The cold was the first insult. It seeped through his thin tunic, a damp, clinging misery that settled deep in his bones. The second was the silence. It was a leaden, suffocating thing, a void where the vibrant thrum of the world used to be. For Elias, a man whose life was a symphony of bustling taverns, whispered secrets, and the vibrant hum of spirits, this silence was a form of torture more potent than any rack.
He stirred, the movement sending a jolt of pain up his arms. His wrists, chafed and raw, were bound in heavy manacles. He remembered them being forged from shadow, writhing things that drank the light and whispered dread into his soul. Now, in the faint luminescence filtering from a high grate, they looked like plain, rust-pocked iron. The magic had faded, or perhaps it had only ever been a glamour to break his will. Either way, they held him fast.
No instruments. He flexed his fingers, the musician's twitch a useless reflex. No Olaf. The thought was a hollow ache in his chest. His companion spirit, a round little light, was gone. There was no music. Not in the world, not in his head. He was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
From the impenetrable darkness of the neighboring cell, a voice spoke, startling him from his despair. It was gruff, weary, like stones grinding together, but underpinned by a steadiness that had no place in a forgotten dungeon.
"You don't sound like a man who belongs here."
Elias managed a dry rasp, his throat tight. "And what does a man who belongs here sound like? Are we meant to practice a particular type of groan?"
A slow, heavy shifting came from the dark, followed by the clink of a chain. A large silhouette detached itself from the shadows, moving to the bars that separated their cells. The faint light caught the details piece by piece: shoulders so broad they seemed to have been hewn from oak, even draped in rags. A face that was a roadmap of old battles, a long, silvered scar cutting from temple to jaw. And eyes—even in the gloom, they held a defiant glint, a stubborn fire of honor that refused to be extinguished.
"Most men who end up in the Black Vaults are screaming or weeping by now," the man said, his voice a low rumble. "You're just… quiet."
Elias pushed himself into a sitting position, the effort making his head swim. He offered a weak, lopsided grin. "I was merely composing an ode to the exquisite dampness. The acoustics are dreadful, I'm afraid."
The man grunted, a sound devoid of amusement. He studied Elias for a long moment, his gaze analytical. "I am Thorne."
"Elias." He didn't offer his full name. Not yet. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Thorne. Forgive me for not shaking your hand. The decor is a bit restrictive."
"I was a knight," Thorne stated, the past tense hanging heavy in the air. "Of the Lord's own household guard."
Elias's eyebrows lifted. This was an unexpected turn. The Lord's personal guard didn't end up in his deepest dungeon by accident. "A knight? My, my. From the Lord's table to a rat's banquet. What sin could possibly warrant such a dramatic fall from grace?"
Thorne's jaw tightened, the scar on his face seeming to deepen. "Loyalty," he said, the word tasting like ash. "I saw the rot setting in. The honeyed words of the sorceress, Velthra. She dripped poison in the Lord's ear, cloaking it in flattery and promises. His eyes grew dim to his duties, his mind clouded by her spells. He became a stranger on his own throne."
The name sent a chill down Elias's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Velthra.
"I dared to accuse her," Thorne continued, his voice low and intense. "In open court. I presented my evidence—the shifted ledgers, the guards replaced by her own sycophants, the tinctures she fed him with every meal. I called it what it was: corruption. Witchcraft." He gripped the iron bars, his knuckles white. "My loyalty was my undoing. She twisted my words, painted my concern as treason. The Lord, her puppet, believed her. I was branded a traitor and thrown here to be forgotten."
Elias stared at the formidable figure. A man of honor, broken on the wheel of politics and magic. It was a tale as old as time, a song he'd sung a hundred times in a hundred taverns. He'd just never expected to be living a verse of it.
A genuine, if cynical, smile touched Elias's lips. He leaned his head back against the cold stone, the full, absurd tragedy of it all washing over him. "A knight betrayed, a bard imprisoned," he mused aloud. "Fate has an odd sense of humor—it seems we're already a ballad in the making. All we're missing is a tragic maiden and a dragon."
Thorne eyed him with deep suspicion. "You find this amusing?"
"Amusing? My dear knight, it's exquisite," Elias said, his voice gaining some of its old, smooth charm. "It's poetry. Irony is the spice of life, and we, sir, are feasting on a veritable mountain of it."
The knight's expression remained stony. He was a fortress, his walls built of duty and disappointment. Elias knew that wit alone wouldn't breach them. Honesty, or a careful facsimile of it, was needed.
"I may not be a knight, Thorne, but Velthra's artistry is something I've come to appreciate firsthand," Elias said, his tone shifting, losing its flippant edge. "She caught me, too."
Thorne's skepticism flickered, replaced by a glint of curiosity. "How does a wandering singer draw the eye of the Lord's favored sorceress?"
"She heard of my talents. Not just with the lute, but… other things. The songs that call to the old spirits. She baited the hook with a forgotten melody, a whisper of a power I've sought for years. Lured me to the castle with promises of patronage and knowledge." Elias let out a bitter laugh. "I was so blinded by the beauty of the song, I never saw the cage she was building around it. When I refused to become her musical puppet, to use my gifts to amplify her own insidious spells, she declared my music a corrupting influence. A danger to the court. And so, the songbird joins the loyal hound in the kennel."
He watched Thorne process this. The knight was a simple man, in the way a well-forged sword is simple. He valued strength, honor, and truth. Elias had given him a piece of the truth, wrapped in a bard's flair. The finer details could wait. He saw the shift in Thorne's posture, the slight easing of the tension in his shoulders. The bard was no traitor, just another fool ensnared in the same web. At least he believed so.
Now was the time. Elias shifted, his chains clanking softly. He was probing, testing not the iron, but the man. "You're strong, Thorne. I can see it. The kind of strength that doesn't fade with hunger or despair. The kind that could hold a shield wall against a cavalry charge."
Thorne's expression was unreadable. "That life is over."
"Is it?" Elias countered, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that carried easily through the oppressive quiet. "Or is it merely waiting for a new banner to rally to? You were loyal to your Lord, and he cast you aside. Your honor is a chain as heavy as the ones on your wrists. But what if there was another cause? Not a lord, not a kingdom, but something simpler. Freedom."
He let the word hang in the air.
"I am going to get out of this dungeon, Sir Knight."
Thorne actually snorted, a harsh, grating sound. "This is the Black Vault. No one has ever escaped. The stones are sunk a hundred feet deep, the guards are Velthra's enchanted sentinels, and the single iron door is sealed with spells that would flay a man's soul."
"Details, details," Elias waved a hand dismissively. "You see an escape-proof prison. I see a puzzle. And I am very, very good at puzzles." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Thorne's. He pitched his voice low, weaving an offer as surely as he would a melody.
"You give me steel and shield, and I'll give you freedom. I'm no knight, but I'm clever—and cleverness has a way of opening doors iron cannot."
Doubt warred with a desperate flicker of something else in Thorne's eyes. He wanted to believe, but years of darkness had taught him the folly of hope. "And what steel and shield do I have to offer you, bard? Rags and memories?"
"You have your strength. Your knowledge of this castle's guard rotations, its passages, its routines. And when the time comes, you have a warrior's instinct." Elias's voice was hypnotic, compelling. "No prison holds forever, Thorne. Not stone, not iron, not even shadow. Everything has a weakness, a flaw, a rhythm that can be broken. When I find the crack in this place's song, I'll need someone to keep me alive once we slip through it. I can pick the lock, but you're the one who can break down the door when the alarm is raised."
Thorne was silent for a long time, studying the wiry bard as if trying to see the substance behind the silver-tongued words. Elias didn't flinch. He let the silence stretch, giving the knight room to weigh the crushing certainty of his fate against the fragile, impossible promise of a braggart musician.
Finally, with the slow deliberation of a man making his last wager, Thorne nodded. A single, decisive dip of his head.
"If you find us a way out, bard," he rumbled, his voice a vow of stone, "I'll see you live long enough to regret it."
A slow, triumphant grin spread across Elias's face. It was the first honest smile he'd felt in days. The alliance was forged. Their first act of camaraderie was not a handshake or a shared word, but something far more fundamental to Elias.
He closed his eyes, drew a shallow breath, and began to hum.
It was nothing grand. Without Olaf and the spirits to lend it resonance, the sound was thin, a mere ghost of a tune. It was a simple, rambling folk song from the northern hills, a melody about defiant mountain streams carving their way through ancient granite. It was weak, fragile, and achingly human.
But in the crushing silence of the Black Vault, it was a revolution.
The soft sound pushed back against the oppressive quiet, weaving a small pocket of warmth and life in the cold, dead air. Thorne stood motionless, listening. Elias could practically feel the knight's skepticism, a wall of hardened cynicism. He kept humming, pouring all his remaining will into the frail notes.
He saw Thorne's head tilt slightly. The rigid set of his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. The man let out a long, slow breath he seemed to have been holding for years.
"That song…" Thorne said, his voice rough with an unfamiliar emotion. "My mother used to sing it." He cleared his throat, turning his face away from the light as if to hide a sudden vulnerability. "It stirs something. Something I haven't felt in a long, long time."
"What's that?" Elias asked softly, the tune still a gentle murmur on his lips.
Thorne looked back at him, and in the depths of his weary eyes, the stubborn fire burned a little brighter. "Hope," he admitted, the word sounding foreign and strange on his tongue. "Damn you."
Elias let the hum fade away, a quiet finality in the air. The silence that returned was different now. It was no longer empty, but expectant.
"Elias Oryn," he said, giving his full name as a seal on their pact.
The knight straightened, his posture reclaiming a shadow of its former noble bearing. He clasped his hands behind his back, a parade-ground habit that defied his rags and chains.
"Thorne," he replied, his voice firm. "Knight of no lord."
A new title for a new purpose. Elias nodded, a plan already beginning to brew in the back of his mind, a counter-melody to the dungeon's grim drone. He idly tapped a finger against his manacle, then another, creating a soft, rhythmic clink… clank-clink. He tilted his head, listening intently. Every prison had a song. He just had to listen for the sour note.