The room was silent.
A dark, murky cell swallowed in shadows, illuminated only by the pale kiss of moonlight that filtered through a single cracked window — its rusty frame groaning ever so faintly with the wind.
The air was damp, stagnant, and reeked of blood, sweat, and something fouler… despair.
Beneath the lone shaft of moonlight sat a boy.
A young lad no older than seventeen, draped in tattered rags that could barely be called clothes. His golden hair hung long and unkempt, dirty strands clinging to his face and neck like wilted weeds. His head drooped slightly, his body hunched and motionless, save for the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
Although the shadows covered most of it, his skin was a map of torment: thin scars, angry burns, and bruises that never quite faded completely. But none were as haunting as the strange, red tattoo on his right arm.
It pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat... or rather, a curse.
He sat directly beneath the window, the lone source of illumination in this small shady chamber
Suddenly—
Creaaaak...
The old door groaned open, its rusted hinges wailing as a cloaked figure entered. His footsteps were slow but deliberate, heavy boots tapping against the worn-out floor. A tattered black cloak gripped his figure, its edges lines with uneven burn and tear marks. Only the lower part of his face was visible — a thin, scarred mouth curled into a smile.
The man stood over the boy, his shadow stretching long and jagged.
"...Get up," he ordered, voice low and gravelly.
No response, not even a slight flinch could be seen ass the boy just say there, unmoving as if he were a corpse.
"I said... get up!"
With a hiss, the man unsheathed a dagger from beneath his cloak — black, jagged, and faintly humming with dark necrotic energy. He lunged forward and stabbed — not the boy, but the wall just beside his head. The blade sank deep, sending small flying, but only a thin trail of blood trickled down the boy's cheek from the grazing cut.
Still... nothing. Not even a flinch.
The man clicked his tongue in irritation and crouched low.
"Honestly," he muttered, voice laced with disgust and envy. He gripped the boy's hair and pulled up his face as his eye met with the boys deep blue irises. "Tch- What does the boss even see in trash like you anyways?"
With a grunt, he stood again and reached into a pouch at his side, pulling out a small, obsidian orb etched with the same glowing red symbols as those on the boy's arm.
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
He channeled a thread of mana into it, and the next moment, the orb activated. The room exploded with an ominous red light emanating from the red tattoo on the boys arm and a volts of electricity were sent all over his body instantly.
And then finally, to the man's amusement,
He screamed.
Agony unlike no other tore through him, raw and unrelenting. His body jerked violently, limbs twitching as lightning surged through his every nerve.
His scream wasn't just pain — it was the symbol of hopelessness carved into sound, echoing off the stone walls and spilling into the narrow corridors of this shady underground labyrinth.
Down here, he wasn't the only one who endured the torture of these men in black that seemed to Lord over there lives in here. There were other captives, slaves hidden in the other chambers much like this one.
After what felt like eternity, the light faded. The boy slumped forward, trembling with smoke curling faintly from his skin.
The man grinned at last.
"There we go," he sneered, tossing a the boy a dark cloak onto the floor beside him.
"What was your name again?..." He muttered. "Ah, Ren was it?... Get dressed, the boss summons you."
Then he turned and leaned against the door, arms folded as he waited silently, skillfully playing with he dagger on his fingers.
Behind him, the eerie silence resumed...
...but the scream still lingered in the walls striking fear into the of any who dared oppose their almighty captors.
• • •
Back in the brothel room, the tension between the trio seemed to tense even furtherthe moment Damian uttered the impossible.
"Ren is alive... Trust me."
"The hell are you talking about?" Emilia snapped, still emotional from reliving her brother's death all over again.
"Young master..." Lyra muttered uncertainly
He turned to face Lyra.
"Do you trust me?"
Lyra blinked, startled by the abrupt question. But nevertheless, she smiled softly as she replied.
"Always."
"You expect me to just believe everything that you say because you're some noble?" Emilia asked angrily. "Don't you dare–"
"First off," Damian cut in. "I'm not just 'some' noble you know... I'm Prince Damian Blackthorne, the 7th son of King Blackthorne..."
Emilia stared. "Last I checked, he only had six children."
Damian's expression turned sour instantly, but he quickly covered it up with a smile.
'Am I really that much of an unknown in this kingdom?' thought Damian.
"Would you want your kingdom to know you had a 7th child that isn't even a pure blood? The answer is no." He shrugged.
"So back to the matter at hand—"
"He's dead!" Emilia cut in angrily, tears bubbling in her eyes already. "Don't you get it?! I saw it myself..."
"Then why...," Damian countered, voice cool, "why did you give off the signal? The one only he would understand?"
Emilia flinched, but Damian pressed on, gentle but relentless.
"And I'm pretty sure it's not the first time you've done it. You've always had that sliver of hope… deep down, that he might still be out there. Am I wrong?"
"I.." Emilia stuttered, clenching the fabric of her dress tightly.
"That glimmer of hope is enough proof that you want to see him again and I promise you,..." He placed his hand on his chest to back his words. "...I won't let that hope be in vain."
The courage so called Prince possessed reminded her of her brother, and he was right, she wasn't about to let her hope be in vain.
"Fine," she muttered, turning her head away, embarrassed. "What do you want from me?"
Gasps of relief escaped their lips as this time they were certain of it, Emilia was now on their side.
"Excellent." Lyra clasped her palms together.
"Though I don't think I can be of much help..."
"Its alright, just tell me the name of his party," he replied
"Wh-what?"
"The ones who betrayed him. What were they called?"
"Oh-Uhh… Black—Black Hounds. I think that's what he said they were called."
"Black hounds..." Damian whispered, scratching his chin softly.
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Do you know them?"
"Yeah… I know them. Met them once during one of my tra—uh, I mean… I heard of them a while back." He scratched his head nervously. 'Close call.'
"Umm, they're notorious for moving like shadows, and never even showing up on bounty boards, and stuff like that."
He turned back to them, tone shifting to deadly calm.
"They're the type you don't cross. And most definitely not the type to waste valuable assets like Ren."
Emilia blinked in excitement. "So you're saying they didn't kill him?"
"I'm saying they never intended to."
He began pacing again, snapping his fingers rhythmically, mind ticking.
"They made it look like a clean, perfect betrayal. Deep fall, no remains, no evidence. But the Black Hounds don't act on big plans like this unless there's an even bigger catch involved. Honestly, the fact that Ren even joined their party in the first place is baffling."
Damian's grin widened. "It would be easy for even a low ranking mage to sense their creepy aura, and knowing him, he was always the cautious type. So in reality, there's no way he wouldve joined up with them," he paused. "Not if he was in his right mind."
"Wait—what do you mean?" Lyra asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion.
"I mean," Damian stopped, "Ren, would never join a group like that unless he was compelled to, maybe even threatened, Mind controlled or even a contracted or something like that."
He turned to Emilia.
"Did you ever see anything…off on him? Like strange accessories? Marks? Charms? Anything magical that he wouldn't normally wear?"
Emilia frowned, thinking. "Not accessories, but… wait—yes! There was this tattoo on his arm." She blurted out. "It has this strange pattern. I noticed it a while after his first party was wiped out. Never explained why, but… he usually caressed it from time to time, like it held some kind of... Purpose."
Damian's eyes flashed.
"Hold up,"
He darted to the corner of the room, carefully rummaging through a stack of old flyers and scribbled notes until he found a blank sheet. In a few moments, he sketched a symbol — quick, practiced, and too precise for someone just guessing.
"The tattoo, Did it look like... this?"
Emilia's eyes widened. "That's it.."
She looked up, at him curiously. "How did you—?"
"Because," Damian said grimly, tapping the paper, "this is the symbol of a slave crest."
"What!?" Emilia exclaimed in horror as she tried to piece everything together.
"Its an efficient but expensive design. It bonded a slave to their master through magic. It didn't need visible chains or bracelets to hold the slave... but their choicees stopped being theirs the moment that ink hit their skin."
He tossed the paper down like a verdict.
"That's how they got him. That's why he joined them. That's why he even went along with such a deadly plan."
A silence passed between the trio — heavy, sharp.
Then Damian looked up. And this time, his cocky grin returned fully.
"The good news is that now we know for sure he's alive somewhere — I can't imagine them going through all this trouble for an unimportant nobody."
"So what now?" Lyra asked, leaning back on the wall as she struggled to gather her thoughts together.
Damian stepped forward,
"Now?" he began, giving off his signature grin "Its hero time."