The cell door slammed shut with a heavy clang of iron and brass. Behind it, the Saren soldier—his golden spear glinting like mockery under the torchlight—smirked as if amused by the defiance of a child.
"Open the door, you monster! Open the door!" Artair bellowed, his voice hoarse with fury, fists crashing against the bars. His eyes still glowed red with the fading flame of his wrath. His whole body trembled, not with fear, but with the aftershock of too much rage.
The Saren only chuckled and turned, footsteps echoing down the corridor with cruel finality.
Artair clenched his teeth, his breath rasping, his pulse still hammering in his skull like a war drum. He turned to face the rest of the cell.
A hand touched his shoulder. "H-Hey—"
Instinct surged.
Artair whirled, slapping the hand away with a sharp twist of his arm. The touch's owner—a skinny, blonde-haired boy—crashed to the ground, groaning in pain and shock.
"What do you want?" Artair snarled, eyes still flaring.
"N-Nothing!" the boy stammered, scrambling backward. He fled to the back of the cell, where a small group of other children huddled together like sparrows in winter. All of them watched Artair with wide, terrified eyes.
And then… something shifted.
The fire in Artair's chest guttered. His breath came slower. He looked down at his hands—still trembling—and then to the boy cowering from him. He suddenly saw not an annoyance, not a threat, but another victim. Just like him.
His shoulders slumped. His eyes returned black.
"Sorry…" he muttered, sitting down heavily on the cold stone floor. "I am just… angry."
"Don't worry… It's totally understandable," came a calm voice.
Artair looked up. A boy, about his age, stepped forward from the group. His hair was a deep sea-blue, and his eyes shimmered like greenwater tides. He spoke with quiet confidence, not flinching like the others.
"Having your entire village massacred before your eyes isn't nice."
Artair nodded. "Artair O'Byrnei. Dunmara Village."
The boy took a step closer and extended a hand.
"Eadan Glenns. From Kilvara."
"The capital, huh?" Artair asked, tilting his head. "You must have been quite rich to live there."
Eadan gave a small smile. "Yeah… I was."
There was a pause. But then Artair's curiosity, still childish beneath the grief and anger, flickered to life.
"Hey, I heard that the water of the Font of Lirael turns white when it's midday. Is that true?"
Eadan's smile softened into something wistful. "Yes. It's beautiful—it was… beautiful..." he corrected himself, voice falling like a stone in a well. The sadness in his eyes was quiet but deep.
"Sorry," Artair said, his gaze lowering. That gnawing dread returned, and yet… rage still coiled under his skin. I swear… he promised himself in silence. I'll make them suffer.
The silence in the cage thickened like fog, heavy and unmoving.
Then—clank.
The door creaked open again, its iron hinges groaning. Three Saren soldiers entered the cell.
Artair shot to his feet.
"What do you want?!" he roared, his voice echoing against the stone walls.
One of the soldiers barked something in the Saren tongue and pointed directly at Artair.
"You bastards!" he spat. His eyes flashed crimson, rage reigniting in an instant as he charged, fists clenched, teeth bared like a cornered wolf.
But the soldier at the front didn't even flinch. He simply waited for Artair to close the distance—and struck. A brutal chop to the back of the neck.
Artair crumpled mid-motion, falling like a puppet with its strings cut.
Eadan's heart jumped. He watched as the soldiers moved efficiently, binding Artair's wrists with iron chains, heavy enough to drag.
Are they selling him as a slave? Eadan thought, horror creeping up his spine.
One of the soldiers caught his stare and turned.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat—then Eadan looked away. Quickly. Quietly. He said nothing.
They dragged Artair out, his head lolling, steps scraping across the stone. The door slammed shut again behind them.
And the cage was silent once more.
...
The streets of Vaelgard buzzed with the murmurs of commerce and distant clamor of market cries, but near the Cradle of Iron, the air was different—thicker. Heavy with iron, sweat, and the stench of blood-soaked sand. The arena loomed behind them like a sleeping behemoth carved of black stone and tarnished gold.
Three soldiers stepped out of its shadowed gates, dragging a boy in chains.
Artair's head hung low. Unconscious. His legs moved only because the soldiers half-carried him, the red in his eyes long gone, the fire hidden, banked, waiting.
They approached two men waiting by a dark carriage lined with silver filigree.
One of them wore a long coat of storm-gray velvet, his boots spotless despite the dust, his face lean and expressionless. That was Duke Silvarax.
"Put him in the carriage," the Duke said, his voice smooth and glacial.
The soldiers obeyed without a word. No questions. No hesitation. They hoisted the boy and placed him gently—almost cautiously—on the padded bench inside the nobleman's private carriage.
The thought crossed one of their minds—Why not bind him to the cagebox underneath—but it died before it could become a whisper. No one questioned nobles. Especially not Duke Silvarax.
Duke Silvarax reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch. The soft clink of coins rang as he untied it and handed it to the waiting manager.
The manager bowed low, catching the pouch with both hands as if it were a holy relic.
"A hundred Golden Spearheads… our eternal thanks, Duke Silvarax," he said, lips curling into a too-wide smile. "Should you ever find yourself in need of further acquisition, we remain most humbly at your service. The Cradle is ever replete with high-quality stock."
Silvarax didn't even glance at him. "Yes," he said, flat and disinterested.
With a turn of his heel, the Duke entered the carriage and settled into the seat across from the unconscious boy.
At a flick of his gloved hand, the bald driver atop the reins snapped them once.
The horses neighed, and the carriage pulled away from the Cradle's shadow—its wheels whispering secrets across the stone streets of Vaelgard.
To be continued...