The sword descended in a fluid downward motion, aiming for the prisoner's head with a vertical strike. Fortunately, the sword lacked the range. The warrior paused, and with a light huff of air, dragged the sword across the ground. The prisoner's body was too far for his attack to reach.
The two men analyzed each other. Ezkiel's eyes moved in horror at how realistic the man before him seemed. The way he moved, the way his fist gripped the sword's hilt. It was all so real that he couldn't comprehend the attempted strike in his direction. He couldn't imagine that such factors could be reproduced in his dream; after all, he didn't know how to wield a sword.
The man was also analyzing him. His posture, in contrast to Ezkiel's, was more aggressive, as if studying a target, looking for openings and flaws in his mask. His expression shifted with suspicion, his grip tightening on the worn hilt of his sword with each passing moment.
The visual standoff was interrupted by a loud, distant sound that echoed through the stone corridors, waking both from their pensive state. The urgency with which the man had arrived returned to his movements.
Remaining on his feet, the man sheathed his sword, looking the unknown prisoner up and down. From the back of his belt, he pulled a short dagger with a hilt patched with nearly loose leather strips. The dull blade was positioned in front of his body as he extended his hand into the cell.
— I don't have much time. Neither will you.
The hunter dropped the metal blade inside the cell. He took a deep breath as he spoke.
— The Others are coming, and the prison chains are indestructible by any metal. I couldn't free you from this suffering, but I will leave you with a choice.
Ezkiel stared in disbelief at the words before him. His mind, which had subconsciously thought he would be saved by another human, couldn't think straight about what he should do. He stared at the dagger, still without reaction, as he watched it fall to the ground in front of him.
— It's an old blade, but it's still sharp.
The man looked him deep in the eyes. Ezkiel noticed the immaculate brown of his right eye, while the left was filled with the milky white of blindness.
— You won't have much time until The Others arrive. The blade will cut your neck with ease, but if you lack the courage, you can throw yourself upon it. It's the best I can do for you, prisoner.
The man looked at him again. His sword's blade was too short to be able to stab the prisoner. Giving him the chance to grant himself mercy was the only thing he could do.
Ezkiel continued to stare at the blade. His expression was completely shattered by dread and fear. The idea of using the blade against himself had never crossed his mind. To take his own life? How could he even think of such a thing?
Others? Kill myself? No... No... Why doesn't he just save me? He has a sword. He could at least try to break the chains! Maybe kick the bars to bend them... Why not save me? What is coming? Why am I so scared of this damn nightmare? He could just end it...
As soon as he could think functionally again, he understood the choice. He could end this grim dream now. He just needed the courage to finish it. If he died in the dream, he would wake up in the real world. It was logical, it seemed to be a logical fact. He just needed the courage to do it.
Ezkiel held the old blade with both hands. The matte sheen reflected no light. The hilt was stained by the old, worn leather, which felt grainy to the slightest touch. The few leather strips were slipping down, coming loose. It revealed the metal hilt underneath, completely scratched, showing that it had already been replaced dozens of times before.
The blade guided a path he could follow.
The prisoner brought the blade to his own throat. The chains scraped the ground, echoing the sound of his movement. He swallowed his saliva slowly, while his hands trembled as they moved ever closer to his white, bruised skin. He felt the blade touch the metal collar on his neck, positioning it underneath to deliver the blow.
He took a deep breath, mustering all the strength he had within him to perform the next action. His chapped lips broke open, leaking more droplets of blood. If he had enough water in his body, tears would be streaming from his eyes. His small hands tightened their grip on the blade's hilt.
CLINK!
The sound of metal against stone echoed through the room. The blade had fallen from his hands.
I... I don't want to die!
Ezkiel thought aloud. His hands trembled with despair at the mere thought of completing such an act, even in his dreams. Perhaps it was his weakness, or a hidden courage to keep fighting against this horrible dream, but he didn't want to give up. He couldn't give up.
A new loud sound echoed through the environment, closer now. The Others were coming.
Desperate and afraid, the prisoner picked up the dagger from the ground and began to strike it against the chain on his neck, trying to break it loose. The metal seemed to be resistant, and he didn't have the strength in that malnourished body to break it. Then, an idea came to his mind as he looked at his arms, still bound by chains, but loose at the other end.
The stone! I need to break this damn stone!
His feet scraped against the rough stone. The chains symbolized his imprisonment with every step. Upon reaching the wall, he began to jab the dagger wildly into it, like an unskilled sculptor. After a few arduous minutes of work, the stone gave way, and the chain that was set in its center fell to the ground. Even bound by the shackles, Ezkiel was free to move.
He heard the sound of footsteps growing louder in his direction with great, strident thuds. He ran to the metal bars that kept him from leaving the cell. Desperate, he began to pull them, push them, strike them, trying every kind of action a frightened animal could, but none succeeded.
Dread, one of the greatest symbols of genuine fear, took over his mind in such a way that the only thought that arose was to flee. The footsteps were getting closer. The Others were approaching. Whatever they were, it wouldn't be good to be there when they arrived.
The continuous blows and shoves began to cause bruises on his fragile body. However, the pain didn't last. It was suppressed when he saw a small gap made by the dents in the bars to his right. He had pushed the metal so hard that the upper stone holding the bars had given way forward, creating a small opening between the rusty metal.
Ezkiel leaned forward, squeezing himself through the gap. He felt the old rust cut his white skin and stain it with light brownish-red lacerations, a mixture of rust and his own thin blood.
After passing through the bars, a stinging sensation ran through his injured body. In pain, he fell onto the wet floor, his knees landing in the dirty water. As he tried to get up, Ezkiel heard footsteps behind him coming from the dark corridors.
Looking back, he saw two humans staring at him. At least, they looked human. Their eyes were completely red, dyeing the entire eyeball a dark, blood-red color. The two figures slowly approached the prisoner. Their mouths opened, revealing a kind of organ made of tentacles that pulsed like a heart.
Their hands moved forward, holding swords that fused to their skin by reddish muscles, like mucous fibers that bound their bodies to the weapons. They wore knight's armor, without helmets. The armor let these reddish fibers leak out, joining as part of them. Vines that took root, forming a single being.
These creatures moved the tentacles that came out of their mouths around the environment, grinding their human bodies in Ezkiel's direction. The boy, desperate, observed true dread. However, he only smelled a strong scent of spice in the air. Something so inconsistent with his current situation that his senses went wild.
About to run, a tentacle stretched out in his direction, tearing the flesh of his right shoulder.