In the forsaken heart of Demon's Pit — that grim prison buried deep in the frozen north of the continent — the night was alive with the wretched sounds of agony. Cries for mercy rose and fell, carried on the stale, cold air: desperate pleas to the Six Gods, whose favor seemed long forgotten in this accursed place. Chains clattered in distant corridors; the scent of rust and despair hung thick as mist.
Far below, where even torchlight dared not linger, two prisoners, separated only by a wall of ancient stone, exchanged hushed words between bouts of coughing and shivering.
"Tell me," rasped one voice, rough with cold and cruelty, "how many elves does it take to change a lampstone?" He gave a broken, wheezing laugh before answering his own jest. "None. They'd have the humans do it, then claim it was their wisdom all along."
A weak chuckle echoed from the neighboring cell, dry and bitter. "Aye," came the reply, voice soaked in resentment. "Those lofty bastards — the Highborne — pushed us from our ancient seats, and we drove them back to the edges they once consigned us to."
The first prisoner snorted, spitting into the darkness. "Thank the Six for Sif," he muttered.
"Sif?" the other retorted with a scoff. "Fool. It was Xender who won the battles."
The second prisoner gave a harsh laugh, one devoid of true mirth. "Sif," he said again, more firmly, "was the one who secured our triumphs at Berthol, at Lismorth, and at Wyvern. It was he who concluded the war upon the High Plains, when he severed the Dominion Prince's head and held it aloft before the elf legions."
His words pierced the gloom like a blade. "Xender only claimed victories that had already been won. He strode into fields already steeped in elven blood and raised his banners over a feast not of his own making."
Silence fell, broken only by the distant, pitiful sobs of the damned.
After a moment, the first prisoner spoke, voice low and wary: "If that's the truth, then why was Sif arrested? Branded a traitor?" He shifted in his chains, burdened by the weight of questions. "They say he's here. In one of the solitary cells."
The other prisoner snorted. "Of course he is. Sif slaughtered some of his own—noble dogs who deemed themselves untouchable. One wore the golden ring of the Imperis Circle."
Footsteps echoed through the gloom—hard, impatient steps. A gaoler, cloaked in the heavy furs of the north, passed the cells, his face hidden beneath a battered iron helm. "Silence, you dung-eating rats," he barked, slamming his sword's pommel against the bars. "One more peep and I'll carve my blade into your bowels."
Chains rattled, and grumbles rolled through the darkness as he advanced deeper, past broken souls clawing at stone, muttering prayers to gods who would not answer.
At last, he halted before Cell 818—a yawning black maw in the endless wall. Peering in, he smirked. "They whisper your name, Sif," he said, voice almost casual. "A shame a man of your reputation should rot down here."
From within, only the slow hiss of breath answered.
The gaoler clicked his tongue. "Message for you," he said, tossing a folded parchment through the bars before stomping away, boots ringing on stone.
Silence reigned once more. Only the faint scrape of chains disturbed the stillness.
Within Cell 818, the occupant stirred.
Sif — a figure whose valor had turned the tide of countless battles — was now a trembling specter of youth. He looked scarcely nineteen. Muddy brown hair clung to his forehead, half-shielding his eyes beneath a battered military cap. A threadbare trench coat hung from his shoulders, collar drawn high against the relentless cold. His frame was lean, gaunt; his cheeks hollow, lips pale. Every shiver spoke of frost that gnawed at his very bones.
With stiff, trembling fingers, he reached for the parchment. Twice it fell from his grasp before he wrestled it open. A ragged, dry chuckle left his cracked lips—less laughter than a pained cough.
"Damn this cursed tongue," he muttered, eyes flicking over unfamiliar script.
Yet amid the strange words, he recognized the embossed seal: the sigil of the Kingdom itself. Something long buried in his chest stirred—a faint ember of hope.
Sif studied the letter in the dim light, a fragile smile ghosting his pale face