Chapter 20 — The Quiet Before the Storm
The morning light slipped through the narrow window high in the cell, dust motes dancing in the faint glow. It was just another day—or so it should have been.
Lucien stirred awake, the rough straw beneath him pressing unevenly against his skin. The bed was damp from the last wash, the faint scent of clean water lingering like a fragile promise in the stale air. Weeks had passed since he'd first been thrown into this cell. Or maybe more. Time here folded in on itself, twisting like the tangled memories he struggled to piece together. Each day blurred into the next, and even the moments he thought he might remember clearly slipped away like smoke.
But today felt different.
The heavy iron door creaked open, and instead of the usual hollow clatter of the bucket hitting the floor, a guard stepped inside carrying something new—a small bar of soap. It was clean and plain, pale against the dark stone floor.
Lucien blinked, eyes narrowing in confusion. Soap. Something so simple, so ordinary—it struck him like a foreign language in a world where dirt and grime had been his only companions for months.
The guard said nothing. He never did. But the way he tossed the soap onto the floor was deliberate, almost careful. Like it was more than just a bar of soap. Like it was a sign.
Then, the food came.
Not just scraps or stale bread this time.
A thick, rich stew steamed from a rough clay bowl, heavy with chunks of meat and vegetables. The scent hit Lucien's nose and twisted his stomach—not from hunger, but from a strange knot of hope and dread.
He sat up slowly, muscles stiff and aching, hesitating before he reached out. Why the sudden change? Why now?
The auction.
It had to be coming soon.
This quiet kindness, the steady feeding, the small tokens like soap—they weren't acts of mercy. They were preparation. Calculated, cold, deliberate.
Lucien's heart hammered hard against his ribs. Fear coiled tightly inside him, writhing with anger and something colder, sharper: resignation.
For so long, he'd been trapped in a dark spiral of survival—scraping for scraps, biting back tears, enduring pain that never seemed to end. But this silence, this strange calm—it wasn't peace.
It meant the waiting was almost over.
The auction would decide what happened next.
His fate, his future, all sold to strangers who would see him as nothing more than a product.
He looked down at the soap lying on the floor and then back to the stew. His throat tightened with an ache deeper than hunger—an ache for something he barely remembered: normalcy. A life where he wasn't trapped behind iron bars, fighting tooth and nail just to breathe.
He stood slowly, the weight in his limbs anchoring him to the cold floor. He picked up the bar of soap carefully, fingers numb but steady.
He moved beneath the small trickle of water that dripped from a rusted pipe in the corner, letting the cool liquid flow over his skin.
The sensation was almost alien.
Clean water washing away the months of dirt, grime, and the unmistakable stench of fear and desperation.
But no amount of water could wash away the memories.
They clung stubbornly to his mind, sharpening in the silence.
The faces of men he'd fought—friends and enemies alike—twisted in fear or fury. The cold sneers of the guards who marched him through the city. The endless gnawing hunger that had hollowed him out from the inside.
The quiet made it all clearer. More real.
And now, the auction loomed like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, merciless.
Lucien's mind raced.
What would come next?
Would the person who bought him want a fighter? Or just a broken, beaten prisoner?
The fear wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, but beneath it was something else: a flicker of resolve.
If this was the end of the cell, then it was also the beginning of something new.
He would have to face whatever came with every shred of strength left in him.
The soap slipped through his fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud.
Lucien wrapped his arms around himself, standing alone in the quiet cell. Shadows stretched long across the cold stone walls, memories pressing in like a weight he couldn't shake.
And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to hope.
The auction would come. The chains would rattle again. The crowd would roar.
And he would be sent into the storm.
But for now—the quiet before the storm—he could breathe.
The day dragged on slowly. The faint noises from the hallway—the distant clang of metal, murmurs of guards—were a reminder that life outside this cell was moving forward. Somewhere beyond these walls, others were preparing, bidding, deciding.
Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, fingers tracing the worn wooden frame. He didn't speak. He hadn't spoken since the Trial began, and the silence inside him was no longer a prison—it was a shield.
His mind wandered back to the faces he'd seen, the harsh words spoken in tongues he never learned, the savage contests where mercy was a forgotten word.
He thought of the city beyond the gates—giants of stone and smoke, a world so vast and alive it made him feel smaller than ever.
They lived there. Thrived. While he had been broken.
The thought stung sharp.
But he swallowed it down and let the silence settle over him like a shroud.
Because soon, there would be no more waiting.
No more silence.
No more peace.
Only the storm.
And Lucien would meet it—not with hope, not with fire, but with quiet.
Acceptance.
Because that was all he had left.