion, human by the way.”

Dion couldn’t help but scan the boy again. The grey skin was both incredibly different from anything he’d ever seen and at the same time shockingly mundane.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I’m an Azhtar. It makes sense you have not heard of my people. We burn in sunlight, leaving us few occasions to interact with others.”

“Like a Vampire?”

It was hard for Dion to keep both the excitement and the fear out of the question. Ash’s snake-like eyes flickered, the vertical eyelids quickly shuttering in response.

“I am shocked you have heard of vampires. They are something like—distant cousins? They take on some of the characteristics of bats. Our lineage is more reptilian.” He paused to roll up a sleeve revealing scale-like patches of skin. “We also—thank the gods—don’t have their preoccupation with blood. I do not have the right to pry, but where are you from? Vampires are not well known to most.”

“Far. I’m not sure how far, but far. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Delerium? Goba? Kaen Velora? I cannot think of many places where one might have even heard of vampires. I’d guess you were from across the Asphorian, but I am at a loss as to why you would speak Allesian then.”

“Allesian? I’m speaking English.”

“Huh?” His focus lapsed until slowly something clicked. “Wow—I didn’t even notice it until you pointed it out. That’s amazing. I’ve never encountered a translation skill before. Are you a [diplomat] or [merchant] or something?”

Dion focused on his own speech. “What do you mean by translation skill—”

Suddenly, Dion’s voice split and he started hearing double. On one layer, he continued to hear English. On a second layer, he heard a foreign language—nonsensical to his ears. Well that’s handy. He didn’t have any skills. Was it his planeswalker title? It was jarring for but a moment, and then as seamlessly as the layers of conversation split, they merged back together.

“Nevermind. I think I get it. I don’t have a translation skill though. I think it might be a new… title?”

“You must have gotten a hell of a title, translation is normally strong enough to be a skill on its own.”

It was a hell of a tile—or at least a rare one. Ash has listed a bunch of places he thought he might be from, but he never asked if he was from a different plane of existence. Interplanar travel was either nonexistent or so rare it didn’t even occur to him.

“So what do you know about titles? I’m from… pretty far away. It might be interesting to compare knowledge.”

“I don’t know much. You do impressive things, you get similarly impressive titles. Sometimes they do something useful like your translation title. Sometimes they have no discernible effect at all. Sometimes you get a capstone and ruin your potential.”

“A capstone?”

Ash’s brow furrowed.

“...You don’t know what a capstone title is?”

“I uh—think my translation skill is bugging. Can you describe it for me?”

“...”

“I guess. It’s when you get a title that’s so much more impressive than you are that it becomes near impossible to level.”

Uh-oh.

“So impressive titles make it harder to level?”

“...”

“Where did you say you were from again?”

“I travel around.”

Dion kept a perfectly straight face.

“Fine. It’s your secret to keep. The minutiae of leveling is kind of esoteric. But it’s generally accepted that leveling difficulty is a combination of current levels and your most impressive title.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“How can you tell if a title is a capstone?”

“Easy, ask yourself if you could replicate a feat that’s equally impressive to whatever gave you the title. If you can't, it's probably a capstone.”

He was so screwed.

“So you guys are decent at spacial magic, right? How impressive is someone teleporting from, say, one continent to another?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“...Damn. Hadn’t thought of that. Your new title is a nasty capstone, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Probably...”

Rumble Rumble

The silence was broken by Dion’s stomach reminding him not to worry. He would probably die before it mattered. Good ol’ stomach, keeping his priorities in order.

Ash stood up, noticing the changed mood.

“I should get going. I have work to get to. I’ll be back tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“Before you go, is there really no way I could get some food?”

Ash’s eyes flicked to the bag of apples near the cage and lingered there for a moment, a moment that lasted just a sliver longer than it had any right to. If a picture is worth a thousand words then in the snapshot he saw Dion read a novella in a single glance.

“I’m sorry. None.”

The snapshot faded. The novella burned without a trace.

It was but the tiniest of signs and yet for a young man watching desperately for a chance at freedom he saw his first sliver of hope.

Because it was a lie.

If Ash had stayed even a moment longer he would’ve seen his captive’s face, stunned in a mix of glee and confusion, but he did not wait. He had work to do.

It was a smart plan—or at least he liked to think it was. Ash knew the first rule of upsetting authority: better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Plausible deniability was his friend. Someone would eventually notice that food was going ‘missing’. He wouldn’t be able to keep up the game forever. But if he could just make it last long enough… If they could just get their damn summoning to work they wouldn’t need the secrecy. If someone caught on before the summoning ritual was working—

Ash slapped himself in the cheek. No more thinking like that. He’d made his decision. He was a [Runic Scholar], and a damn high level one, even if you didn’t factor in his age. He’d keep missing sleep if he had too. The summoning would work. He wasn’t going to let an innocent die.

It was true he wasn’t strong enough to always keep his morals, but he was still brave enough to try.