The fragile flame flickered in Flareon's hand, a tiny beacon against the oppressive cold and dark. Seren continued her methodical scan of their prison, her Farseer eyes missing nothing in the meager light, while Tora remained huddled, a silent, trembling bundle of fear. Minutes stretched into an eternity, measured only by the slow ache returning to Flareon's muscles and the gradual dimming of his precious flame as his reserves dwindled further.
Just as the light threatened to sputter out entirely, the heavy bolt screeched on the other side of the door. The sound was grating, loud in the confined space, making all three prisoners flinch. The door groaned open, spilling the harsh, flickering electric light of the outer cavern into their cell, momentarily blinding Flareon.
Two imposing Dravokh warriors filled the doorway, their reptilian features cast in stark relief. Their expressions were unreadable, cold and predatory. One gestured impatiently with a heavy, clawed hand.
Rough hands seized Flareon and Seren again, yanking them towards the opening. Flareon instinctively tried to pull back, a surge of defiance running through him, but he was still weak, easily overpowered. He stumbled out into the main cavern, blinking against the brighter, inconsistent light.
Seren cried out softly as she was dragged forward, catching a fleeting glimpse of Tora huddled in the corner of the cell.
"Wait! The child!"
She protested in the Common tongue, trying to twist back.
One of the guards simply backhanded her across the face, not hard enough to seriously injure, but enough to silence her and send her staggering.
The other guard slammed the heavy cell door shut again, the bolt screeching home, leaving Tora alone in the darkness once more. A wave of helpless fury washed over Flareon, mixing with the sting of Seren's silenced plea.
They were half-dragged, half-marched across the uneven cavern floor. Flareon forced himself to take note of his surroundings despite the rough handling. Crude sleeping pallets lined some walls, interspersed with racks of brutal-looking weapons, barbed spears, heavy cleavers, wickedly curved knives. The air stank of smoke, unwashed bodies, cooked meat, and that lingering, faintly metallic tang he associated with the Pyremaws. Guards were stationed intermittently, watching their passage with cold indifference. The cavern was larger than he'd first realized, branching off into other tunnels shrouded in shadow.
Seren, recovering quickly from the blow, walked with her head held high, though her eyes darted constantly. Even Flareon could see her Farseer instincts working overtime. Her gaze flickered from the number of guards to the structural supports of the cavern roof, noted the placement of the flickering electric lamps, lingered on the design of the locks on other doors they passed, absorbed the layout, mapping potential routes, identifying choke points, logging details with the ingrained precision of her people. Her fear was a palpable aura around her, yet her mind was clearly operating on a different level, analyzing, calculating, surviving.
Their destination was a slightly wider section of the main cavern, dominated by a raised platform constructed from rough-hewn timbers and draped with thick, greasy-looking furs, likely trophies from hunted beasts. Seated upon a crudely carved stone throne atop the platform was a Dravokh who radiated an aura of command that set him apart from the warriors below.
He was larger than the average Dravokh soldier, his scales a darker, almost obsidian hue, crisscrossed with old scars, souvenirs of countless battles. One horn above his brow was broken off jaggedly. He wore piecemeal armor, scavenged plating mixed with thick, boiled leather and heavy fur trim suited to the arctic climate. Unlike the others, his eyes held a keen, assessing intelligence that was far more unsettling than simple brutality. This was Zophos, Warlord and General.
The guards shoved Flareon and Seren to a halt at the foot of the platform, forcing them to their knees on the icy, dirt-packed ground. Zophos regarded them silently for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over them with undisguised contempt, lingering on Flareon's torn crimson tunic and distinctive Sorcerai eyes.
Then, he spoke. And the sound that came out wasn't the harsh, guttural clicking of the Dravokh tongue. It was Farseer, the common language, spoken with a heavy, rasping accent but perfectly understandable.
"The Sorcerai... and the little Farseer scribe."
His voice was like rocks grinding together.
"Look upon what the Pyremaw dragged in."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his clawed hands on his knees.
"You fly far from your warm nests, little birds. Too far. You saw things in the southern wastes. Things meant only for Dravokh eyes. You should thank us. The others? Ash and bone. Left for the carrion worms. You breathed northern air instead."
His gaze fixed on Flareon, then flicked to Seren.
Zophos's gaze settled fully on Flareon, a cruel amusement flickering in his yellow eyes.
"A Sorcerai. Here. In my prison."
He let out a short, harsh bark that might have been laughter.
"The first, I believe, since the fires of the Prismatic War cooled. Your ancestors fought harder. Died better. They scorched our lands, broke our legions with their precious elements."
He spat contemptuously onto the platform floor.
"And now... look at you. A shivering, captured spark mage. You should be ashamed to carry the name Sorcerai."
Something snapped inside Flareon. The humiliation, the helplessness, the biting cold, the memory of the burning Landliner, Tora's terrified face, Seren being struck, and now this savage's sneering dismissal, it all coalesced into pure, white-hot rage. His weakened state, his inability to unleash the inferno Zophos deserved, only fueled the firestorm of words clawing their way up his throat. He lurched forward against the guards' grip, straining against his bonds, his fire-shard eyes blazing with raw hatred.
"Ashamed?"
He spat, his voice rough, raw, utterly devoid of his usual measured tone.
"You talk of shame, you stinking, rock-crawling lizard filth?"
The guards tightened their grip painfully, one slamming the butt of a spear into his back, but Flareon barely registered it.
"Prismatic War?"
He snarled, ignoring the pain, locking eyes with the warlord.
"We burned scum like you off our Citadel walls! We taught your pathetic ancestors fear! You haven't learned a thing!"
He sucked in a ragged breath, the cold air searing his lungs.
"Go on! Kill me! See if I care! Better than breathing the same air as your foul, cowardly hides!"
Silence descended upon the platform area. The nearby Dravokh warriors shifted uneasily, hands tightening on weapons, unsure how to react to such blatant, suicidal defiance directed at their Warlord. Zophos didn't move, his scarred face unreadable for a long moment, his yellow eyes narrowed, studying Flareon intently.
Seren, kneeling beside Flareon, kept her face carefully neutral. Her gaze, however, never stopped moving. She noted the slight tremor in the Warlord's left hand as he processed Flareon's tirade, catalogued the wear patterns on the guards' boots indicating patrol routes, observed the flickering intensity of the electric lamps suggesting an unstable power source, her mind a whirlwind of data collection beneath a mask of terrified calm.
Finally, Zophos let out another short, grating laugh, devoid of any real humor.
"Brave words, little flame. Worthless, but brave."
He waved a dismissive hand.
The guards yanked Flareon and Seren back to their feet. Flareon shot one last glare of pure venom at Zophos before being spun around and shoved back the way they came. As he was dragged away, he heard Zophos's rasping voice call after them, still in Farseer, laced with cold promise.
"We will have uses for you yet. Especially the Sorcerai. It has been too long since we studied the properties of elemental fire... up close."