Chapter Seven — Breaking
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, the echo swallowing every sound but the rapid thumping of his own heart. Lucien's breath came in shallow bursts, ragged and uneven. The darkness pressed close, thick and suffocating, curling around his limbs like cold smoke.
He sank to the floor, the rough stone biting through his clothes, and let the silence fill his ears — until it roared.
It roared with everything he was trying not to feel.
The pounding in his chest grew louder, drowning out thought, blurring the edges of reality.
His mind spiraled, chasing desperate questions that had no answers.
Why am I here?
What did I do to deserve this?
The weight of the blows, the harsh voices, the cold blades pointing at him — all replayed in relentless, vivid flashes behind his closed eyelids.
His body trembled with exhaustion and pain, but inside, something more fragile was breaking.
A quiet, slow fracture spreading through his bones.
He pressed his palms against the stone floor, trying to hold himself upright — but the strength wasn't there.
His legs folded beneath him like brittle twigs, and he crumpled further into himself.
The heat of the desert, the biting hunger, the thirst gnawed at him, but none of that was as sharp as the raw ache in his chest.
A dull, pulsing ache that wasn't just physical.
It was the ache of knowing everything had changed in a heartbeat.
He was untethered — cast into a place that felt endless and merciless.
He had no map, no guide, no light.
Only questions stretching endlessly ahead.
His breathing hitched — ragged sobs catching in his throat, choking him with their weight.
He tried to swallow the noise down, but it spilled free anyway — quiet, broken, trembling.
Tears slipped silently down his face, but they weren't enough to wash away the emptiness inside.
The cold stone dug into his cheek, but even pain became numb.
Memories flickered — the life he'd known before: the laughter in the sunlit halls of his family home, the warmth of his mother's smile, the steady strength of his father's voice.
But those memories felt unreal now, like stories told to someone else.
His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as if he could grasp something solid, something permanent — but there was nothing.
Just silence.
Just darkness.
Just the endless weight of solitude.
His thoughts began to unravel.
What if no one is coming?
What if this is all there is?
His mind raced, leaping from one shadow to the next.
Images of the men who captured him — their faces hard and unreadable, their blades sharp and unforgiving — haunted the edges of his vision.
He could still feel the sting of their blows — the raw heat of pain flaring across his skin.
A dull throb pulsed in his ribs where fists had crashed into him again and again.
His jaw ached where it had been struck, his muscles tight and swollen.
His body was a battlefield, and every breath was a reminder of how fragile he truly was.
Yet worse than the pain was the helplessness — the complete absence of control.
He wasn't just lost in this place; he was erased from it.
No voice to call out with.
No hand to reach for.
No warmth to cling to.
He was utterly invisible to the world beyond his cell.
Time became meaningless.
Minutes slipped by like hours, hours like days.
The silence was endless — heavy, oppressive.
His own thoughts became his only company, but they weren't kind.
They circled around, sharp and relentless, cutting deeper with every turn.
Why did this happen to me?
What if I don't survive?
The thought struck him like a physical blow.
The possibility that this place — this endless desert, these cold cells, these merciless captors — could be the end.
A final, merciless ending.
His knees pulled to his chest as he curled tighter, the last threads of resistance unraveling.
The tears came again, faster now, hotter — not for what he'd lost, but for the emptiness spreading in his chest.
A quiet, hopeless ache that nothing could fill.
He tried to scream, but the sound caught in his throat.
He tried to move, but his body refused.
He was trapped in a cage made of flesh and fear.
For the first time, the full weight of his situation crushed him.
He was far from home.
Far from anything familiar.
And utterly, terrifyingly alone.
His hands trembled as he pressed them against his face, trying to hold together the pieces that were falling apart.
But the pieces kept slipping through his fingers, lost to a dark nothingness.
A deep, bone-deep sorrow settled over him — the kind that wraps tight around your ribs and never lets go.
His breath hitched again, and his voice broke in a small, trembling whisper.
"Please…"
No answer came.
Only the hollow, empty silence.
And the slow, steady breaking of everything he once believed in.