Present Day — Lenaor, Capital of the Human Kingdom
The tavern was alive with the thick hum of late-night revelry. Lanterns burned low in their sconces, casting a honey-colored haze across smoke-worn beams, the air clinging heavy with the mixed scents of roasted meat, spilled ale, and sweat. Dice rattled against wooden tables, the crack of laughter rising over the strings of a poorly tuned lute being plucked in the corner.
At the heart of it sat a man who seemed to thrive in the noise. Broad-shouldered, loud, his boots kicked up on the table, he leaned back with the swagger of someone convinced the room belonged to him. A half-empty mug of dark ale hung lazily from one hand, his other arm draped around the waist of the woman perched comfortably on his knee. She was no unwilling ornament; her head rested against his shoulder, lips curved in a smile as she toyed with the chain around his neck, laughing at his stories as though they were private treasures.
He bellowed with laughter, slamming the mug against the table hard enough that froth spilled down the sides.
"And then the bastard tried begging'!" His voice carried, drawing smirks and a few uneasy glances from nearby patrons. "On his knees, he was. Said he'd sell the shirt off his back if I gave him one more week. One more week! Ha!" He wiped the foam from his beard with the back of his hand, grinning wide. "You should've seen the look when I told him coin don't stretch, only break."
The woman laughed with him, eyes glinting as though she enjoyed the tale as much as he did. The surrounding tables shifted, half the tavern leaning in, the other half turning away as if not wanting to be noticed by the kind of man who found sport in someone else's begging.
The noise faltered when the door creaked open. Cold night air bled into the heat of the room. Four men stepped inside, each one cut from the same cloth: cloaks drawn close, shoulders square, their eyes unbothered by the smoky gloom. They didn't speak, didn't order, didn't glance at the barmaid. They simply entered and scanned the tavern until their gaze settled on him.
The man straightened, still smirking, his free hand tightening around the woman's hip as though daring anyone to challenge his place. But the strangers weren't impressed. They moved forward with slow inevitability, the way debt collectors walk when they already know the purse is empty.
The nearest stopped just shy of his table. The room had gone near-silent now, the background music fraying into uncertainty.
"You," the man said, voice low but carrying. "Are you Kelos Brenar?"
The woman shifted on his knee, but Kelos only leaned forward, squaring his chest, the smirk widening into a grin that showed teeth. His name spoken aloud gave him a surge of pride.
"Who's asking'?" His voice dripped with mockery. "You know who I work for?"
The leader tilted his head, unshaken, then gave the smallest nod. "Take him."
The command dropped like a stone into water. Two of the cloaked men lunged at once, gripping his arms before the woman even had time to move aside. Kelos roared, thrashing, kicking the table aside in a clatter of mugs and dice. Chairs scraped, patrons scrambled back against the walls.
He didn't go quietly.
Dragged through the tavern door into the cold street.
The night air hit him the moment they dragged him out of the tavern, colder than the heat of wine that still clung to his tongue. The streets were quieter here, the din of laughter and music swallowed once the door slammed shut behind them. Cobblestones gleamed faintly under scattered lanterns, slick with the residue of an earlier rain.
One of the cloaked men reached to pull a hood over his head.
Kelos reacted like a cornered animal. He twisted, head snapping forward. His skull cracked against the man's nose with a wet crunch. The guard reeled back with a muffled curse, blood spilling down his chin.
"Think you can leash me?" Kelos barked, lips curling into a grin.
He thrust his arm out, and with a guttural growl the ground shuddered. From the stones themselves a massive shape tore free — jagged plates of earth and gravel knitting into the hulking silhouette of his Link. A stone golem, taller than any man present, its eyes burning like dull coals in its craggy face.
With a roar that rattled shutters on the nearby houses, the golem swung its arm. The impact sent one of the cloaked men sprawling across the street, landing in a heap against a water trough.
Kelos laughed, chest heaving with exhilaration. "That's right! You don't touch me, you don't even breathe near me unless I allow it. You know who I work for? You know what'll happen when—"
The words froze in his throat.
The leader had not moved until now. At Kelos's boast, he raised a hand, a subtle gesture that stopped the remaining guards from rushing in. He stepped forward alone, his boots ringing sharp against the cobblestones.
There was no fear in his stride. No hesitation.
He drew his sword.
The steel glinted, catching the lantern light with quiet menace. Kelos's grin faltered. He tugged on the bond with his golem, forcing it forward. The construct's stone fist crashed down, enough to crush a horse's skull.
But the man moved with inhuman calm. He slid beneath the strike, blade flicking up in a single clean arc. The sword's edge kissed Kelos's throat before he even understood what had happened. The golem froze mid-motion, as if sensing its master's peril.
Kelos swallowed hard, every boast withering into the night.
The man's voice was low, steady, as sharp as the blade at his neck. "They ordered you alive. But step one inch further out of line... and only your head will arrive where it's meant to go. Do you understand?"
Kelos nodded stiffly, the stone golem crumbling apart behind him. The shattered rubble clattered across the street, leaving nothing but silence and his own shallow breathing.
This wasn't just a summoner. This was a Bridge.
Fighting here would be the same as dying, an sync summoner like him would never won against a bridge.
A black hood was yanked down over his face. The world spun as fists and iron grips closed on him. He thrashed, cursed, but every blow was answered with another shove, another strike to his ribs until the fight bled out of him. Darkness claimed his senses.
The world swam in and out of focus, a haze of stale wine still burning in his skull. His arms ached from where the chains bit into his wrists, stretched so high his shoulders felt like they were tearing out of their sockets. Every breath dragged in the stink of rot and mildew, the kind of air that clung wet to the back of the throat.
A boot connected with his stomach.
Kelos gagged, choking on spit and bile as his head sagged forward. The floor blurred below him, black stone slick with damp.
"Awake yet?" The voice was rough, low, the kind of tone that carried no patience.
Kelos wheezed a laugh, blood and phlegm dribbling down his chin. "You picked the wrong bastard to hang up like meat. You know who I—"
The fist cut him off, cracking across his cheek. His head snapped sideways, the copper taste of blood blooming on his tongue.
"Where is he?" the interrogator asked. No names, no explanations. Just those three words.
Kelos blinked against the sting, eyes half-lidded. "Where's who?" His laugh came out wet, mocking. "You drag me in here over some nameless brat? You don't even know who you've—"
The man seized one of his fingers and wrenched it back.
The snap was sharp. Brutal. Kelos's scream tore through the chamber, echoing off the stone. He thrashed against the chains, muscles burning, but the iron held. His voice broke into ragged panting as pain shuddered through his whole arm.
"Where is he?" the interrogator repeated, calm as a priest.
Kelos's head lolled, sweat dripping down into his eyes. He laughed again, but this time it was fractured, desperate. "I've made half this city beg on their knees. Merchants, gamblers, whoresons — dozens of 'em. You think I keep track of every whelp? If you want names, you'll be here all week."
The man didn't answer. He only drove a knife into Kelos's side — shallow, deliberate, just enough to draw blood. Kelos howled, body jerking against the chains, his legs kicking at the air like a trapped dog.
"Keep talking." The interrogator's words were as flat as stone.
Kelos spat blood onto the floor, a grin tearing across his face despite the agony. "You don't scare me. You're nothing but a hired dog. My boss owns these streets. Owns the guards. Owns this whole damned city. You think he'll let you lay a hand on me? He'll string you up by your—"
The knife twisted. Kelos's words died in a ragged scream, throat raw as it bounced off the cold stone walls.
When he sagged again, sweat slick on his skin, the man leaned close enough that Kelos could feel his breath. "You think he'll save you? Tell me, who do you think brought you here?"
The words landed heavier than the blows.
For the first time, Kelos faltered. His grin slipped, confusion cutting through the alcohol's haze. He searched the man's eyes for a lie, for any crack of uncertainty. There was none.
The door groaned open.
Bootsteps entered the chamber. Kelos raised his head, blinking through blood and sweat. The torchlight revealed a face he knew too well.
Relief struck first, fierce and desperate. "Boss!" he croaked, voice breaking. "I swear, I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't—"
The back of a hand silenced him. The slap cracked across his jaw, sharper than any punch.
"Shut your mouth."
Kelos reeled, stunned, staring at the man he had trusted to protect him. His boss — the one who had made him untouchable, who owned the dens and the debts, who had always pulled him out of trouble. Now he stood silent, shoulders low, gaze dropped to the floor.
Like a servant awaiting judgment.
Kelos's stomach sank.
Then the second set of steps entered. Slower. Heavier. The kind of steps that bent the room around them.
The torches seemed to falter, their flames shrinking as though the very air recoiled. Shadows stretched long across the walls, gathering like attendants bowing before something greater.
And then the figure appeared. Wrapped in the gravity of inevitability, his presence bent the chamber around him. The crest on his cloak caught the light — a chalice brimming with blood.
The sigil of Zoul.
Kelos's breath hitched. His body reacted before his mind could: head lowered, spine bowed in a trembling mockery of respect. His heart pounded so violently it drowned out the world, each thud echoing in his skull.
When he finally forced sound past his lips, it came as a broken whisper. "Y-Your Majesty..."
There he was. The King himself. A man whispered of in alleys and palaces alike, his cruelty woven into rumor and truth until the two were indistinguishable.
And in that suffocating silence, Kelos realized what true fear was. Even his own boss — the man who ruled the city's debts, who owned half its guards — shrank into the corner of the cell like a scolded servant, trembling like a beaten dog.
The King did not rush to speak. He merely stood there, his presence filling the dungeon like smoke filling a room, cloying and suffocating. The silence itself was its own torture, stretching taut until every nerve in Kelos's body screamed.
A flick of the King's hand, and the crime lord — the man Kelos had called "boss" for years — bent low, shuffling forward to toss a bundle of papers onto the floor at Kelos's feet. They scattered across the stone, pages stained and wrinkled, ink bleeding from damp air.
"Why," the King's voice finally came, low and unhurried, "did you fail to report that the boy saw your Link?"
The words slid through Kelos's fogged mind like foreign coin — the shape familiar, the value unknown. He blinked, jaw slack, unable to answer. His lips parted uselessly. "W-what boy?"
The boss spoke from behind, tone as cold as iron. "You left it to a novice to send the report. He botched it. The parchment went astray. An archivist flagged it — the account that a boy from the outer rings saw your Link before you struck him."
Memory flickered, hesitant, slipping through the haze of wine and pain. A scrawny brat in rags. Wide eyes. The echo of fear. The crack of his fist sending the boy sprawling. Had it been a year ago? Longer? Kelos felt his mouth go dry.
"I— I thought..." His voice faltered. He tried again, louder, as if noise could anchor him. "He was just a Noul. Poor rat from the slums. I dropped him where he stood. He's dead. Had to be."
The King's steps closed the space in two strides. Before Kelos could breathe, a fist like a hammer crashed into his stomach. Air fled his lungs in a strangled cry. His knees buckled but the chains dragged him upright, his body convulsing.
A hand seized his hair, jerking his head up until his swollen eyes met the amber cruelty of the King's gaze.
"You fool," the King hissed, every word sharp enough to flay. "When was the last time you saw a gutter-born Noul knock a summoner off his feet and see a Link? Has drink rotted what little your tutors ever taught you?"
Spit and blood mingled at Kelos's lips. His body shook. He had no answer.
The King shoved his head back, disgust curling his lip. He took a cloth from the boss, wiping his knuckles as though even Kelos's blood was beneath him.
"You saw the body?"
The question was a blade. Kelos shook his head frantically, panic drowning any last dregs of pride.
The King gave a slow signal. The chains released with a clatter, dropping Kelos hard onto the stone. His body curled in on itself, shivering against the cold, dressed in nothing but torn undergarments. The torturer flung his discarded clothes onto him like refuse.
The King turned, cloak trailing like shadow. His voice, when it came, was not a shout but a decree —and that made it all the heavier. "I'll grant you one chance to scrape the filth from your name. Go back to that house. Find the boy. Kill him. Bring me the body. Take three summoners with you. Fail again, and nothing of you will remain."
Kelos stammered thanks, words tumbling over themselves, desperate and broken. He scrambled to clutch his clothes, bowing, nearly groveling at their feet. The torturer yanked him upright and shoved him toward the corridor.
Behind him, in the cell, the boss remained still, head bowed, silent as stone.
"Why?" he dared to ask, voice small, eyes lowered. "Why is the boy so important, Your Majesty?"
The King's reply was a glance — cold enough to freeze marrow. "Because that boy is a loose thread I've hunted for nearly two decades. And your place is to obey, not to question."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The door groaned shut behind him, and the dungeon corridor stretched out like an endless throat swallowing him whole. The air here was heavier, colder, thick with the stench of mildew, iron, and sweat soaked into stone for decades. Every step Kelos took scraped echoes from the walls, his bare feet slipping slightly against the damp floor. The torchlight flickered with a jaundiced glow, smoke staining the ceiling black.
The torturer walked just behind him, boots striking with patient, merciless rhythm. Every time Kelos's pace faltered, a shove between the shoulders drove him forward again. He clutched his crumpled clothes to his chest, trembling, his ribs still aching from the King's blow.
Cells flanked both sides of the passage. At first, Kelos tried not to look. He fixed his eyes on the wavering torch ahead, willing himself to ignore the shapes hunched behind bars. But curiosity — or fear — kept dragging his gaze sideways.
The first cells housed the broken. Men with hollow eyes and bruised faces crouched in the corners, arms wrapped around their knees as if to make themselves vanish. One muttered endlessly under his breath, words too slurred to decipher. Another rocked back and forth in silence, lips moving soundlessly, hair falling in greasy tangles across his face.
Farther down, he glimpsed worse. A man chained spread-eagle against the wall, his chest a patchwork of whip marks, raw and bleeding. His head lolled, and every labored breath rattled with a wet sound. Across from him, a woman sobbed quietly into her hands, the bones of her shoulders sharp against the rags she wore. The sobs weren't loud. They were the quiet, resigned kind, the sort that scraped against the silence more than a scream would have.
Kelos's stomach turned. The smell grew stronger here: iron, rot, unwashed flesh. He tried to breathe shallowly, but each breath was worse than the last. The thought wormed in — this could be me. Another night in this place, another wrong word, and I'd be one of them. Sweat broke across his skin despite the cold.
He stumbled again, his shoulder grazing the bars of a cell. From the shadows within, a hand shot out— thin, bony fingers clawing for him. Kelos jerked back with a curse, nearly dropping his clothes, before the torturer slammed his fist against the bars, rattling them like a warning bell. The hand withdrew instantly, vanishing back into the dark.
"Keep walking," the man growled. Kelos obeyed, quickening his pace, but his heart hammered harder with each step.
And then he saw her.
At first, she was just another shadow slumped against the wall of her cell. Rags clung to her frame, little more than scraps stitched from old grain sacks. Her arms hung above her, wrists locked in iron cuffs, chain links cutting deep into raw flesh. She was thinner than the rest, almost fragile, her collarbones jutting like blades. He might have dismissed her, another nameless prisoner left to rot.
But then she lifted her head.
Her hair was a tangled curtain, falling across her face, but when she raised it enough, her eyes caught the torchlight. Blue. Not dull, not broken like the others — but piercing. Sharp. Alive. They locked onto him with terrifying precision, cutting through his soul like glass through flesh.
Kelos froze. His body forgot to move. For a heartbeat, the dungeon fell away. It was just those eyes, holding him, stripping him bare. They weren't pleading, they weren't afraid. They were... something else. Something that made his blood run cold. In that single look, he knew — if not for these bars, if not for these chains, I would already be dead.
A shiver crawled up his spine. His clothes slipped in his grip, and he almost dropped them to the floor. His mouth went dry. For all the years he had bullied, extorted, beaten others into submission, for all the swagger he carried into taverns, this woman's gaze unraveled him with a glance. It was as if she knew him, knew every rotten deed, every weakness — and judged him unworthy to draw breath.
He couldn't look away. His feet had rooted to the stone, his breath shallow and quick. Her hair slid across her cheek as she tilted her head, never blinking, never softening. That gaze pressed on him until his chest ached, until he felt smaller than he ever had in his life.
A shove slammed into his back. "Move," the torturer snarled.
Kelos staggered forward, gulping for air. The man's voice came low and harsh at his ear. "You're lucky the King gave you another chance. Don't linger here. That one—" He jerked his chin back toward the cell. "That one's mad. Killed at least ten men in this place, even chained. If you value what's left of your skin, don't get close again."
Kelos didn't answer. He couldn't. His legs carried him on, stumbling faster, but the weight of those blue eyes clung to him like chains of their own. Even when the cell bars vanished behind him, he felt her gaze seared into his back.
And as he stumbled onward, the dungeon itself no longer seemed the thing to fear. It was that woman. If she could wield eyes like that in her state, only one thought scraped through his mind:
Who was she before this place? I've been here for hours — barely that — and I'm already losing my sanity. He said she's been here for years... how can someone's will still burn so fiercely after so much time?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He shook his head, pushing the unnecessary thought aside while his footsteps echoed up the black marble stairs.