The shrill of the dungeon’s old and rusty door groaned as it was forced shut, echoing a final, resounding clang that reverberated through the damp, stony prison. Felix felt dread fill his very soul with the sound of the key locking him in. Slowly, he sat up from the cold stone floor, gripping the shoulder that was slammed against the unforgiving floor when he landed, an ache radiating through his muscles.
Cold, dark eyes stared down at him from the other side of the thick iron bars, a silent judgment that pierced through the dim light of the cell. His breathing hardened, each inhale a struggle against the suffocating silence that had replaced the clang of the door.
Felix’s gaze met the unflinching stare of his captor, the man whose stoic gaze held a profound understanding, almost as if he anticipated Felix’s every thought and emotion. He offered no word, only a quiet intensity that seemed to penetrate Felix’s very being.
He found what little strength that remained within him and hurled a spell towards the man. It fizzled out before it even reached his captor, a pathetic and futile attempt to resist his capture. A cry of frustration escaped his lips, swallowed by the silence of the cell.
His captor barely flinched at the magic or cry, stoic as ever.
“Save your strength,” the man finally spoke, his voice cutting through the oppressive stillness like a sharpened blade. “It won’t do you any good here.”
He snarled. “You think you’ve won?” The words were laced with a venomous hatred, and his voice was a raw, guttural sound that clawed its way from the depths of his throat. “My people will find me, will save me, and you’ll spend the rest of your days rotting away in a cell.”
“Your people? Tsk, humans are so predictable.”
