The cell was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of an invisible barrier that pulsed with soft electric waves. The protagonist sat against the cold stone wall, idly tossing small pebbles at the barrier. Each one bounced off with a fizz and spark, accompanied by a soft crackle. He chuckled to himself, the sound hollow in the confined space. His eyes occasionally flicked toward the cresthound lying several feet away—bound, silent, and watchful.
"You know," he said, voice low and conversational as though addressing an old friend, "if I had a coin for every strange cell I've woken up in, I'd be rich enough to buy the damn prison." He glanced over. The cresthound's golden eyes glinted, but it remained still, uninterested. As always.
He sighed, a long exhale weighed down by the days—or was it weeks?—he had spent in this world. "It's been rough," he murmured. "I fell from the sky—literally. I've been hunted, worshipped, almost eaten—twice, mind you—and now I'm here. Locked up like an animal. With an animal."
The cresthound snarled. He blinked. "No offense."
The creature growled again, this time more pointed, then looked away.
He laughed weakly, pressing his palms into the cold floor and standing. With a sudden burst of frustration, he bellowed, "Hey! Anyone! Someone help! You can't just keep me here!"
His voice echoed down the corridor. For a moment, silence. Then, a raspy chuckle drifted through the dark.
"You sing louder than the sirens did in my youth," came the voice of an old man. "And I knew quite a few sirens."
The protagonist's head snapped toward the sound. "Someone else is here?"
"More than one someone. But don't get your hopes up. If you're in these cells, you're staying."
"Do you know how to get out?"
A scoff. "If I did, I'd be gone, wouldn't I? These barriers… far too complicated to dispel."
The protagonist frowned. "What are you talking about? Dispelling? I'm not some mage or prisoner of war. I was taken. I don't even belong here. I'm from—"
"Let me guess," the old man interrupted. "A castout, a thief, a guild whelp, or a wanderer lost on the wrong road. Either way, you're in a cell. Doesn't matter why."
"I'm getting out," he said firmly. "Sooner rather than later."
The old man didn't answer. The silence stretched. The protagonist sank back to the floor, staring up at the arched ceiling. Time passed in slow, uneven breaths.
"I miss Earth," he said softly, almost to himself. "Waking up in a bed, hitting snooze five times, traffic, overpriced coffee, annoying interns…" He trailed off. "Even the mundane parts. Especially those."
The old man's voice came again, quieter. "You should treasure those memories. Because no dream world, no conjured vision, compares to where you are now. What you've endured? That's a glint of light at the edge of a spear. You haven't touched the tip yet."
He paused, words hanging like frost in the air. "Death would've been mercy. Out here, beyond the kingdom's walls, mercy doesn't exist. Weakness gets you consumed. And if all you do is complain about your 'sad' little life, don't expect to live long."
The words hit the protagonist like a cold wind. He didn't respond.
Hours passed. The light shifted. Then came the sound—measured, heavy footsteps.
He shot to his feet, heart racing. A figure approached. It was her—the woman who had once lingered by his cell, listening as he mumbled in his sleep. She stopped in front of his barrier, staring at him.
"What do you want?" he asked.
She said nothing at first, simply pulled down her mask, revealing sharp eyes and a face both worn and regal.
"You should've learned by now when to keep quiet," she said.
"You have no right to keep me here," he snapped.
"Says who? If you think you can survive out there, the door's right here. Try it. You won't last an hour."
She turned and walked to the neighboring cell.
"Ready to tell me why you were following me?" she asked.
The old man clicked his tongue, turned on his slab of sleeping stone, and ignored her.
She returned to the protagonist's cell. "You start working tomorrow."
He stepped forward, palms up. "Look, I'm not from here. I'm lost. I'm trying to get back home."
She didn't reply. She turned and left, her bootfalls echoing down the stone hall.
In her wake, the protagonist slammed a foot into the barrier. It shocked him violently, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"Don't waste energy," the old man muttered. "They're all like that. Best rest while you can."
"Until what?" he groaned.
"Until the next shift," the old man said. "Down here, if you're not useful… you're prey."
Not far from the cells, four figures crept through unfamiliar terrain: Elyra, Maevis, Alin, and Sir Garrin. Each held sharpened branches—makeshift defenses in a hostile land.
"This isn't a weapon," Garrin grumbled, eyeing his branch. "It's kindling."
"It wouldn't have come to this if we still had our gear," Maevis shot back.
Their bickering worsened Elyra's mood. "Enough," she snapped.
They quieted. Elyra's eyes narrowed. "They stole my cresthound."
Garrin shrugged. "We can get another."
Her stare turned cold. Garrin swallowed.
"That cresthound is one of three confirmed alive. The only one in the kingdom. You don't just get another."
Alin cleared his throat. "They also… stole the outsider."
Everyone turned to him.
He fumbled. "I mean, he was with us… so…"
Garrin looked apologetically at the princess. "I didn't know."
She scoffed and moved on.
Maevis walked faster. "Wandering blind won't help. We don't know this land. And we're not alone."
A sound. A sharp crack of splintering wood.
Maevis's eyes widened. "Run!"
Back in the Crowned Isles of Eiravell, Queen Elenora IV stood before four assembled warriors. From the Iron Sails Guild came: Luke Meadway, crownbrand rank; Michel and Will, wyrdsworn; and Thomas, gildshade.
"You will bring back the princess," the queen commanded. "Willingly or not."
They bowed.
Luke climbed onto his Palehorn cervine, its antlers glinting with steel tips. The only one of its kind in the realm. The others mounted their stratusrunners—nimble, swift.
The gates opened. Without a word, they rode.
Nothing dared to stand in their path.
In the cell, the protagonist glanced at the sleeping old man.
"You know her?" he asked.
"Why?"
"She looked at me like we'd met before."
"I know her," the old man said. "But she doesn't know me."
"I want to know who she is."
"Don't poke your nose where it doesn't belong."
"Oh come on. I shared my story."
"Barely," the old man muttered.
"Humor me."
Silence. Then, a sigh.
"It's a long story. We may not have time for it."
"I'd rather hear half a story than spend a whole day in silence."
The old man opened one eye. "Do you know of Emperor Castus? The Blackmane of Caelvaris?"
The protagonist blinked. "No. But he sounds cool."
A pause. The old man chuckled dryly. "You really don't know anything, do you?"
And then he began to speak.
The story of an emperor, a kingdom lost, and the fall of Castus began to echo through the stone walls of the prison, carried on the words of a man who had seen it all.