The footsteps drifted away again, fading into the suffocating silence of the cage. It was the fourth time someone had been taken away... and no one was coming back.
The darkness seemed to thicken with each departure, swallowing the survivors in a chilling torpor. The air was saturated with the smell of sweat, dried blood and despair. Every breath was an effort, every second a struggle against collapse.
A few yards away, the boy I'd met earlier huddled with other children. Their eyes shone in the gloom, but it wasn't hope. It was the flickering glow of candles ready to burn out.
"Hey..."
My voice broke into a hoarse whisper, immediately swept away by a painful coughing fit. My throat was too dry, burned by fatigue and the taste of bile still clinging to my palate. I'd spent hours running. Vomiting. Suffocating.
I swallowed with difficulty the rare saliva that formed in my mouth.
Pathetic.
I was the son of a lord. I'd grown up in comfort and luxury. My destiny was all mapped out, crystal clear...
And yet, here in this squalid jail, I was just another body. A hungry, feverish carcass, barely able to open its mouth without choking.
Only one thing.
I had only one thing to do.
And what was that?
I was drained. My mind was an opaque mist, with no bearings, no way out. I couldn't even cry.
My face, frozen, reflected nothing. Not even their pain. I wasn't even able to share their sadness.
A shiver ran through me.
I hated myself.
From the depths of my being, I hated myself.
I folded my knees against my chest and buried my face in my arms. At that moment, I just wanted to... disappear. Let my thoughts evaporate, run away from this nightmare, escape...
Escape?
A movement caught my attention.
A hand, stretched out towards me.
Dirty. Fingernails blackened with dirt, palms lacerated with cuts and calluses. Brownish stains, dried blood. Fingertips bluish from cold and frostbite.
Slowly, I raised my head.
A young man stood before me.
His skin was dark, contrasting with the sickly pallor of those around us. His long, jet-black hair fell in messy locks around his tired face. But what struck me most were her eyes.
Red.
A deep, blood-red that almost merged with the burst vessels in his pupils.
He looked at me with a disturbing intensity, a mixture of relief and shattered hope.
Then he smiled. Sad.
Hopeful.
"Y-young lord... is that you?"
For a moment, I wasn't sure who it was.
Perhaps he'd noticed. After all, I wasn't much of a comedian.
We stood there staring at each other for a few seconds before his name came back to me. He was still holding out his hand to me. His fingers trembled slightly, numbed by the cold and pain of frostbite, but his gaze remained unwavering.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
I squinted. His face... It wasn't the first time I'd seen it.
A flash came back to me. A cobbled courtyard, the clank of wooden weapons, youths in light armor... an aspiring knight....
"Aspiring knight?" I pronounced faintly, and his face lit up for a moment.
"That's right. I'm Lance, I was in the previous class. I even had the honor of meeting the young lord a few times... always surrounded by his guards."
His tone was neither mocking nor bitter. Just... tired. His voice was hoarse, marked by exhaustion, but strangely soft. As if, in this hellhole, he could still afford to be considerate.
I tried to reply, but my throat was too dry. Finally, with a painful effort, I grasped his hand.
It was icy cold, hollowed out by deprivation, but incredibly strong.
I straightened up, or at least tried to. My legs no longer obeyed me. The world spun around me.
"Young lord, are you all right?"
Lance grabbed me by the shoulders and helped me slowly sit up again. He knelt facing me, a tired smile on his lips.
"I'll look after you, young master. I promise." His features twisted into a grimace of pure sadness. "Then, please, rest."
He sat down beside me, still alert.
"Why you?" I breathed.
He lowered his eyes, ran a hand over his face.
"I failed."
There was silence.
Then, gently, he resumed:
"I thought being a knight was enough. That if I was strong, straight, true to my principles... then nothing could happen to me."
His fist clenched on his knee.
"But the world doesn't work that way."
I didn't know what to say.
Yet, for the first time since I'd arrived here... I felt like I understood someone.
"Abel." I paused. "Call me Abel."
A fleeting smile passed over her face.
Then there was a sound.
A muffled pounding.
The heavy vibrations of iron boots echoed in the corridor.
Distant at first. Then closer and closer.
Each step seemed to echo in my chest, hammering out an invisible countdown.
Lance straightened up immediately, his gaze sweeping the cage. His body tensed, like a baited predator.
He knew.
We knew.
They'd come for someone.
Then a key creaked in the lock.
The door opened with a sinister sound of metal scraping the floor.
The glow of a torch illuminated the cage, casting our shadows on the oozing walls. A massive figure entered, his armor clanking with every movement.
"Next."
His eyes landed on me.
Lance immediately interposed.
"Take someone else."
The guard sneered.
"Still playing knight, boy?"
Without waiting, he grabbed me by the collar.
Lance lunged at him, but a kick to the chest sent him to the floor.
I turned my head towards him.
His eyes burned with impotent rage.
I offered him a trembling smile.
"See you later."
Then the door closed on him.