A grand mansion stood tall at the heart of the kingdom, its very presence a testament to power, wealth, and centuries of pride.
From the outside, it gleamed like a jewel beneath the sunlight—its marble-white walls adorned with gold-carved patterns that shimmered with every ray of light.
In the early morning, when the sun rose above the horizon, the mansion seemed to glow as though it had absorbed the light of the heavens themselves.
A soft breeze swept across the garden before it, stirring the petals of lilies and white roses that filled the air with a fragrance both delicate and intoxicating.
The faint rustle of leaves blended with the distant sound of birds, creating an illusion of serenity that felt almost divine.
Inside, the mansion was even more magnificent.
Each room was a masterpiece of human craftsmanship and ambition.
Chandeliers of crystal hung from ceilings painted with scenes of gods and heroes; their glittering light danced across the golden moldings and marble floors.
The walls were covered with priceless paintings, each one capturing a moment of glory or tragedy from the long history of the realm — portraits of long-dead kings, battles fought beneath blood-red skies, and divine figures whose eyes seemed to follow the viewer wherever they moved.
The hallways stretched endlessly, lined with red carpets soft enough to swallow the sound of footsteps.
Every step on those carpets was silent, as though the floor itself was made to absorb all noise, preserving the calm dignity of the mansion.
Servants moved quietly through the corridors, their movements practiced and graceful, while armored guards stood at the corners, unmoving and vigilant.
The faint jingle of metal from their armor mixed with the soft rhythm of the servants' steps, producing a strange harmony that belonged only to this place of order and wealth.
The bedrooms, in contrast, radiated comfort and luxury.
Beds draped with white silk sheets seemed to invite even the most restless soul to rest.
Golden carvings adorned the headboards, and thin, translucent curtains swayed with every gentle breath of wind from the open windows.
A faint scent of incense and fresh flowers hung in the air — a fragrance that brought peace to the heart, a sweetness that made one forget the outside world entirely.
But beneath that beauty, below the marble floors and glittering chandeliers, there was another world entirely — a place that stood in absolute contrast to the splendor above.
Beneath the mansion, hidden away from the sunlight, was a prison.
The air there was thick, heavy, and suffocating.
The walls were made of rough stone, damp with moisture, their surface covered with streaks of rust and mold.
The smell of iron and decay filled the confined space.
Every sound seemed amplified: the slow dripping of water from the ceiling, the faint echo of chains clinking together, the distant moan of a prisoner whose voice had grown weak from hopelessness.
Rows of iron cages filled the underground chamber, their bars glistening faintly in the dim torchlight.
The torches themselves burned weakly, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls like living things.
The guards stationed near the exit stood silently, their expressions dull, eyes empty — as if they had long since stopped feeling anything about the place they guarded.
It was chaos caged within order — madness restrained by routine.
The cries of the prisoners occasionally broke the silence, echoing through the stone halls before fading into despair once more.
The smell of dried blood lingered on the ground, proof that suffering was no stranger here.
Inside one of those cages sat two figures — an old man and a younger one.
The young man had hair the color of twilight, a faint shade of purple that shimmered under the weak light.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, reflected nothing of the world around him.
His posture was calm, his breathing steady — too calm for a place like this.
Opposite him sat an old man, frail and thin, with wrinkled skin and a face lined by countless years of hardship.
Yet, within his tired eyes burned a spark of curiosity and warmth.
He spoke first, his voice gentle but trembling, like the echo of an old melody nearly forgotten.
"Could you tell me your story—your adventures, or perhaps your name?"
The tone carried a strange brightness, out of place in such a grim dungeon.
It was a voice that yearned for human connection, even in a place where all hope seemed lost.
The young man didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he took a slow, measured glance around his surroundings.
The flickering firelight reflected on the iron bars; every shadow, every breath of air told him that this was no ordinary place.
He understood quickly — this was a prison, deep underground.
His lips parted slightly, and his voice, when it came, was cold as winter frost —
a tone so calm and sharp it could make even the bravest man shiver.
"Where is this place?"
The question was simple, but the air seemed to grow heavier with it.
Even the torchlight appeared to waver, as though frightened by the sound of his voice.
The old man blinked, surprised — then suddenly began to laugh.
The laughter echoed off the stone walls, wild and almost mad, yet filled with a strange joy.
His laughter caught the attention of the nearby prisoners, who turned to watch curiously from their own cages.
"This is the prison of the Kingdom of Nedotin," the old man said at last, his smile fading into something sorrowful.
"Beneath the mansion of the ruler of this crumbling realm."
The laughter that once filled his voice faded, replaced by a sound more fragile — the faint trembling of someone on the edge of despair.
His eyes glistened, and tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks, disappearing into his long beard.
The young man watched in silence, showing no sign of sympathy or disgust.
His face remained perfectly calm, as if emotions had long abandoned him.
The old man noticed this and, after a moment, continued to speak, his tone low and heavy with exhaustion.
"There is a dragon," he whispered, as though afraid the very air might carry his words away.
"A dragon of golden flame… its size is greater than any mountain.
It has eyes of gold, burning like molten light, and scales as hard as steel.
Its claws and fangs are sharp enough to tear through stone itself."
He paused to catch his breath, the effort of speaking seeming to drain what little strength he had left.
"The creature rules the largest forest in this world," he continued, voice growing faint.
"They call it 'The King of Dragons'… for none can rival its power."
When his words ended, a deep silence filled the cell once more.
Only the crackle of the torches remained, flickering against the gloom.
The young man didn't respond.
He merely nodded slightly, a faint motion that betrayed neither fear nor awe.
His expression didn't change — it was as if the story had meant nothing to him.
The old man stared, astonished by such indifference.
"You don't seem afraid of that dragon at all," he said at last, disbelief heavy in his tone.
"Who are you, really?"
For a moment, silence filled the space between them.
Then, slowly, the young man's lips curved into a small smile — a smile that was neither kind nor cruel, but something else entirely.
"My name is Lensin," he said softly.
"Just another adventurer, that's all."
His words were calm, yet they carried an echo — a faint sense of something far deeper, something that hinted at power and purpose beyond mortal comprehension.
He ended his sentence with a quiet laugh, so faint it barely stirred the air, yet it lingered, haunting and serene.
The old man stared at him in silence.
The torches flickered again, and the shadows on the walls shifted like restless spirits.
In that moment, the dungeon felt even colder than before.
The laughter — soft and distant — seemed to echo forever through the stone halls, merging with the whisper of the wind that slipped through the cracks in the walls.
And as the sound faded, the prison once again fell into silence —
a silence so deep it felt as though the world itself had stopped to listen.