The steps led them to massive black iron gates covered in runes. The symbols glowed a dull blue, pulsating as if alive.
The hero pushed the gates open. They creaked open with a drawn-out squeak, echoing down the corridor beyond.
The cold hit immediately. Not physical, but spiritual, penetrating deeper than the skin, into the very soul. The air was stale, musty, smelling of mold and something else—hopelessness, if such a thing could have a smell.
They entered.
A prison.
A long corridor stretched before them, lined on either side by cells. Not with bars, but with transparent barriers, shimmering with magic. Behind each barrier, a ghost was visible.
Dozens of them. Hundreds. Translucent figures in varying degrees of manifestation. Some were clear, almost lifelike. Others were blurry, barely discernible. Their clothing was ancient—armor, robes, rags from different eras.
"What a place..." Medusa whispered, instinctively clutching her trident.
"A prison for the dead," the hero said, peering at the nearest cell. Above the entrance was a sign engraved in runes: "Traitor. Term: Eternity."
Inside stood the ghost of a man in armor, staring at the wall. Unmoving.
The hero approached the barrier:
"Hey. Can you hear me?"
The ghost twitched and turned. His face was blank, his eyes hollow.
"Not guilty," he said monotonously. "It's not my fault. Orders. I was only following orders."
"Who are you?" the hero asked.
"Not guilty," the ghost repeated, using the same words, the same intonation. "It's not my fault. Orders. I was only following orders." The hero frowned. Medusa approached the next cell. There was a woman in a tattered dress, sitting on the floor, hugging her knees.
"Sorry," Medusa said. "We're looking for a way out."
The woman's ghost looked through her.
"I didn't know," she said. "I swear I didn't know. They said it was safe. I just did what they asked."
"She's not answering," Medusa turned to the hero. "She keeps repeating the same thing."
They continued down the corridor. Each cell told a different story. The ghosts inside either stood motionless or repeated the same actions. One paced back and forth. Another banged his head against the wall. A third simply sat, staring into space.
And everyone they addressed responded with memorized phrases:
"It was a mistake. Just a mistake."
"They forced me. I had no choice."
"Guilty. Guilty. Guilty." "I repent. I beg your forgiveness. Please..."
The words repeated themselves over and over, like broken records. The ghosts didn't respond to questions, didn't engage in dialogue. They simply played their recorded lines forever.
"They're stuck," the hero said quietly, feeling the oppressive atmosphere weigh on his shoulders. "In their last thoughts. Their last words. Unable to move on."
"It's terrible," Medusa looked at the ghost of a child in one of the cells. The girl stood, looking at her hands, repeating, "I didn't mean to. Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"Eternal imprisonment," the hero turned away. "Worse than any physical torture."
They moved further down the corridor. But one cell stood out.
In it, the ghost was brighter than the others, clearer. An old man in a robe covered in symbols. He stood by the barrier, looking straight at them.
"The living," he said. The voice wasn't monotonous, but meaningful. "I haven't seen anyone alive here in a long time."
The hero paused, surprised.
"You... can speak? You're not repeating phrases?"
The old man smiled bitterly.
"I can. My punishment is special. Full awareness. Every day. Every hour. Every second. To understand where I am. To remember what I did. And to have no way to atone." He looked at the runes on the barrier. "A heretic, as they called me. I dared to doubt the gods."
"How long have you been here?" Medusa asked.
"I don't know. Time... blurs. Hundreds of years? Thousands?" He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. There is no end here."
The hero looked down the corridor:
"Is there a way out?"
"There is. At the end. But..." the old man pointed ahead. "Guardians. They don't just let you in."
"Guardians?"
"Spectral jailers. They come when someone tries to escape. Or when the living pass through the prison." The old man looked at the hero. "You are... special. I can feel it. Death doesn't hold you."
"Immortality," the hero nodded. "A curse or a gift. I don't know."
"That won't help here," the old man shook his head. "The guards don't kill. They brand. They imprison souls. If they catch you, you will become one of us. Forever."
A chill ran down the hero's spine. Medusa squeezed his hand:
"Then we won't let them catch you."
The old man chuckled:
"The confidence of the young. However... perhaps you will succeed. Proceed carefully. And don't listen to those who try to penetrate your mind." Some of these people here aren't just prisoners. They're dangerous even behind the barriers.
"Thank you," the hero nodded.
They moved on. The old man watched them until he disappeared from view around a bend in the corridor.
The further they walked, the thicker the cold became. The ghosts in the cells grew more numerous, their repeated phrases merging into an eerie chorus:
"Guilty, guilty, guilty..."
"Forgive me, forgive me..."
"I didn't do it, I didn't do it..."
"Orders are just orders..."
The voices overlapped, creating a crushing cacophony. The hero felt his head begin to ache, his thoughts becoming jumbled.
"Don't listen," Medusa tugged at his hand. "It's addictive."
They quickened their pace, trying to move faster.
One cell turned into another.
Inside was the ghost of a woman, once beautiful, now twisted with hatred. She stood by the barrier, looking straight at the hero. "You," she hissed. Not monotonously. Meaningfully. "You're free. You can leave. And I'm here. FOREVER!"
Her scream was piercing, full of fury. The ghost rushed toward the barrier, her hands passing through it—a centimeter, no further. The runes flared, pushing her back.
But something passed. Invisible, cold. It struck the hero's mind.
He stumbled, clutching his head. Something stirred inside his skull, alien, evil. The woman's voice was already in his head:
Stay. Join us. You deserve this. Everyone deserves punishment.
Images surfaced—his deaths, his mistakes, moments when he let someone down. Guilt, shame, despair weighed heavily.
You're a murderer. How many times have you killed in the dungeon? How many creatures? Are you better than us?
"A hero!" "Medusa's voice was distant, muffled. "Resist!"
Her hand fell on his shoulder, and the snakes on his head hissed loudly, aggressively. Her golden eyes flashed, and her gaze fell on the woman's ghost.
Medusa looked. Straight ahead. Into his eyes.
The ghost froze. He began to turn to stone—even as a spirit, Medusa's power was at work. The woman screamed, trying to turn away, but it was too late. She had turned into a gray statue, motionless.
The cold in the hero's head receded, and the alien voice faded.
He exhaled and sank to his knees.
"Thank you..."
"We're even," Medusa helped him up. "How many times have you saved me? It's time I repay you."
The hero chuckled weakly.
"I've lost count."
They walked on, faster now, avoiding the chambers containing the ghosts, who seemed too aware, too dangerous.
The corridor widened into a large hall. In the center stood a column with a torch burning with a blue flame. And around it, they patrolled.
Guardians.
Spectral figures in heavy armor, translucent yet massive in appearance. They held red-hot pokers and brands in their hands. The metal glowed red, heat emanating even from the ghostly weapons.
Four of them. They walked slowly around the hall, scanning the space with the empty eye sockets of their helmets.
"Guardians," Medusa whispered. "Just as the old man said." "See the exit?" the hero looked around.
Behind the column, at the far end of the hall, an arch was visible. The exit. But to get there, they had to get past the guards.
"Should we try quietly?" Medusa suggested.
"We'll try."
They moved along the wall, hugging the cells, trying not to attract attention. The ghosts in the cells continued their monologues, creating background noise.
They walked halfway down the hall. The guards didn't react, continuing to patrol.
Almost at the column, the hero's foot caught something on the floor. A metal bowl, abandoned by someone. It rolled and clanged against the stone.
The echo resounded throughout the hall.
The guards stopped. Their heads turned in unison toward the source of the sound.
A second of silence.
Then they moved. Quickly. The ghostly armor didn't hinder their speed.
"Run!" the hero shouted. They rushed toward the arch. The guards pursued, the branding irons glowing brighter.
One guard got ahead of them, blocking their path. The poker flew up, aiming for the hero.
The hero dodged, the poker passed close, the heat searing his cheek. The Bloody Dagger sank into the guard's chest.
The blade passed through his armor, entering the ectoplasm. The guard hissed, but did not stop. He grabbed the hero by the shoulder with a ghostly hand.
Cold. All-pervading, chilling to the bone. The arm began to harden, darken, as if frozen from the inside.
Medusa threw her trident. Three prongs pierced the guard's head, tearing it from his shoulders. His body collapsed, disintegrating into mist.
The hero broke free, his arm still aching from the cold, but moving.
The second guard attacked Medusa. The brand, red-hot, was aimed at her chest.
She deflected it with her trident, metal clanging on metal. She spun around and slammed the shaft into the guard's knees. He stumbled.
Medusa used her momentum to leap, pushing off his hunched body, and soared over the guard in an acrobatic somersault. The snakes on his head hissed, fluttering in the air. The guard tried to turn, to follow her, but he was too slow.
She landed behind him, already swinging her trident. The blow was accurate—three prongs sank into the back of the guard's head, piercing his helmet, and tearing out the clot of ectoplasm holding the ghost together.
The guard froze. The brand fell from his hand and went out. His body sank, crumbling into gray ash.
The other two were approaching.
"Arch!" Faster!
They ran, the guards pursuing. One threw a branding iron; the red-hot metal spun in the air, flying straight at Medusa.
The hero pushed her aside, taking the blow himself. The brand struck him in the back, imprinting itself on his skin.
The pain was unbearable. Not a physical burn, but a spiritual one. The brand burned not the flesh, but the very essence, marking the soul.
The hero screamed and fell to his knees. Runes burned on his back, searing into his skin, into his bones, into his soul.
"No!" Medusa spun, grabbed him, and pulled. "Get up! Don't give in!"
She dragged him toward the arch, the guards gaining on him. One had already raised his poker—
They crossed the threshold of the arch.
The guards stopped. They could not cross the boundary. They stood at the edge, watching as the hero and Medusa disappeared into the passage. The hero collapsed on the steps behind the arch, writhing in pain. His back burned, the runes imprinted deep.
Medusa knelt down beside him and examined the wound. Symbols glowed on his skin, slowly fading.
"The brand hasn't completely faded," she said. "You managed to break free. But the mark remains."
The hero breathed heavily, the pain slowly receding. A scar remained on his back—runes, forever seared into his skin.
"The mark of the prison," he croaked. "Another scar."
Medusa helped him sit up:
"But you didn't become a prisoner. That's the main thing."
The hero nodded. He looked back—the arch was empty, the guards no longer pursued. The prison remained there.
999 985.
They sat on the steps, recuperating. The voices of the ghosts still echoed in their ears, the repeated phrases haunting them:
Guilty. Not guilty. Forgive me. Orders.
"They'll never get out," Medusa said quietly. "Stuck in their guilt forever."
"It's worse than any physical death," the hero stood up and extended his hand to her. "Let's go. I don't want to think about this place anymore."
Medusa took his hand and stood up.
"I agree."
They walked up the steps, leaving the Prison of Ghosts behind.
But the scar on the hero's back remained.
A mark. A reminder.
That even in the dungeon, there are fates worse than death.