Thunder rumbles like the growl of a beast. Lightning splits the sky, illuminating a sprawling, fortress-like prison built into the jagged cliffs of a mountain range. Its walls are slick with rain, its towers jutting upward like black fangs into the storm. Chains dangle from rusted iron spikes along the battlements, swaying violently in the wind.
In the bowels of this place, into a corridor of damp stone where torchlight flickers weakly against dripping walls. The air is heavy with mildew, sweat, and despair.
At the very end of the hall, in the darkest corner, lies a cell. Inside, chained to the wall, sits a boy. His body is small and wiry, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, but lean with a survivor's toughness. His skin is pale, marred by cuts, bruises, and whip scars that lace across his arms, chest, and back. His hair is wild and unkempt, a tangled mane of blonde and dark peach, falling to his shoulder blades like a lion's mane.
But his eyes—his eyes are what set him apart. Cold, lifeless amber, slit like a predator's, reflecting faint torchlight with an eerie glow. Eyes that belonged not to a boy, but to something primal and forgotten.
He does not weep. He does not rage. He only exists. Raised within these walls, his cries had been silenced long ago with fists, boots, and whips. Food is not given to him, but tossed as though to a stray dog. He has never known compassion, only survival in confinement.
Suddenly, the storm outside grows violent. Thunder cracks, and the sound of iron doors grinding open echoes through the hall. Guards drag a battered man and hurl him into Indra's cell.
The man crashes to the ground with a groan. He is in his late thirties, once strong but now weathered and bruised, his body covered in bloodied bandages. His hair is black streaked with gray, his jawline sharp but covered in scruff. His arms are scarred with burns and arcane markings, the remnants of a warrior's past.
His breathing is ragged as he slowly sits up, leaning against the opposite wall. His eyes fall on Indra. Confusion washes over his battered face. "…I've never seen you before… who are you?"
"Indra." He said flatly, The man studies him for a moment. Then a sudden fit of coughing overtakes him. Blood sprays against his palm. As the storm outside cracks again, lightning briefly illuminates the boy's slitted amber eyes. The man freezes. His face goes pale. His eyes widen in disbelief. "I–I–Impossible!" The man said with a hoarse voice—panicked.
His body trembles as he tries to push himself back against the wall, his strength failing him. "I heard stories… whispers of a Dragon being locked up here… but I couldn't believe it…" His voice is filled with awe, fear, and something like reverence. "…There are other people here?" Indra asked while tilting his head.
The man blinks, confused by the boy's words. He nods weakly. "…Other prisoners. Men that deserve to be here." He coughs again, blood streaking down his lips. His eyes soften with regret. "…But then again… so do I. I deserve this cage… for what I've done." Indra watches him quietly, expression unreadable. He has never had a conversation like this—never heard another voice directed at him without cruelty.
The man exhales, his gaze drifting to the dripping ceiling as though seeing memories play before him. "I was once a Battle Mage… one of the few. Do you know what that means, boy? Most men choose the path of steel or spell—knight, spearman, assassin, or mage. But to wield both blade and sorcery together… that is something rare. Something envied. Something feared." He said as if recalling one of the battles.
"I bled for that power. While others honed their bodies or their minds, I broke mine. Day after day, year after year, chasing strength I was never meant to hold. And I found it… for a time."
His scarred hands tremble as he lifts them, showing faint glowing lines of ruined magical etchings burned into his flesh. "I wielded fire with a sword in my grip. I shattered men, monsters, armies alike. They called me the Crimson Fang on the battlefield. A hero, they said." He coughs again, his body convulsing. His eyes glint with bitterness.
"But my hunger… it led me to a path I should not have walked. Forbidden and forgotten magic… doors no man was meant to open. I tapped into powers not of our world. Dark, twisted things that clawed into my soul the moment I reached for them." The man voice cracks, a mixture of regret and pride.
"And with every step I took toward power, I lost pieces of myself. My men, my friends, my own flesh and blood—I sacrificed it all, for strength. And now… here I rot, with nothing left but scars." He slumps back against the wall, his breathing shallow, his body trembling from exhaustion. His eyes drift back to Indra, studying the boy's inhuman gaze.
"…But you… you are strength itself. The storm outside rages for you, boy. You are no prisoner. You are a Dragon…" Lightning flares once more showing Indra's emotionless face, his amber eyes reflecting the storm's fury as the man's words hang in the air.