Aiden awoke to a sharp pain that throbbed viciously in his head. Each beat of his heart echoed alarmingly, a percussive torture against his skull that assured his body it was still alive... for now. His senses were a confusing mire; his vision, a blurry tapestry of dancing shapes and distorted lights that spun around him in a nauseating, dizzying sway. The rough, cold dampness of the floor against his cheek and shoulder told him, without a doubt, that he had been moved. This was definitely not the place where darkness had swallowed him. He tried to focus his eyes, blinking repeatedly, each motion a protest. The air smelled of old dust, mold, and the unmistakable metallic stench of dried blood.
"What the hell…?" he murmured, his voice a raw, alien croak that burned his throat as if he'd swallowed ash. "Well, look at that. He's awake." A thick, syrupy voice laced with mockery pierced the air—far too close for his comfort. Aiden narrowed his eyes, the effort sending new waves of pain through his temples. His vision was still a wreck, but through the haze, he could make out several dark silhouettes framed against an even dimmer light source. Formless shadows that, very slowly, began to solidify as his battered pupils adjusted to the gloomy twilight.
He was in a room that seemed more like a forgotten corridor or an abandoned cellar. It was long and narrow, flanked by bare brick walls whose surfaces were covered in extensive cracks like maps of an ancient civilization, and which oozed a dark, persistent dampness. The ceiling, oppressively low, contributed to a suffocating, almost claustrophobic atmosphere. There was no furniture to offer the slightest hint of civilization, only a couple of dilapidated wooden crates stacked carelessly in a distant corner, and the lonely echo of his own ragged breath bouncing off the cold walls.
When the persistent visual fog finally receded, he found himself meeting the fixed gazes of three figures. All three wore outfits of dark, worn, and stained leather, with hoods thrown back that barely allowed a glimpse of features hardened by weather and brutality. Their clothes, covered in rough patches and makeshift seams, lacked the structure of military uniforms or the protective sheen of armor. «Bandits», Aiden thought with a shiver.
The first, who seemed to be the leader of the trio, was a tall, sturdily built man with a square jaw and an ugly, whitish scar that split his right cheek from the cheekbone to the corner of his lip, twisting it into a perpetual sneer. His small, sunken eyes held a vacant hardness, that of someone who had seen too many deaths and had no problem adding another to the tally. The second, beside him, was thinner, almost wiry, with an air of constant unease that manifested in the erratic movement of his eyes and an unpleasant smile that never reached them. The third, noticeably smaller but with an agile and slippery build, had the gestures and posture of a seasoned thief, accustomed to moving through the shadows undetected. His fingers, sheathed in tattered leather gloves, drummed impatiently on the pommel of a notched dagger that hung ostentatiously from his belt, while in his other hand, he confidently held Aiden's leather bag.
The one with the unpleasant smile tilted his head with feigned curiosity. "Hey, are you sure this one will last? We haven't even started the party and he's already bleeding quite a bit." His voice was a mocking hiss.
The scarred one snorted, a sound laden with disdain. "The others were worse, this one's got nothing." He crossed his burly arms over his chest and looked at Aiden with a profound, bored disinterest, as if he were a minor annoyance.
Aiden let out a low groan, feeling a nauseating weight settle in his head and a metallic taste in his mouth. He tried to move his hands, but a sharp, searing pain shot up his forearms; something was holding them cruelly in place. His wrists burned from the relentless friction of what could only be a thick, tightly knotted rope. Instinctively, he tensed his muscles, trying to break free, but the binding didn't give a millimeter. A trickle of hot, sticky blood ran down his temple from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. He blinked hard as the drop reached the corner of his eye, blurring his vision even more, but he kept his breathing as steady as he could, controlling the urge to show weakness. He braced himself, clenching his teeth until his jaw ached. He closed his eyes for an instant, searching within himself for the familiar, dwindling ember of his Terum, the energy that once flowed like a warm river under his control. Now, he found only a weak, nearly extinguished spark. He directed that fraction of his meager Terum toward his arms, trying to infuse them with the strength needed to break the bonds. The rope barely tightened with a dry creak. He felt a violent repulsion, as if the energy itself refused to obey, twisting against him. The effort, however, cost him dearly: his breathing suddenly quickened, and a new wave of fatigue washed over him. He tried to increase the intensity of the Terum flow, but the attempt backfired; a sharp pain shot through his muscles and tendons as if they were tearing. He couldn't use his energy this time. It was impossible; his connection to the Terum was still diminished.
He understood it instantly, with hopelessness. «Ropes infused with Terum». Not a common technology. The three bandits watched him with an amused, cruel smile, with the expression of predators contemplating a trapped insect. "Are you done struggling?" The voice, deep and echoing, came from the back of the room, resonating in the gloom, heavy with authority. Aiden turned his head with effort, the skin of his neck tight and sore, focusing his gaze on the densest darkness of the enclosure. There, where the scarce light filtering in from some unknown opening didn't reach, a fourth figure stood motionless and imposing. Though he couldn't discern his features clearly, his presence was a palpable oppression in the air, a coldness that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. "It's not worth trying. You'd need the combined energy of at least three competent Terum-wielders to have a minimal chance of breaking that rope."
Aiden didn't answer, but his mind, despite the pain and confusion swirling like a storm, was already working at full speed, analyzing. Terum-infused ropes were not an item a group of common bandits could afford. They were specialized tools, expensive and with restricted access, usually forged by direct order of the archon of Solvayne, the implacable leader of Zhailon's eastern domain. Each of those ropes could cost between one and ten gold coins, a small fortune, depending on the potency and quality of the Terum infusion. So why the hell did this scum possess a rope capable of withstanding the combined energy of several awakened? Something didn't add up.
Before he could delve further into that incongruity, the scarred bandit leaned abruptly towards him, his disfigured face close. "I don't like the way this one's looking at me," he said with palpable disdain, letting out a dry, sharp laugh. "Maybe this will help him clear his head."
Without warning, without giving him time to prepare, a fist as hard as a stone crashed into his stomach. The impact was blunt and direct, stealing his breath and causing him to double over. Aiden clenched his jaw with all his might, forcing himself not to let out a groan, denying him that satisfaction. The pain, however, shot through his body like a jolt of liquid fire, leaving him momentarily paralyzed. He didn't have time to catch his breath before a second, equally savage blow struck his jaw, making his head snap sideways with whiplash force. A wet crack echoed in his mouth as his teeth slammed together violently, and the ferrous taste of fresh blood flooded his palate. His head hammered with every pulse.
"Wow, looks like you're losing your touch, Rynn," commented the agile bandit, his voice tinged with evident mockery, as he watched the scene with his arms crossed. The scarred one, now identified as Rynn, clicked his tongue in annoyance and cracked his knuckles with an ominous sound. "We're just warming up. Let me give him a couple more." Without hesitation, he threw another punch, this time aimed at Aiden's side, right over the ribs. But at the last moment, with a sheer effort of will that cost him a spasm of sharp pain in his abdomen, Aiden managed to direct a minimal part of his Terum to the point of impact, hardening his muscles a fraction of a second before the collision. The blow landed with the same devastating force… but the sensation was different; a dull, resisted impact, though the underlying pain was still there, like hot embers under his skin, threatening to break his resistance.
The agile bandit frowned, noticing the difference. "Hey, he didn't even feel that one." "Bah, anyone can act tough like that," Rynn snorted, clearly annoyed, as Aiden's breathing began to lose control, becoming more erratic and shallow. He felt like he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.
From the impenetrable darkness at the back, the fourth figure spoke again, his voice cutting through the tense air like a knife. "Stop playing around. Kael, check his things, and Lirik, you watch the door. Let's get this over with." Someone else's voice echoed with impatience.
The agile bandit, now known as Kael, clicked his tongue with visible annoyance but obeyed, crouching down to rummage roughly through Aiden's leather bag. "Well, look at this. A relic. How long have you been using this piece of trash, huh?" he asked, pulling out the small hunting knife with intricate details on the hilt. He tossed it aside with contempt, as if it were a worthless old rag. Aiden didn't take his eyes off the object as it rolled across the dusty floor. Kael continued to dig with agile, greedy fingers until they met the cold touch of a couple of silver coins. The thinner bandit, Lirik, who had remained silent by the door until now, whistled in disappointment. "What a letdown. This one's got nothing worthwhile." Rynn picked up one of the coins and bit it with a smile of pure greed, testing its authenticity. "What did you expect? After all, they just let him out of the cage. He wasn't going to walk out swimming in gold."
"How do you know I was just getting out?"
"Oh, you don't know? At this point, you should remember our faces." The moment Rynn said this, Aiden realized he had seen them before. They were the two individuals who had watched him leave the Hollow Bastion, Rynn and Kael, but without their hoods—the ones who had appeared to be merchants. "Looks like he's figured it out," Kael said with a sneering laugh. "What does it matter? The only thing that matters is what he can give us," Lirik replied, shrugging. "Today's our lucky day, eh, boys?" Kael said with a false smile, the disappointment evident in his tone. After a brief exchange of words, the bandit continued to rummage through the bag until his fingers stumbled upon something metallic and small, with an irregular shape. "Oh... and what the hell do we have here?"
With a theatrical gesture, he held Aiden's silver pendant between his dirty fingers, letting it swing slowly for the others to see in the dim light. The metal, though tarnished by time and neglect, still reflected a faint sheen. The symbol engraved on it was worn from constant rubbing against skin and cloth, but for anyone who knew the old heraldries, it was still painfully recognizable. The emblem of his family. The wolf and the star of the Svalthrens.
Rynn spat on the dusty floor in disgust and crossed his arms, his expression transforming into a mask of revulsion. "A damned Svalthren." His voice was now a low, venomous growl. The air in the room changed instantly, becoming denser, heavier. The mocking tone and superficial amusement vanished like smoke, replaced by a palpable contempt. The pendant was thrown to the floor near the knife. "With that beaten-dog look he's got, it's no surprise," said Lirik, watching with renewed interest. "They say they wander like vagabonds all over the kingdom since they were kicked out of the north. They had the strange luck that the last king had a fit of mercy towards them."
Aiden clenched his fists so tightly he felt his nails digging into his palms. Mercy? The king only allowed them to live in the kingdom but did nothing else to help them, always in the shadow of the Thalmyr's. "Well," Rynn continued, savoring every word, "I suppose no one in this world will miss one less stray dog."
He didn't wait for an answer. His fist, now visibly imbued with a faint reddish glow of Terum, crashed against Aiden's cheek with devastating force. This was no ordinary punch; the concentrated energy magnified it. Aiden's head snapped back with a violence that made him see black and white stars, and his vision flickered dangerously, threatening to plunge him back into unconsciousness. An explosive pain shot through his head. A second blow, charged with the same malice and power, knocked the air from his lungs, tearing a choked whimper from him and making him spit a mouthful of blood that splattered on the floor. Searing agony coursed through his torso, every muscle fiber screaming in protest. It felt as if his ribs were about to splinter. Aiden's pained reaction, though contained, made the bandit smile cruelly.
"Not going to say anything, mutt?" Rynn asked mockingly, bringing his face close to Aiden's. «These guys are just like all the others», Aiden thought with a wave of growing hatred and desperation. Cowards who hide behind excuses and ancestral prejudices. They clung to manipulated history, to old grudges, as justification to treat his people like trash, as something less than human. Pure scum.
The blows continued, a relentless downpour. One after another, each punch was accompanied by foul insults about his lineage, about his blood. About the supposed atrocities his people had committed generations ago. About how his very existence was a mistake that needed to be corrected. Each word, each impact, made Aiden's latent hatred grow, feeding on his pain and helplessness. It wasn't just rage he felt; it was an unquenchable fire, a burning forge that had been lit deep within his being since the infamous day he was unjustly locked away in the Hollow Bastion. The final blow, a brutal smash to the head, knocked him from the makeshift chair they had sat him on. The impact of his body against the hard stone floor completely blurred his vision, plunging him into a whirlwind of blinding lights and sharp darkness. A deafening, high-pitched ringing echoed in his ears, drowning out all other sound. With a superhuman effort, he forced himself not to lose consciousness, to cling to awareness like a castaway to a plank in the middle of a storm. The wound on his head had opened further, blood streaming warmly down his face.
It was then, as he lay dazed and bleeding, that Kael, who had started rummaging through the bag again, found something else. His fingers closed curiously around a small, compact cylinder of parchment. He pulled it out without much interest at first, but as soon as his eyes caught the unmistakable gleam of the golden wax seal securing it at the top, his sneering smile vanished instantly, replaced by an expression of sudden apprehension. The air in the room, already tense, became almost unbreathable. Kael swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, and spoke, his voice now stripped of all mockery, tinged with a palpable caution. "Hey... Rynn..." he said, with a tone of doubt and disbelief. "This... this has the royal seal."
The other two bandits, Rynn and Lirik, visibly tensed upon hearing those words. Rynn quickly approached and snatched the parchment from his hands with a swipe. His face went from absolute contempt to palpable unease in a matter of seconds as his eyes confirmed what his accomplice had said. Aiden, from the floor, watched with a mixture of bitter satisfaction and growing apprehension as the color drained from his captors' faces. Fear was beginning to replace arrogance.
Lirik frowned, not fully understanding the implication. "What? The royal seal?"
Rynn didn't answer right away. He rolled up the parchment slowly, a grim expression further darkening his features, before turning slowly toward the figure who remained motionless in the darkness at the back of the room. His usual bravado had vanished. "Boss... we have a problem."
The voice from the darkness was as calm as the eye of a storm. "Give me that." The figure in the shadow stepped forward with a slow pace, allowing the dim light filtering through some distant crack to gradually reveal his face and bearing. Aiden, squinting despite the pain splitting his head, could finally see clearly who it was. He was a man of strong, solid build, with a square jaw and several faded, almost imperceptible scars that lined his weathered skin. His dark, thick hair was combed back neatly, though a few gray streaks at his temples betrayed an older age than his erect posture might suggest. He wore leather armor reinforced with strategically placed metal plates, and on his chest, embroidered with gold thread, was the unmistakable emblem of Zhailon: the crown accompanied by the seven stars. Without a doubt, a military man from Veilon Thalmyr's army.
The military man took the parchment from Kael's trembling hands and cast a look of indifference at Aiden, as if he were an unimportant object, before unfurling the document. His eyes scanned the contents slowly, his expression remaining absolutely unreadable, a mask, until he seemed to stop at a particular name, a specific line of the text. The atmosphere, if possible, grew even heavier, charged with a tension that could be cut with a knife. "Change of plans," the military man said suddenly, his cold voice breaking the oppressive silence.
Lirik blinked, visibly confused. "What's wrong, boss?"
The military man rolled up the parchment with a sharp, precise snap. When he looked up, his eyes were sharp, a spark of opportunity or perhaps danger gleaming in them. "This man is more important than we thought," he said, pointing at Aiden with a slight nod of his head. He allowed himself a brief, almost imperceptible smirk of contempt as he held the document with utmost care. "Angellon Norvel is involved in this."
The name fell into the room like a stone into a calm lake, its ripples expanding in the tense silence. One of the bandits, Rynn, snorted with a mixture of mockery and disbelief.
"Angellon Norvel? Who the hell is she?" Kael asked, genuine ignorance in his voice.
"No wonder you weren't so surprised to see the contents; you have no damn idea who she is," Lirik blurted out.
"Angellon Norvel is that ambitious bitch that Commander Lyskaar Xhandreal kicked out of his domain a few months ago for insubordination." Aiden heard this with a pang of confusion; he had no idea of any confrontation between Norvel and the commander of Vharos. The information momentarily threw him off in the midst of his agony. "The commander of Vharos?" Kael asked.
"The very same," the military man confirmed, his expression turning more serious. "It seems Veilon has decided to find a use for the woman... or perhaps she has found a use for him." Rynn let out a raw, contemptuous laugh. "But the king already has the great Rea Zephandor eating out of his hand. What more could he want from another woman, especially one with Norvel's reputation?" Lirik added with a lecherous laugh, "Well, if I were him, I'd do the same. After all, have you seen the incredible ass on that Norvel? Princess Rea wishes she had half her... attributes."
The military man shot him a look filled with disdain, his patience visibly wearing thin at the stupidity of his subordinates. "This goes far beyond simple lust, you idiots," he hissed. "This could be an opportunity to easily incite a more open dispute between Xhandor's influence and the interests of the Vharos domain. We have to take advantage of it."
The military man spun on his heel decisively and from a hidden sheath on his back, he drew a knife with a short, wide, and formidably sharp blade, letting it glint ominously in the faint moonlight filtering in. His eyes fixed on Aiden with renewed intensity, an inquisitive gaze; it was the look of a professional and ruthless interrogator. With Rynn's help, they lifted Aiden from the floor and sat him back down abruptly in the chair, making sure he was clearly visible while the world spun around him. The rough movement tore a choked groan from Aiden.
"What do you know about all this, Svalthren?" the military man asked, holding the royal parchment in one hand and the knife in the other, his voice a threatening whisper meant to test Aiden's resistance. Aiden took a deep breath, a painful whistle escaping his lips as he tried to ignore the searing burn of his bruised ribs and the blood he felt running down his face. The world teetered precariously. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he answered in a harsh voice, each word a latent effort. The military man tilted his head, a condescending smile playing on his lips. "What use could you possibly be to King Veilon?" he asked, raising his chin slightly in a gesture of superiority. "I don't know," Aiden answered, his voice an iceberg, his eyes fixed on the military man's. The military man's patience was beginning to visibly crack; in his eyes, Aiden was simply wasting their time. "What do you know about Angellon Norvel?" he insisted, his voice taking on a harder edge. "I don't know anything about her. Yesterday was the first time I ever saw her," Aiden said, maintaining his impassive expression despite the hell burning inside him. "What did she say?" he pressed, his gaze piercing. "She must have said something to you. A message, an order. Tell us what you know and maybe, just maybe, we'll let you live to see the sunrise." Aiden let out a dry, bitter laugh at the comment. It was so obvious they had no intention of letting him go alive. From the first moment he woke up in this makeshift dungeon, they had made it painfully clear that they had done this before. Besides, the fact that they now knew he had a parchment with the king's seal didn't improve his precarious situation at all; on the contrary, now they had many more reasons to make him disappear without a trace.
The military man watched him in silence for a long moment, his cold eyes weighing Aiden's words and defiant attitude. Then, without warning, with a quick and brutal movement, he buried the knife blade deep into his thigh. Aiden let out a choked groan, a guttural sound he couldn't completely suppress, as he felt the sharp, tearing agony of cold metal carving its way through skin and muscle. The pain was so intense that for a moment, he saw nothing but white. "Look here, you piece of trash," the military man hissed, his face contorted with cruelty, "we can do this the quick and relatively clean way, or we can do it the very, very slow and painful way." He said, twisting the knife inside Aiden's leg. "You decide." Aiden let out a low whimper and exhaled sharply, a tremor running through his entire body, feeling the warm blood quickly begin to soak the fabric of his pants and drip onto the dirty floor. The metallic smell grew more intense, almost suffocating. Just at that moment, when desperation threatened to drown him, a sharp, metallic click, followed by a dull thud, echoed in the tense quiet of the room. Something heavy had come loose or, perhaps, had struck violently against something.
Before anyone in the room could react or process the source of the sound, a door at the other end of the room—one that led outside—burst open with unusual force. The pale, ghostly light of the moon filtered through the dark threshold, drawing a luminous rectangle on the dusty floor. The night wind, cold and filled with foreboding, rushed in with a violent gust, stirring the accumulated dust into small, dancing whirlwinds and making the old, rotten brick walls creak with groaning laments. "What the fuck...?" he mumbled under his breath, his voice a disbelieving whisper as he stared toward the light.
Someone had found them.