Frost woke up in the cell, his body aching, his jaw throbbing, every breath forcing a grimace. The light was weak, filtered through a small opening high above, casting shifting shadows on the damp stone walls. The smell of mold and metal saturated the air, clinging to his lungs like an invisible poison. He remained still for a few moments, letting his mind take in the space: cold, seeping walls, uneven floor, rusted bars, and the flickering torch in a corner that threw brief, insufficient flashes of light, unable to chase away the darkness.
His whole body trembled, but not just from the pain. The loss of his family, of his magic, of everything he had once held as certain, hit him with a violence he could hardly name. His father and mother, murdered by strangers; his brother and sister, lost in the chaos; Zoé, the girl he loved, far away and unreachable… Each memory stabbed him, each thought a bite of solitude and despair. He remembered tender moments, laughter shared with his brother, the mischievous insolence of his sister, the comforting advice of his father, and the warmth in his mother's gaze. It had all collapsed, and he had nothing left to hold on to.
The Redhead was there, in a corner, leaning against the wall. Silent, yet profoundly present. His tousled red hair framed a sharp, angular face, and his green eyes glimmered with a strange light, both contemptuous and enigmatic. Frost didn't yet know whether to hate him or fear him. His broken jaw and the crushing, humiliating defeat he had suffered intensified a mixture of anger and confusion: the Redhead had humiliated him, yet there was something behind his actions, a subtlety, an intention beyond mere violence. As if he had wanted to warn him, test him… or teach him something Frost was not yet able to grasp.
Frost clenched his fists. The oppressive silence enveloped him. He could neither speak, nor shout, nor call for help. His magic, ripped from him by the unyielding hand of the green-masked figure, had left him completely defenseless. Every breath felt like an effort, every heartbeat a reminder of his weakness. He was alone, utterly alone, and that solitude burned in his veins.
He let himself slide down the wall, drawing his knees to his chest, letting his mind drift to memories. He saw himself as a child, playing with his brother in the family garden, laughing loudly with his sister, sharing secrets with Zoé. These images now seemed unreal, as if they belonged to another life, another world. The weight of loss crushed him. He felt a dull rage, infinite sadness, and a void that made it almost impossible to breathe.
Yet another emotion simmered inside him: a confused hatred toward the Redhead. Not only for the physical pain, but for what he represented: strength, mastery, the subtlety he had shown. And yet, beneath that hatred, Frost felt an insidious curiosity. This Redhead… he wasn't simply an enemy. There was something else. Something Frost couldn't yet grasp. Perhaps a future ally, perhaps a guide in this chaos. The tension between them was palpable, a mix of mistrust, forced respect, and latent challenge.
Frost inhaled deeply, letting his eyes roam the cell. The damp walls seemed to close in on him, the weight of his physical and emotional defeat merging with the anxiety of uncertainty. Every movement reminded him of his fragility, every shadow cast by the torch reminded him of the invisibility of his opponent and the constant presence of danger.
The Redhead barely lifted his eyes toward him. He said nothing, but Frost felt the weight of his gaze as if it were a silent judgment. Far from provoking hostility, it intrigued him. This young man seemed to carry a quiet, calculated strength, almost strangely reassuring in a place ruled by fear. Frost realized he might one day need to accept this presence, to learn from him. But not yet. Not now.
The silence stretched, broken only by the steady drip of water from the seeping stones. Alone with his thoughts and despair, Frost began to feel the first spark of an idea: survival. If he could no longer rely on his magic, he would have to rely on himself, on his body, on his mind. Perhaps the Redhead could help him, or perhaps he was simply a mirror of what he needed to become. One thing was certain: hatred and frustration would not be enough. The prison, the silence, the solitude… all of it had to become his school, his training, his preparation.
As the night dragged on, Frost remained motionless, eyes fixed on the corner of the cell where the Redhead had curled up. An idea formed in his mind: understand this young man, learn from him, and one day, reclaim what he had lost. His family, his magic… and his freedom.
Frost sat against the cold wall of the cell, knees drawn up to his chest. The pain in his broken jaw, the fatigue, and the weight of despair mingled in a nearly tangible silence. The Redhead, leaning against a corner, watched him without a word, motionless, as if time itself had stopped around them. The flickering torch cast shadows across their faces that danced with the rhythm of their breaths, making the air feel thicker, heavier.
After a long moment, Frost slightly lifted himself. His voice was weak, hoarse, but he was not afraid to speak to this stranger—not truly. He needed to release the chaos that had lived inside him for days.
— I… I want you to know… he murmured, staring at the floor. Everything… everything that's happened to me… my family… my father, my mother… they… they're dead. My brother and sister… I don't know… And my magic… I can't… I can't do anything…
The Redhead did not move. His green eyes fixed on Frost, unyielding, silent. Not a word, not a gesture. Nothing but a profound, almost terrifying calm. Frost felt his heart race. He wanted to speak, to demand a response, but he felt as if he were hitting an invisible wall.
Finally, the Redhead spoke a few words, sharp, cutting like knife strikes:
— I know.
Frost lifted his eyes, surprised. His lips trembled as he tried to understand.
— How… how do you know…?
— Same situation, replied the Redhead with measured slowness. My family… murdered. My magic… taken. I was brought here. Like you.
He lowered his eyes for a moment, his fingers brushing the stone floor. Frost felt a palpable sadness in the gesture, but there was also a quiet strength, a discipline, something almost ancestral, as if this young man had grown surrounded by combat and austere teachings.
— But… you… you know how to fight, murmured Frost, almost with a suffocated hope. You… you've learned hand-to-hand combat?
The Redhead raised his green eyes, gleaming in the shadow. He answered simply, without embellishment:
— Yes. Family of fighters. Body and mind.
Another silence fell. Frost watched the Redhead, fascinated and intimidated. He felt that every word he spoke carried weight, every gesture measured. There was a mystery surrounding him, an aura Frost could not penetrate. He was powerful, yet restrained, like a tiger trapped in an invisible cage.
— Then… train me, pleaded Frost, his voice vibrant with determination despite his fatigue. If I can no longer use my magic… this is all I have left to defend myself. To… to find… my brother and sister…
The Redhead observed him long, his green eyes piercing every thought of Frost. After a silence that seemed to last an eternity, he nodded slightly.
— You will learn. But not now. You must first understand where you are.
— The prison… murmured Frost, teeth clenched. What is it?
— A place where time is an illusion, said the Redhead, every word precise, sharp. Pain and fear… they are your companions here. Learn to use them, or they will break you.
He let the words linger in the air before leaning back against the wall, silent. Frost sensed urgency, but also patience in that silence. He had to observe, to learn, to wait for the right moment.
Then, almost like a whisper, the Redhead added:
— You'll see soon enough… it's almost time for the walk.
Frost felt his chest tighten. The "walk"—the idea that there were other prisoners, other dangers—sparked both fear and a flicker of curiosity. He knew that every moment in this place was a test. Every encounter, a challenge. And with the Redhead, a possibility emerged: survival.
As they sat in the relative silence of the cell, Frost felt something shift within him. Hatred, pain, despair… they could coexist with a new discipline, a necessary learning. And in the shadow of this mysterious young man, for the first time in a long while, he sensed a chance to find a path toward the light.
And suddenly, Frost was pulled from his thoughts by a shrill bell that echoed through the prison. It tore through the oppressive, damp silence, leaving a trail of cold unease in its wake. Each reverberation seemed to linger in the stone walls, as if the very building were breathing in this dread. Frost remembered the Redhead's words: the bell signaled the prognathe — the promenade in the yard, a moment when all prisoners were forced outside. But here, in this dark and merciless prison, the announcement carried no promise of freedom. It vibrated like a warning, a low, simmering tension that chilled him to the bone. The fragile little spark he had felt within himself flickered, nearly extinguished by a shiver that ran through him.