The laughter still rang in his ears when they dragged him from the hall.
Two knights pulled him along, the rope biting deep into his wrists with every step. His arms felt like they might tear from his shoulders, but the men never slowed. They moved with the indifference of men who had done this a hundred times before, his stumbling weight nothing more than a sack of grain to them.
The corridors beyond the great hall were narrow and dim, the walls of rough timber darkened with soot and smoke. A torch guttered in its bracket, its flame spitting sparks that hissed against damp wood. The air grew colder the farther they went, the warmth of the hearth fire receding into shadows that smelled of mold and rot.
Elias tried to resist, once, when his foot slipped on uneven stone. He dug his heels into the ground, gasping, "Wait—please, I don't—"
The answer came in the form of a mailed fist slamming into his stomach. Air left his lungs in a sharp, agonized grunt. Doubled over, gagging, he was yanked forward again, half-dragged now by the rope.
The corridor ended at a door bound in iron. One of the knights shoved it open, the hinges shrieking like a wounded beast.
A wave of cold struck him.
The dungeon smelled of mold, piss, and rust. The air was heavy, wet, clinging to his skin like a film. A narrow staircase spiraled downward into the earth, torchlight barely reaching the first steps. From below came the steady drip of water, each drop echoing into the dark like a slow heartbeat.
The knights dragged him down, his boots scraping against the stone. The deeper they descended, the more the world closed in. The sounds of life above—the shouts of men, the clatter of wood and iron, even the distant laughter—faded into silence. Only the dripping water remained, and the jingle of his captors' armor.
At the bottom, rows of cells stretched along the walls. Bars black with rust, straw rotting on the floors, chains dangling like broken limbs. Most were empty, though a few held shapes that stirred at the intrusion.
A man hunched in one corner, skeletal arms wrapped around his knees, eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight like a starving animal's. Another pressed his face against the bars, lips cracked and bleeding, whispering words Elias could not understand in a frantic litany. Somewhere deeper in the dark, something coughed—a wet, rattling sound that ended in silence.
Elias tried not to look.
A door creaked open. Hands shoved him forward. He hit the stone floor hard, the impact jolting through his arms and chest. The taste of blood filled his mouth again. He coughed, gagged, spat red into the straw.
By the time he lifted his head, the cell door was already swinging shut. The clang of iron locking into place echoed through the dungeon like a tolling bell.
The knights said nothing. Their boots thudded away, growing fainter until they vanished into the darkness above.
Elias lay there for a long time, cheek pressed to the cold stone, his body shaking from more than pain. His wrists burned, his jaw throbbed, and every breath scraped his ribs raw. He wanted to stand, to fight, to shout—but his strength was gone.
And so, for the first time since the books had crushed him in that dusty little shop, since he had woken under the alien sky, Elias Veyne broke.
His chest heaved. His throat tightened. And he wept.
The sobs came raw and ragged, tearing through the silence, echoing back at him from the walls. He pressed his face into his bound hands, ashamed of the sound, but unable to stop it. He had studied war his entire life—through the lens of history, through the comfort of pages and ink. He had seen battlefields in maps, not with his eyes; he had read about soldiers starving in trenches, not starved himself. He had written about loss, about despair, as if knowledge could grant him immunity.
But now, history had teeth. And they tore into him without mercy.
"I don't belong here," he whispered, his voice shaking. His words broke in the air, swallowed by the stone. "I don't belong anywhere."
The dungeon gave no reply.
Only the dripping of water, steady and cold.
Time slipped. He did not know how long he lay there. Minutes. Hours. It stretched and folded in the dark. His body numbed against the stone, and the ache in his limbs dulled to a steady throb.
At some point, he heard movement. A shuffling from the cell across from his. Eyes glinted in the dark—two, unblinking, watching. He tensed, holding his breath. The shape did not move closer, did not speak. It only watched, silent and patient as the stones themselves.
Elias turned away, shivering.
Exhaustion came in waves, dragging him under despite his fear. His eyelids grew heavy, his tears drying against his skin. His last thought before sleep was not of escape, not of survival, but of home—though he had none.
And in the silence of the dungeon, the lost soul of Elias Veyne began the slow, brutal descent into the crucible that would either break him… or forge him.