"Deserved it."
Lensin's voice was cold — a blade of ice slicing through the thick, stagnant air of the prison's dining hall.
Settee's body trembled faintly. His fingers lost strength, and the spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against the iron floor with a sharp clang! that echoed between the stone walls. The metallic sound seemed to hang there for a long moment before fading away into silence.
A dry laugh escaped the old man's throat — brittle, empty, like the sound of old wood cracking under its own weight. It wasn't amusement, not really. It was the laugh of a man who had already expected this reaction, a weary acknowledgment that Lensin's response could never be anything else.
Lensin didn't even blink. His expression remained carved from stone, eyes sharp and unyielding, faintly tinted with a pale purple hue that caught the flickering light from the torches on the wall. For a brief instant, it seemed as if fire itself burned within his gaze — not warmth, but cold, unwavering intensity.
Across from him sat a young woman with long white hair that fell like strands of silk over her shoulders. She ate in silence, her movements mechanical, devoid of awareness. Her face was calm — too calm — as though emotion had long since been erased from her soul.
A faint current of air from the vents above stirred her hair, making the pale strands sway like snow drifting through the dim orange light of the torches.
Lensin turned his eyes slightly toward her, giving Settee a small, deliberate glance — a wordless signal.
Settee understood immediately. He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice, though even his "whisper" seemed to travel far in the echoing hall.
"That girl," he began softly, "she was once of noble blood. But around three or four years ago… a dragon — the same one I told you about before — descended upon her family's lands. The entire territory was destroyed."
As he spoke, his eyes grew distant, as though he were watching the scene unfold again — fire, smoke, screams carried on the wind. His voice trembled slightly with each word.
Lensin said nothing. He listened, face unreadable, gaze unmoving.
Settee let out a long, slow breath and continued.
"No one survived. No one… except her. They say the loss broke her mind completely. She was taken in by another noble family afterward — or rather, they claimed to take her in. But they only wanted to use her. To secure a name, a lineage, a connection."
His voice grew lower, rougher.
"They forced her to marry the son of that family. A cruel, arrogant boy. And on the day of the wedding... she took a knife and killed everyone there. Every single one of them. That's why she's here."
The words hung heavy in the air. Around them, the hall continued to buzz faintly with the dull rhythm of spoons scraping plates, the shuffling of boots, the clinking of chains. Yet between Lensin and Settee, everything fell silent, as if time itself hesitated.
The orange light of the torches flickered along the cold iron walls, casting trembling shadows that seemed to dance like ghosts. One shadow fell across the girl's face — calm, expressionless, her silver eyes empty, reflecting no emotion. She sat perfectly still, but there was something unnerving in that stillness — something hollow, infinite.
Settee's tone softened, filled with the weight of pity.
"Everyone who knows her story feels sorry for her. How could they not? She's just… broken."
He sighed, eyes downcast. His wrinkled fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the metal tray.
Lensin's gaze lingered on the girl. His face remained cold, his eyes unmoved, but deep within them flickered the faintest glimmer of thought — a calculation, perhaps, not empathy.
Settee continued, his voice trembling like a candle flame.
"Some say it was all planned. That the noble family she married into set her up. The knife she used to kill them was found in their own mansion. People think it was their scheme — a political move to eliminate rival nobles at the wedding."
A bitter smile touched his lips, thin and fleeting.
Lensin's eyes narrowed.
He had already considered as much. A marriage without benefit, without family or gain, never came without purpose. In this world, no one offered help without expecting something in return.
"That's enough."
Lensin's quiet voice sliced through the air like a whisper of steel. His tone was calm, yet absolute.
He had noticed the girl's gaze — she was looking at them now, her eyes empty yet sharp, as if her silence itself carried the weight of a scream.
Settee froze, then nodded. He understood immediately.
The old man looked back down at his food, trying to occupy himself, to blend into the gray monotony that surrounded them.
For a while, there was only the faint sound of eating, the rustle of fabric, the echo of distant footsteps beyond the bars. The smell of metal and stale bread mixed with the damp air — a suffocating scent that belonged only to prisons.
The torches crackled faintly, shedding trembling light that cast long, distorted shadows across the stone floor. The shadows shifted like restless souls, crawling up the walls and vanishing into the ceiling's darkness.
Then came the sound — heavy boots striking the floor in rhythm, growing louder, closer. The metallic jingle of armor and chains followed, sharp and commanding.
"Time's up. Everyone, move out. You've got work to do."
The deep voice of a guard rang through the hall, echoing off the walls like a thunderclap.
The hum of conversation died instantly. Prisoners rose from their benches one by one, the legs of chairs scraping against the floor with a shrill metallic screech.
Lensin looked up at the approaching figures, his expression still calm, his eyes steady and distant. Slowly, he stood, the faint clinking of his shackles marking each movement.
The guards began unlocking chains, lining up prisoners in rows. The iron doors groaned open, letting in a faint draft that carried with it the cold scent of the outside world — if it could still be called that.
Lensin lifted his hands slightly, the chains between his wrists catching the orange light and glinting faintly. He walked forward without hesitation, his gaze fixed ahead. The sound of his chains scraping against the floor echoed behind him, rhythmic, deliberate — the sound of captivity itself.
Settee followed beside him, silent, head lowered.
And behind them, still seated at the table, the white-haired girl did not move. Her eyes were lowered, but for a fleeting moment — perhaps too brief for anyone to notice — her lashes trembled.
A faint shimmer of light flickered in her eyes, like torchlight reflecting on water.
Or perhaps it was something else.
A tear that never quite fell.
The moment passed.
And the sound of chains continued, carrying them all back into the endless rhythm of labor and survival that defined their days in this place where the air itself seemed to weigh heavy with despair.
"Go to work."
The voice thundered through the cafeteria like the crack of a whip.
It was loud, harsh, and commanding — the kind of voice that silences every breath in the room.
The sound reverberated off the cold, stony walls, repeating itself again and again until it felt as if the order itself had multiplied and taken on a life of its own.
After barking the command, the man turned sharply on his heel and strode away, his heavy boots thudding against the ground before fading into the distance.
Only the echo of authority lingered in his wake.
Moments later, guards began to march into the cafeteria.
Their armor clanked with every movement, the metallic sound mixing with the faint scent of rust and the sour odor of leftover food that clung to the air.
Chains rattled as the prisoners rose from their seats; the rhythmic clinking echoed like grim music in the vast room.
The lively chatter that had filled the cafeteria moments ago vanished completely, replaced by silence thick enough to suffocate.
All that remained were the sounds of shuffling feet, the scraping of chairs against stone, and the heavy breathing of men and women resigned to another day of labor.
Then, through the crowd, came the blond-haired man.
He moved with a quiet confidence — steady, measured, yet utterly intimidating.
His eyes were as cold as frozen glass, devoid of warmth or emotion, and his expression unreadable.
Lensin watched him approach without a word, instantly understanding that this was the man assigned to oversee him — his warden, his shadow, his keeper.
The blond guard produced a set of iron handcuffs.
The sound of the mechanism locking into place was sharp and unmistakable: click.
The cuffs closed tightly around Lensin's wrists.
The metal was freezing against his skin, sending a dull ache through his bones as the weight of the chains reminded him of his confinement.
He flexed his fingers once, feeling the restraint bite slightly against his flesh, then stopped resisting.
There was no point.
The guard nodded curtly, gesturing for him to move.
Lensin followed without argument.
His steps were steady and silent, his shadow stretching long across the rough stone floor beneath the dim orange glow of the torches lining the walls.
Each flickering flame cast trembling silhouettes across the corridor, making the prisoners' movements seem ghostly — as though they were all walking through a dream that would never end.
As they walked, Lensin became aware of the vastness of this place.
Even though the passage was narrow and confined, the air itself felt endless, heavy with despair and age.
Hundreds of footsteps echoed all around him, forming a monotonous rhythm that sounded like a storm slowly marching forward.
The scent of sweat, iron, and old dust hung thick in the air.
Every few moments, a guard's shout or the clink of a chain broke the rhythm, only to fade again into the same hollow beat.
Beside him walked the old man, Settee.
His frail figure looked almost swallowed by the long corridor, yet his steps, though weak, kept pace with the others.
The torchlight flickered across the deep lines of his face, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.
Every breath he took came out as a faint wheeze.
Lensin's sharp eyes caught sight of something ahead — two figures he'd seen before.
The small woman with bright pink hair and the large bald man.
Even here, even during the monotonous march to labor, they were arguing again.
Their gestures were animated, though the words didn't reach him clearly this time.
Still, their tension filled the space like static before a storm.
"They're arguing again, huh?"
The trembling, irritated voice came from beside him — Settee.
The old man's tone was weary, carrying the fatigue of someone who'd seen this far too often.
His legs trembled slightly with each step, and he nearly stumbled on the uneven stone.
"That small woman is Lemiw," Settee muttered, his tone low and explanatory.
"She's a thief… stole from nobles all over the kingdom.
The other one, that big bald man, is named Attro.
He used to be a soldier, but he killed other soldiers for some reason—"
"Be quiet."
Lensin's voice cut through the air like a knife.
It was quiet but cold enough to freeze the air around them.
His sharp eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable.
He had noticed that both the pink-haired woman and the bald man were now looking in their direction, suspicion in their eyes.
It wasn't a look he liked.
Settee instantly fell silent, lowering his head.
The sound of chains and boots filled the silence once more.
Lensin kept walking, but his senses were alert — a faint pulse of caution thrummed beneath his calm exterior.
Despite his attempt to ignore them, the pair did not seem willing to do the same.
Their conversation stopped abruptly, and the pink-haired woman began walking toward them.
Her boots clanked against the stone — clang, clang, clang — each step louder than the last.
Her face was sharp and fierce, her eyes gleaming like fire beneath the dim torchlight.
Every eye in the corridor began to turn toward them.
"What are you two talking about?"
Her voice rang out, shrill and furious, bouncing off the corridor walls.
The sound was piercing — not loud enough to be a scream, but sharp enough to demand attention.
It wasn't just curiosity in her tone; it was challenge, accusation, and the need to provoke.
Lensin's brow furrowed ever so slightly.
He didn't even need to look around to know that the corridor's atmosphere had changed.
Dozens of prisoners had stopped walking.
Some turned their heads, others leaned closer, whispers spreading like wildfire.
The guards ahead hadn't noticed yet, or perhaps they simply didn't care — entertainment among prisoners was nothing new.
And then came the shadow.
The large bald man was moving too, his heavy footsteps echoing across the hall.
Each step carried the weight of his massive frame; the muscles in his arms bulged with every motion, veins standing out under the torchlight.
His dark eyes gleamed with barely contained aggression, a cold light that made the air feel even heavier.
He looked ready to break something — or someone.
Lensin sighed quietly, a long exhale that barely stirred the air.
It wasn't fear that filled him, but annoyance — an icy sort of irritation that flickered just beneath the surface.
His gaze turned calm, almost blank, as if he were calculating the distance between himself and the approaching threat.
His instincts sharpened, his mind alert.
He knew the signs; he'd seen too many situations like this before.
All it took was one wrong move, one spark, and this quiet hallway could turn into chaos.
The murmurs around them died out, swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed.
The hundreds of footsteps that once filled the air were gone now — replaced by the faint rattling of chains and the flickering of flames against the cold stone.
Even the torches seemed to burn quieter, their light dimming in anticipation of something inevitable.
The atmosphere grew heavy.
It pressed down on everyone present, slow and suffocating, like the moment before thunder strikes.
Lensin stood amidst it all — unmoving, unreadable, his eyes reflecting the wavering torchlight.
The metal cuffs on his wrists glimmered faintly, catching the firelight like molten gold.
And in that fleeting shimmer, the air itself felt like it might shatter.
The calm before the storm.