The rattle of the sliding bolt seemed to shut not just the door, but Sora's fate as well. He was standing trapped in the darkness, cold air clinging to his sodden robes, shudders wracking his body until the muscles screamed. The cacophony of the battle outside had faded slightly, muffled by distance and solid stone walls into a dull, throbbing thrum, like the hellish pulse of the castle itself. But there were other sounds, closer and more ominous: the relentless, maddening drop. drop. drop of water somewhere nearby, the occasional creaking of settling stone, the distant, unsettling scrape of metal on metal. And the silence. A heavy silence, oppressive with the dark history that clung to the very rocks of this site.
The narrow, low barred window provided minimal light and no prospect, but a rectangle of disinterested, leaden grey. The cell stank of ancient damp, dust, sticky mold, and, more faintly but unmistakably, that other odor—the one he'd recognized more strongly along the main corridor, which now seemed to come from the stones themselves: the metallic and cloying sweet undertone, the disturbing scent of raw or poorly preserved meat, a ghastly perfume that hung around the back of his throat and built a slow, unrelenting nausea. He remembered the murals on the corridor, the crows with their gleaming eyes and bloodied beaks feeding on distorted bodies. The defenders shouting "Kurotsuki!" and the shout echoing along with raspy cries of "Crows!". The crows are never satiated, Vayne had said. A fresh layer of fear, more primal and deeper than the fear of being injured right away, began crawling up his spine.
He moved towards the straw pallet. The straw had been stale and smelled musty, the blanket coarse and thin, little protection against the seeping chill. He was on the edge, hugging himself hard, attempting to grasp a little heat, attempting to focus. Kurogane? The Castle of Shadows? There were no meanings, these names sound from some dark fantasy or dark role-playing game. But this was no game. The burning agony in his hip, now a stinging, persistent ache, was real. The cold was real. The fear choking him was nearly suffocatingly real. And Vayne Kurotsuki? The "lady" of this rockpile and shadows. She was real. Frighteningly real. Her black eyes, her killing calm, her possessive words: "You are mine now." What did that mean? Was he some kind of noble prisoner? Exotic beast? Or something even worse? The vision of the bandits rushing into the fortress returned—brutish and feral. Were they Vayne's "scum"? And if so, what were the defenders in black plate and strict order? What was Vayne herself, walking among them like a personification of death? And most of all, what did they do to the prisoners they must have captured if the attack failed? The castle did not just feel like a fortress; it felt like an abattoir. The murals did not feel quite so morbid decoration; they felt like textbooks, a celebration.
Vayne had written of a cycle: devour or be devoured. And here, it seemed that the Crows, or at least those who called themselves by that name, were the devourers. The bolt sliding back again made him jump wildly, leaping to his feet, pounding heart hammering against his ribs. The door creaked open, and Kenji, the scar-faced guard, stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling nearly all the light from the corridor. He did not answer, only stepped in, carrying a roll of dark cloth under one arm and a hot wooden bowl in his other hand, and an earthenware jug.
He put the items down on the stone floor near the pallet and turned to leave.
His face was a blank mask, but his dark eyes flickered over Sora for a brief moment with an emotion that could have been pity, or perhaps just plain professional detachment.
"Dry clothes," Kenji muttered, gesturing towards the pile before returning to look straight ahead again. "Food. Water. Lady's instructions. Nobody will bother you."
Sora looked at him, unable to put words together. Kenji appeared to flinch for an instant in the doorway. "Don't be such a fool, boy" he snarled, his voice low and harsh. "Nowhere to go. Cliffs three sides of this castle, and the fourth's guarded day and night. And believe me, what's out there outside the walls. Worse. Much worse. What the Lady offers you, even if you can't see, is safety. Of a sort." Not waiting for a response, he stepped out and shut the door behind him. The bolt clicked home once again with resonant finality. Sora moved towards the things with care. The apparel was a simple tunic of rough, dark grey wool and loose trousers of the same, and crude low boots of supple leather. They were rough clothing, clearly worn but clean, with a neutral smell of rough lye soap and woodsmoke. Compared to his waterlogged, mud-stained Japanese school uniform, they looked like some strange costume, but at least they were dry and gave a little more warmth.
He changed quickly, his numb fingers clumsily handling the unfamiliar fabric. The clothes that hung loosely on his stringy frame, a bit too large, contributed to his sense of being an outsider, a fish out of water. Then his attention turned to the food. The bowl contained a dense, dark stew, its smell strong and not really bad, but somehow overwhelming. Unidentifiable chunks of meat floated in a brown broth with gritty root vegetables. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a burning pain to add to his other afflictions. He stopped, the images of the murals and the lingering sweet stench in his head. What was the meat? Paranoia gripped him. Was this some part of the "Crow's Dance"? Were they feeding him? The unspeakable? He shook his head, trying to dismiss the horrible suspicion. It had to be plain meat. Animal. Right? Besides, he was weak, cold, and in urgent need of strength. Shaking hands, he took the bowl. Using his fingers—there was no spoon—he picked up a morsel of root vegetable and brought it to his lips. It tasted earthy but was satisfying. Summoning his courage, he tried a small morsel of meat. It was tough, stringy, with a strong, almost gamy flavor, but one he did not recognize. It was. Flesh.
He wolfed it down, though prudence seasoned every mouthful. The water from the jug was cold and crisp, with the faintest possible mineral taste, and he drank long, easing the dry in his throat. His mind during eating wouldn't still. Kenji had said outside was bad. What outside this devil's den of a castle could possibly be worse? What kind of world was this Kurogane? The entire world dedicated to such brutality, such wolf-pack ethos? Vayne's words recurred again to his mind: "A constant reminder of the nature of things in Kurogane… Either you devour, or you are devoured." A grim, despicable principle. And he, Sora Hikari, surely was no devourer. Easy prey, short, eccentric, completely alien. And then there was she, too. Vayne Kurotsuki. Why had she saved him? Why this apparent protection? "May be useful. Or a curiosity," she had said to Kenji. Useful to do what? A curiosity for what? Was he nothing more than an exotic bauble plucked from the ruins? Or was there some other motivation behind her interest, something in her fierce, possessive expression that Sora could not decipher? The prospect of belonging to someone, anyone like her, made his guts churn.
It was a bird in a hawk's cage. Safe from other predators, perhaps, but utterly in the owner of the cage's mercy. Achy, crushing weariness eventually began to overwhelm the adrenaline and jagged fear. The relative warmth of the dry clothes and the food in his stomach made him drowsy. He huddled on the pallet, pulling the rough blanket up to his chin. The far-off, muffled sounds of fighting still echoed, a reminder of the violence that surrounded him.
The peculiar smell of the castle stuck to his nose. He closed his eyes, but the visions of the day—the twisting colors, the fall, the blood, the mud, the bodies, the mural crows, Vayne's black, piercing eyes—danced behind his eyelids. He was alone. Totally alone in a harsh world that operated by savage laws he was still only beginning to comprehend. Taken by a woman who embodied that world he had been. "We will speak tomorrow," she had said. A shiver ran its way down Sora's spine despite the blanket he was wrapped in. He did not know what the next day would bring, what questions Vayne would ask, what answers she would insist upon, or what his ultimate fate in this Castle of Shadows would be. He just knew that fear would not release him. He fell into an agitated sleep borne of raw fatigue, the distant thunder of war a horrifying lullaby, and the ominous knowledge that in Kurogane, the shadows and darkness were infinite, and the crows were perpetually waiting, perpetually watching for their feast.