The cold in the prison cell was disgusting — it didn't just sting the skin, it gnawed into the bones. I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, and after ten minutes I could think of only one thing: how to get out of here. My breathing grew ragged, my lungs burned, and the vapor in front of my face crystallized instantly into tiny sparks.
— How do these people even survive here, — I muttered, scanning the neighboring cells. In one rattling grate I spotted two men: both dark-haired with short goatees. One — massive, wearing a long fur coat with armor on his shoulders — sat as if he had been carved from winter and frost itself; he seemed impervious to the cold.
The face was familiar. I had seen him somewhere — on posters by the castle gates. And yes, he had seemed to be the king here after Wapol… finally it clicked what his name was, though I couldn't quite remember.
— Hey! — I jumped to my knees, pounding on the bars. — It's you, Bison!
The man raised his head and squinted, as if trying to recognize an intruder by sound.
— You're new? — he asked coldly, each word cut like a blade.
Another man in a thick jacket suppressed a tired smirk.
— Never seen you. You're not local, — he muttered.
— Well, technically — yes, — I replied, pressing my palms to the icy metal, feeling the cold bite at my nerve endings.
A thought flashed past: strength doesn't disappear — this isn't seastone.
But another thought immediately followed: why the hell am I stuck here, I thought, looking at the rusted bars.
The next moment something clicked: I pulled my shoulders in, planted my feet, and the metal stubbornly bent under my hands as if it were thin wire. A spark slipped off the iron — and a hole appeared in the grate, big enough to slip a whole body through.
— How did you do that? — the big guy in the corner blurted, completely stunned.
I smirked, shifting my gaze from the hole to the men.
— Physical strength works wonders, — I whispered, careful not to make extra noise.
A silence fell over the cell, from which a single thought rose quietly but surely: let's get the most out of this.
I glanced at the massive man in fur.
— So, are you ready to get out of here? — I said, looking at the people around me.
People perked up.
— Help me! — echoed through the prison.
— Quiet, until the guards come!
— Hey, don't open everything, there are pirates here! — a voice came from beside Bison.
— Finally, you spoke, — I said, approaching his cell.
— I know you're against Wapol's rule, — I said louder, meeting his gaze.
He exhaled, and the words came out slowly, as if each one was a struggle.
— So what? — he looked at me.
— I can help you drive that tyrant off the island, — I said slowly. — But the price will be high. So decide.
— What you just showed isn't enough, — he said, staring at me.
— I have more than that, — I replied, vanishing from the spot and instantly returning.
He took a deep breath and, after about twenty seconds, finally spoke.
— Call me Dalton. I wasn't planning to linger here, — he said, looking at the door.— But since you showed up so conveniently… why not.
"Is there any information about this place and Wapol?" — I asked, looking at him. The shadow of his body fell over me, stretching three or four meters. A thought flashed through my mind.
He began quickly: "Wapol has two advantages — logistics and the Fruit. He controls the lift, which severs the crowd. His guards aren't ordinary soldiers; they get 'help' from his Fruit. But the castle has old underworks — tunnels, shafts, pits — forgotten long before Wapol. I know the entrance to one of them."
I pressed my face to the bars and listened. Even in the frozen breath of the prison, the idea sounded good.
— What do you want in return? — Dalton asked.
Dalton looked straight into my eyes.
— You'll find out later, — I said. I reached for the bars, but he moved faster and crushed them like a sheet of paper in the next moment.
Dalton nodded. His shoulders suddenly straightened — as if he were standing in formation again, not sitting in a frozen cell.
— And who's the third? — I finally asked, glancing at the quiet man in the corner.
He lifted his eyes from the floor.
— One of the doctors, — Dalton replied, lowering his voice. — He refused to work for Wapol. That's why they imprisoned him.
The doctor just pressed his lips together and nodded. His gaze was tired but stubborn.
Dalton walked to the grate, grabbed the steel bars, and began bending them with his bare hands. His muscles tensed as if stone blocks were moving under his skin. Before our eyes the metal — thick and iced over — gave way.
— When the noise starts — run, — he whispered to the doctors. — You'll have a chance.
Then he knelt and, extending a finger, began drawing a map on the floor — right on the thin layer of frost.
— Look. There's a service passage through the prison. From here it leads to the storage. From the storage — to the kitchen. And from there — an exit to the castle. There are almost no guards in the storage; they all prefer sitting by the warm fireplaces upstairs.
— Got it, — I nodded. — So we go quietly and head to the castle. No noise.
— I'll hold the guards off, — Dalton said. His gaze grew heavy. — If they catch me again — whatever. But Wapol won't control people's lives anymore.
At that moment I realized — he would've attempted a revolt anyway. He just needed a spark…
We slipped out of the cell — me, the doctor, and Dalton. The icy corridor echoed every step. Passing through a narrow passage, we reached a massive door. Behind it, we heard only the quiet crackling of fire.
Dalton carefully opened it.
The storage room was huge — two walls stacked with crates of food, carcasses of animals hanging from hooks. The air smelled of frozen fat and iron. The crates were stamped: "RESERVE FOR THE KING ONLY."
— Disgusting, — whispered the Doctor. — They feast while people die.
— Welcome to Wapol's rule, — Dalton replied dryly.
We slipped between the rows of boxes. I heard noise from above — Dalton must have started the distraction. The Doctor followed nervously, constantly glancing back.
The kitchen door was right ahead.
I placed my hand on the cold handle, and something warmed in my chest — anticipation. This was the moment.
— Ready? — I whispered.
The Doctor nodded.
I pushed the door — and we entered.