(POV: Leonardo)
The ship shuddered to a stop, the dull crunch of wood meeting sand echoing through Leonardo's skull. His wrists burned where the ropes cut deep, his shoulders stiff from days of confinement.
Blindfolded, gagged, he had nothing but sound and scent to anchor him. And now, the scent of the sea, the salt, the rotting fish, the faint tang of tar faded beneath something drier, harsher. A wind pressed heat against his skin like an open furnace.
Hands seized him roughly. He stumbled, his boots striking wood, then sand. Shouts in a foreign tongue rang in his ears, sharp syllables he did not recognize but had already begun to memorize. Chichewa. He caught words repeated like commands, clipped and urgent. The crew barked them in unison, the sound like a hammer.
He was dragged forward, stumbling as dunes shifted beneath him. Sand filled his boots, scratching raw skin.
His lungs screamed as the air changed from briny sea-breeze to parched dust. Sweat prickled down his spine. Every step was a shove, every breath a punishment.
"Levántalo," one of the mercenaries spat in Spanish. Lift him.
Two men jerked him upright, forcing him to keep pace. His pride refused to let him stumble further. He straightened, lifting his chin, listening.
The gulls grew distant. The ocean's roar shrank into memory. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by sand grinding underfoot and the low hum of insects hidden in the heat.
The march lasted what felt like hours. The blindfold seared his eyes with unending sun, yet when the ground sloped downward, the air changed again. Cooler. Stale.
He was shoved onto stone steps, the edges biting into his shins. The torches crackled faintly, and the smell of fire and damp earth filled his nose. Then, something else: a metallic tang he knew too well. Blood.
At last, the blindfold was yanked away.
The sight nearly stole his breath.
He stood in the yawning mouth of an underground chamber, carved from sandstone that glowed a dull orange under torchlight.
The ceiling was low, jagged, dripping with condensation. The air was heavy with dust and the reek of unwashed bodies. Groans reverberated faintly from dark corners, the broken moans of men he could not yet see.
Iron bars divided the chamber into rows of crude cells, their edges hammered into the stone. Blood had stained the sandstone in patches that would never wash away. Chains rattled in the dark.
A cough tore through the silence, followed by the sound of someone whispering a prayer.
A shove between his shoulders forced him forward. He staggered against the bars of a cell. The iron was rough, forged with no craft, but thick enough to hold. A guard smirked as he pushed Leonardo inside.
"Khala pansi," the man muttered in Chichewa. Sit down.
Leonardo remained standing, his jaw tight. His hands, though bound, slid over the bars, testing, feeling where metal met stone. No give. The guard sneered, slammed the door, and twisted a lock with a ring of iron keys.
Chains clattered from the walls, and one of the men grabbed Leonardo's wrists, shackling him to a crude ring bolted into sandstone. Leonardo pulled once, twice, enough to test the strength. Solid. The guard laughed under his breath, muttered something in Chichewa, and walked away.
The cell was nothing but stone floor, sand in the cracks, and the stench of mold. Yet Leonardo refused to sit. His back ached, his arms throbbed from the journey, but he forced himself to remain upright. He would not give them the sight of him broken.
From the next cell, a voice rasped in Spanish, cracked and weak. "Otro más. Bienvenido al infierno." Another one. Welcome to hell.
Leonardo turned, squinting through shadows. A man hunched in the far corner, his face swollen, eyes sunken. His voice carried no strength, only the dull acceptance of one who had given up long ago.
Leonardo's reply was sharp, steady. "No vine para quedarme." *I did not come to stay.
The prisoner let out a dry laugh that turned into a cough. He muttered something in Chichewa before curling back into himself, silent again.
Leonardo leaned against the bars, his hands brushing the rusted metal. He traced the uneven welds, the cracks in the sandstone where the bars had been driven deep. His mind catalogued every detail—the rhythm of the guards' boots, the way torchlight shifted with each patrol, the way air trickled faintly from cracks above.
He measured everything, not as a prisoner resigned to death, but as a commander assessing a battlefield.
The cave swallowed sound, yet carried whispers. From somewhere deeper, a man groaned, followed by the crack of a whip and a muffled cry. Leonardo closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He would not let this place take him.
Hours passed—he could not tell how many. Time dissolved into shadows and the drip of water from the cave ceiling. Fatigue gnawed at him, poison still dulling his muscles, but his resolve sharpened with every heartbeat.
He whispered to himself in Spanish, low, a vow only the stone walls could hear. "No acabaré aquí. No moriré en silencio." I will not end here. I will not die in silence.
***
The torches had burned low by the time new footsteps stirred the silence. These were not the heavy boots of guards, nor the careless shuffle of half-drunk mercenaries. These were measured, steady, like someone who owned the darkness and was unafraid of it.
Leonardo's eyes opened at once. He stayed still, chained against the wall, watching the flicker of torchlight grow closer.
The prisoners around him shifted uneasily. Even those broken by weeks of torment seemed to shrink back as if some presence greater than chains had entered the cavern.
The figure appeared, wrapped in shadows until she stepped into the circle of light. Kara.
She wore no mask tonight. Her hair, bound tight behind her head, caught the glow of the firelight. Her eyes cold, unreadable, swept across the chamber like a blade. The guards straightened as if her gaze alone was command. She needed no words. She needed no display of rank. She was rank.
Leonardo clenched his fists against the chains, not in fear, but in recognition. Here was the one who had taken him from the forest, who had whispered "Tama waka" before the world drowned in black. The assassin from across the sea.
Her boots tapped softly on the stone as she approached his cell. She did not rush, nor hesitate. She stopped before him, hands behind her back, her gaze fixed directly on his.
The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.
Leonardo refused to break it. He straightened against the wall, blood still dried on his tunic, sweat cutting lines through dust on his face. If she sought fear, she would find none.
At last, she spoke—in Spanish, each word sharp as steel.
"Así que este es el comandante." So this is the commander.
Her tone carried neither mockery nor respect. It was observation; the way a hunter might regard prey before deciding where to place the arrow.
Leonardo's voice was hoarse from thirst, but firm. "¿Viniste a verme morir?" Did you come to watch me die?
One corner of her mouth twitched, though not into a smile. "Morir no es tu destino todavía." Dying is not your fate yet.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the thin scar tracing the line of her jaw. Close enough to smell the faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to her. She studied him without blinking, as if searching for weakness in the lines of his face, the set of his jaw.
Leonardo met her gaze and held it, refusing to drop his eyes. "Entonces, ¿qué quieres de mí?" Then what do you want from me?
For the first time, a flicker passed over her face, something caught between irritation and intrigue. She tilted her head slightly, considering him.
In Chichewa, she said softly, "Mtima wolimba." Strong heart.
He did not understand the words, but the tone was clear. She was not mocking. She was naming him. Testing him.
Kara turned slightly, scanning the other prisoners. They lowered their eyes at once, retreating into the shadows of their cells. None dared to meet her gaze. Only Leonardo stood, unyielding.
Her attention returned to him. She tapped the iron bars with a gloved hand, once, twice, the sound echoing through the cavern. Then, in Spanish: "Romperte llevará tiempo. Pero el tiempo es mío." Breaking you will take time. But time is mine.
Leonardo leaned forward, the chains pulling taut. His reply came like a sword unsheathed. "Puedes tener el tiempo. Nunca tendrás mi lealtad." You can have time. You will never have my loyalty.
A shadow of something—curiosity, perhaps—crossed her eyes. But she did not answer. Instead, she stepped back, her expression shuttered once more. She gave a short order in Chichewa to the guards.
"Musamuche." Do not touch him.
The guards hesitated, glancing at one another. Usually, new prisoners were beaten, tested, broken quickly. But her word was law. They bowed their heads and retreated to their posts.
Leonardo caught the command, though its meaning eluded him. Still, he understood enough. She wanted him alive. Not untouched, perhaps, but preserved. For what? He could not yet tell.
Kara lingered one moment longer. She stood in silence, her eyes locked on his as though she were memorizing his face, the way his defiance sat in his stance.
Then she turned sharply and walked away, her steps vanishing into the deeper corridors of the cave.
When the last echo faded, the chamber seemed emptier than before.
Leonardo exhaled slowly, his heartbeat steady, his resolve sharpened. She had not come to gloat. She had come to measure him. And in her silence, in her decision to leave him chained but untouched, he found both danger and advantage.
He sank against the wall at last, his body aching. But even as fatigue pressed heavy, his mind worked. The bars, the chains, the patterns of the guards, the cracks in the stone. Every detail was a weapon waiting to be shaped.
And though Kara believed time was hers, Leonardo whispered into the darkness, his voice low, fierce, unyielding.
"El tiempo me pertenece a mí." Time belongs to me.