The chambers whispered at night. Not words — never words — but the dull grumbles of empty bellies, the low growls of hunger weaving between the iron bars like restless ghosts. Some groaned in sleep, others muttered curses under their breath, and a few simply curled in silence, bodies folded like dying insects on the stone.
There were those who didn't eat because their crumbs were stolen. And then there was the one no food was meant for at all.
He lay near the back of the dungeon, where the flicker of torchlight barely reached. A thin shape curled against the floor, skin stretched over bones like old paper over sticks. His arms were wrapped over his gut, trying to press the ache down into the cold, as if the stone could smother it. He had no straw mat, no blanket. Just the dark, and the smell of his own waste thick in the corners.
Soft steps echoed through the narrow stone passage. One figure moved between the rows of barred cells — taller than most, not particularly muscular, with a quiet grace in his walk. His robe hung loose around his frame, patched in places, its hem stained with old dust. There was something strange in the way he carried himself — like he didn't belong here, not fully.
In the dim torchlight, he saw the boy—not sleeping, not shivering, but moving. A thin arm traced a motion through the air, slow and deliberate, the dull glint of a dagger catching the flicker of the fire. His hand repeated the arc again and again, almost in rhythm.
He stopped outside the far cell, crouching low to avoid drawing eyes from the guards still stationed lazily near the torchstands. He whispered something, but the boy inside didn't move. He tried again, gently tapping the bars with his fingers.
The boy finally noticed.
The man didn't ask permission. He reached into the inner folds of his robe, fished out a piece of bread — rough, half-wrapped in a cloth to keep it clean — and pushed it through the bars. "I saved this," he whispered. "Don't ask how. You're not supposed to bring food in here, but... well, rules get old when no one cares to follow them."
The boy dropped the dagger took it with no hesitation. He didn't thank him. He didn't ask who he was. He just shoved the bread into his mouth and devoured it in two bites, gnawing like a beast who forgot what chewing was. When it was gone, he licked his fingers. Then, slowly, he looked up.
The man sat cross-legged outside the bars now, leaning one shoulder on the wall. "My name's Aelric," he said, watching the boy without judgment. "I saw your fight. The first one."
No response. Just those hollow eyes, unreadable.
"I saw her too," Aelric added. "The queen. Sitting up there like she was watching a play. I've never seen royalty attend a fight that low in rank. Especially not... that kind of match." He paused. "You didn't hesitate. Most can't even lift a hand in the first hour. But you—" He tilted his head. "You finished it fast. And then... you did what you had to."
Still, silence.
"I don't know what they've done to you," Aelric said, his voice lowering, "but it's clear something burns in you. Your eyes look like a man already past death. Except... you're still here. So, there must be a reason."
The boy's face didn't change, but his gaze didn't leave Aelric.
"You got a name?" Aelric asked.
Nothing.
He sighed and stood. "Doesn't matter. You'll say it when you're ready. Or not." He turned to go.
Just as the darkness was about to take him, a hoarse voice rasped from the cell behind.
"…Why?"
Aelric stopped.
The boy had lifted his head. His eyes met his.
"Why… would you do that?"
Aelric didn't smile. He just looked at him quietly for a moment, then replied, "Because kindness doesn't need a reason."
"And a little advice. Don't hold the dagger too tight," Aelric said, voice calm but clear. "The trick with a dagger isn't strength. It's how close you let them come. Aim below the ribs, angle upward. One quick strike—make it count before they know they've been opened."
"Survival in here doesn't come with brute force. It comes from choosing the right moment to strike and having the will to do it."
The boy stared at the crumbs still clinging to his fingers.
"…Caelvir," he said quietly.
Aelric nodded once and walked away, disappearing down the corridor as the torches hissed in the silence.