Frost opened his eyes slowly, his breathing heavy, as if he had just emerged from a nightmare he hadn't fully escaped. The first sensation was a biting cold, seeping into his bones, clinging to his skin with a clammy dampness. His wrists, sore and raw, reminded him of the restraints that had held him, and his throat, parched, burned with every breath.
His vision, blurred at first, swept across the space around him. The walls, built from roughly hewn stone, glistened with moisture. In places, thin streaks of salt whitened the rock, scars etched by time. The air was thick, laced with the acrid tang of rust and seaweed, suffocating, as if it lodged itself deep in his lungs
Above him, a wavering torch cast an unsteady glow, its light shifting with every draft that slipped through unseen cracks. With each breath of air from outside, a low, resonant rumble shivered through the stone, as though the world itself were breathing around the prison. The ground, slick and sticky in places, bore the marks of a place that had never once felt the warmth of the sun.
A steady sound echoed in the silence: plop, plop, plop. Droplets fell from an unseen ceiling and shattered into stagnant puddles. At times, the rhythm broke with a distant creak, like strained timber, or a hollow reverberation that made it seem as though the cell itself drifted within some larger, unknowable void.
Frost shivered. Nothing in this place felt stable—or safe. Every scent, every vibration, every breath gave him the sense that he was not merely imprisoned, but isolated, stranded in an environment utterly beyond his control.
He turned his head. No. In the shadows, seated against the opposite wall, a figure. A boy, slightly older than him—seventeen, perhaps. The torchlight revealed him piece by piece: a mane of fiery red hair, wild yet oddly captivating, falling across sharp, angular features. His eyes, a deep green, glimmered with something unreadable, suspended between weariness and disdain. His posture was relaxed, almost insolent, radiating a quiet confidence that seemed out of place in such a wretched cell. He wore a frayed shirt, half-open to reveal a lean frame, and dark, worn trousers. His boots, stained with dried mud, looked as though they had endured far more than their owner's years.
Frost swallowed hard. His mind scrambled for answers, but his lips trembled as he dared to break the silence.
— "Where… where are we?"
The red-haired boy barely lifted his gaze toward him. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before he turned away, as if the question were beneath him. Silence pressed in again, broken only by the ceaseless drip of water in the corner.
— "Can you hear me?" Frost insisted, his voice still hoarse.
A quiet sigh. Then, in a calm, almost careless tone:
— "Isn't it obvious?"
Frost frowned. The other's nonchalance both intrigued and infuriated him. He shifted closer, unwilling to let the answer slip away.
— "I asked you a question. Who are you? Why are you here?"
At last, the boy turned his face toward him. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, a blend of sarcasm and apathy.
— "Too many questions."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Frost swallowed again, his heart racing, his need to understand gnawing at him.
— "You could at least tell me your name," he whispered.
Another silence. The red-haired boy closed his eyes, resting his head back against the wall, utterly unmoved. His indifference cut deeper than words.
Finally, in a low, drawling voice, he said:
— "And if I did… what difference would it make?"
Frost froze. The words weren't cruel, but they fell like a verdict. Frustration boiled within him, tangled with helplessness.
The boy opened his eyes again, fixing Frost with his piercing green stare. His next words dropped like a blade:
— "You haven't figured it out yet, have you? You're weak."
Frost's chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his temples. Normally measured in every decision, always able to restrain his emotions, he now found himself utterly unable to hold back. The boy's words still rang in his ears, sharp and cutting: "You are weak."
A shiver of shame and anger surged through his body. His reason screamed at him to stay calm, but every fiber of his being cried out for vengeance. The fragile balance that usually guided his choices shattered beneath the weight of wounded pride.
I can't let him say that. Not like this. Not now.
Without another thought, Frost hurled himself at him. His body moved before his mind could finish shaping the impulse. Across from him, the red-haired boy showed neither fear nor surprise; his green eyes narrowed with something close to amusement, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
Frost clenched his fist and threw a straight right, sharp and precise, exactly as his instructor had drilled into him dozens of times. His foot pivoted to give power, and he followed with a sidestep, preparing an uppercut aimed at the ribs. All his training, all his effort, was poured into that single movement.
But the other slipped out of reach, fluid, as though his dodge had been sketched out in advance. His smile widened just slightly. Frost grit his teeth, frustration burning hot in his chest.
He struck again, this time with a simple but fast combination: a jab, lightning quick, followed by a cross loaded with all his strength. The boy parried with a casual sweep of his arm, absorbing the blow without flinching. His eyes, still calm, mocked Frost silently.
Twisting on his left foot, Frost unleashed a powerful hook aimed at his opponent's jaw. That punch could have floored almost anyone. But the redhead leaned back, letting the fist slice the air a hair's breadth from his face.
A cold gleam flickered in his eyes, and he finally spoke:
— "You are slow… and weak."
The words hit Frost harder than any strike. His breath caught, but he refused to retreat. He was about to lunge again when the redhead suddenly closed the gap with a single step. Fast—too fast. Frost had no time to react.
A brutal kick crashed into his knee. Pain exploded as his leg buckled, sending him staggering. Before he could recover, a right hook cracked against his jaw. The impact was devastating, sharp, final. His head snapped back, and he collapsed to the ground, mouth filling with blood, jaw broken.
Silence fell again, broken only by the frantic beating of his heart.
Then, suddenly, a metallic click echoed at the cell door. The hinges groaned open.
An individual stepped inside. His skin was a dark green, striking under the flickering light. Raising one hand, he unleashed a raw, invisible aura of air. The blast slammed into the red-haired boy, hurling him violently to the floor—the first time he had been thrown off balance.