5 minutes later...
The sun blazed overhead, a molten coin suspended in the cloudless sky, its light bleeding into every grain of sand until the desert itself seemed to glow with a cruel, golden fire. Heat shimmered in the distance, turning the dunes into a rippling mirage, blurring the horizon as though the world itself was melting. Every surface burned to the touch, from the jagged stones to the rusting bars of the prison carved into the side of the mountain. Even the air felt heavy, suffocating, clinging to the skin like a second, scorching layer.
The red-haired man stood in the shadow of the mountain, his back pressed against its sun-baked rock, one boot braced against it for balance. He did not seem to care that the heat radiated through the stone and into his flesh. His spiked crimson hair was matted with sweat, though the wild strands still caught the light like tongues of flame, almost glowing against the sunlit expanse around him. His skin was sun-bronzed, dusted with grit and speckled with faint streaks of dried blood, relics of the fight that had freed him minutes ago.
His eyes were closed, lashes casting faint shadows against his cheekbones. Whether he shut them to keep the sand from searing them raw or simply because he was exhausted, no one could tell. His breathing was slow, measured, each inhale deliberate, as though he were counting the seconds between heartbeats. There was a strange stillness about him, an aura of coiled energy hidden beneath that calm exterior, like a storm waiting to break.
He did not need to open his eyes to know that time was passing. He could feel it—the subtle shift in the wind, the change in the cadence of the guards' muffled voices within, the faint creak of the door's iron hinges just beyond the wall. Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds until the door would open and his companion would emerge.
A faint smirk touched his lips, almost imperceptible, but it carried the weight of someone who had already decided what would happen next. The desert might have been hostile, merciless, a place that had broken countless wanderers before him, but he stood there as though the heat were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. The rags that had once covered his body were now little more than tattered strips, flapping faintly in the dry wind and revealing the hard lines of his frame—cords of lean muscle, his body built not for bulk but for speed and violence.
He shifted slightly, the motion slow and deliberate, boots crunching against the sand. His shadow stretched long and thin across the ground, wavering against the sun's relentless glare. The air hummed faintly with a tension that seemed to radiate from him, as though the desert itself was holding its breath in anticipation.
Thirty seconds.
He tilted his head back slightly, letting the sun wash over his face. The light caught in his hair and in the faint red gleam of his half-lidded eyes, giving him the look of something otherworldly—less a man, more a fragment of the desert's own fury, given form and purpose.
When his companion stepped through that door, everything would change.
As the five minutes finally bled away, the silence was broken by a deep, metallic clang from within the mountain. The sound echoed down the stone halls like a war drum, followed by the grinding shriek of iron hinges as the door groaned open.
The man who stepped through was barely recognizable from the one who had been caged moments ago. Marcus staggered into the light, his figure a silhouette against the darkness behind him. His body was drenched in blood—not all of it his own. Crimson streaks dripped from his arms, his ragged shirt plastered to his skin. His knuckles were torn raw, his breathing ragged. There was a look in his eyes that spoke of what he had just done in those five minutes: an unflinching acceptance that he had survived because others had not.
He stood there for a heartbeat, framed by the doorway, the desert wind whipping around him. Then he took one faltering step forward, and another, before his legs betrayed him entirely.
"Woah, woah…"
The red-haired man moved like a striking serpent, catching him just before he crumpled to the ground. He knelt, holding Marcus up with one arm, his other hand steadying the back of his head.
"I'm afraid I can't let you die on me just yet," he said with a low chuckle, though there was a strange sincerity buried under the humor.
Marcus coughed, a weak laugh escaping his lips, though it was quickly followed by a grimace. "I—I won, right?" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
Soren exhaled through his nose and allowed a slow smile to creep across his face. "You're standing here, aren't you? That's more than anyone else in there can say."
For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the hiss of the wind and the distant rumble of shifting sand dunes. Then Soren's tone shifted, becoming quieter, almost respectful.
"What's your name?"
Marcus swallowed hard, spitting blood into the sand before answering. "…Marcus. Marcus Verrien."
Soren's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, studying him as if committing the name to memory. Then he smirked.
"And you?" Marcus asked, his voice faint but curious.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," the red-haired man said, his voice soft yet absolute, carrying a weight that hinted at secrets Marcus could not yet fathom. Then, with a faint tilt of his head and a grin that was equal parts charming and unnerving, he added:
"But for now, you can call me… Soren."
The desert wind suddenly surged, howling past them, whipping Soren's hair into a frenzy and scattering sand in spiraling columns around their feet. His red eyes gleamed like molten coals as he finally turned his full gaze toward Marcus, and for a moment, he looked less like a man and more like something the desert itself had conjured.
"Well then, Marcus…" His grin widened, feral and promising. "Are you ready?"
Marcus blinked up at him, chest still heaving. "Ready for what?"
Soren rose to his feet, hauling Marcus up with him, then turned his face toward the endless sea of dunes. The horizon shimmered with heat, the setting sun painting the sand blood-red.
"To fight for the right to live" Soren said simply, his voice carried by the wind.
And with that, he stepped forward into the storm, leaving bloody footprints in the sand.