Sylas opened his eyes slowly, the haze of unconsciousness lifting like a reluctant fog. His gaze instinctively veered upward, hoping against hope to catch sight of the familiar, cracked ceiling of the orphanage—the one with the faint water stains that Mercy used to joke looked like distant constellations. But his wish was for naught. Instead, he stared at an unfamiliar expanse of rough-hewn stone, shadowed and impersonal, lit only by the pale sliver of moonlight slipping through the narrow window beside his bed.
The cold night air whispered in from that same window, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang of recent rain. It hummed softly against his skin. He shifted slightly, and a dull throb pulsed through his body, as if every muscle and bone had been battered. Glancing to his side, he noticed a full-length mirror leaning precariously against the wall, not affixed but propped there like an afterthought. Its surface was dusty, reflecting the dim room in warped fragments.
He sat up gingerly, wincing as fresh waves of pain radiated from his core. In the mirror's unforgiving gaze, he saw himself—or what was left of him. Bandages wrapped his entire body like a makeshift shroud, coarse and uneven, stained with patches of deep crimson that had dried to a dull, rusty brown in places. He tugged at the rough fabric of the tunic draped over him, pulling it aside to reveal more of the wrappings beneath. They clung to his skin, sticky and unforgiving.
His eyes drifted upward in the reflection, and his breath caught. The left side of his face was entirely swathed in bandages, the fabric still vivid red in spots, the injury beneath raw and weeping. A tremor started in his hands, building like a storm. He clawed at the bandages on his face, fingers desperate and unthinking, ignoring the sharp sting as the wound reopened. Blood welled up, warm and slick, pooling on the wooden floor beneath him. It dripped down his cheek, but he kept pulling, tearing away layer after layer until the horror was laid bare.
There, etched into his flesh, was a jagged gash running down his left eye, from brow to cheek. The skin around it was inflamed, puckered and raw, the eye itself swollen shut, sealed by bruising and blood. It was the work of a blade—cruel, deliberate. Sylas recoiled, scrambling backward on the bed until his back pressed against the headboard. Blood trickled down his chin, staining his neck, but he barely felt it. *Who am I? No, no, NO. This face can't be mine.*
His mind reeled, fragments of memory flashing like shattered glass: Mercy's gentle smile, the way she'd trace his features with her fingers, calling him her "perfect little star." *I have a face Mercy adored. Not this.* He let out a dumbfounded laugh, the sound hollow and broken, echoing in the empty room. His feet slipped on the wet floor as he tried to push himself further away, but there was nowhere left to go. *This isn't my face It can't be.*
Tears welled up unbidden, streaming from his good eye and mingling with the blood from the wound. The salt stung like fire, but Sylas was petrified, shock wrapping around him like a vice, dulling every sense to a numb void. He reached out tentatively, his fingers tracing the ragged edge of the gash. The skin felt foreign under his touch, as if it belonged to someone else. He pressed deeper, into the maroon depths of the wound, and hot liquid burst forth again, the injury protesting with fresh agony.
This time, the pain crashed over him like a tidal wave, shattering the numbness. He shuddered violently, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. Sensation returned in a rush—too much, too sharp. His voice cracked as he whispered, "I can't do this anymore." The words hung in the air, fragile and raw, before the floodgates broke. He cried like a child abandoned in the dark, sobs wracking his bandaged frame. "It hurts. It hurts so much." His breaths came in wheezing gasps. "Mom, help me. I beg of you."
The plea stretched into eternity, echoing in his mind as time blurred. Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell. Eventually, the gash began to clot, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Exhaustion pulled him to his feet, the world tilting and spinning like a top. He stumbled forward, his hand finding the door latch. Pushing it open revealed a dim corridor, the clear moon hanging high in the sky like a indifferent sentinel. The remnants of rain still marked the grass fields below the fortress walls, glistening coldly under the lunar glow.
He walked aimlessly, no destination in mind, his thoughts a blank slate. The cold air bit at his exposed skin, stinging the wound on his face, but he felt nothing—numb again, adrift in a sea of despair. The fortress grounds stretched out before him, a maze of stone and shadow, but he wandered deeper, drawn by some unseen force.
A voice shattered the silence, low and mocking, pulling him from his trance. "Careful where you're walking, sweetheart—wolves get ideas."
Sylas turned his head sharply, squinting into the darkness. He realized now where his feet had led him: a damp, underground dungeon, the air thick with mildew and despair. The voice came from a cell to his right, where a man sat hunched in the shadows. Moonlight filtered through a high grating, illuminating just enough to reveal shackles binding his ankles, his form gaunt and ragged, eyes gleaming with malice.
Sylas stared, his own body shadowed, only his eye catching the faint light. The man barked a laugh, leaning forward against the bars. "Such a pure gaze... reminds me of the ones I've defiled. Oh, if I could feel that again." His voice dripped with vile nostalgia, a twisted grin splitting his bearded face.
Sylas's glare hardened, revulsion twisting in his gut. "Perverts like you disgust me."
From the depths of another cell, laughter erupted—harsh and unrepentant. "Pervert? If that's perverted, then what we actually did must be worth the death penalty to you, kid."
Sylas whipped around, but the moonlight barely penetrated the farther cells, leaving only vague silhouettes. "What?" The word escaped him.
Another voice echoed through the dungeon, cold and matter-of-fact. "Isn't it simple? We're bandits. Ravaging is what we do best."
A guttural chuckle followed from yet another shadow. "Ravage? That's such an understatement. Just say rape, you bastard. Own it."
Sylas stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, his heart pounding like a war drum, the world spinning anew. *Rape?* The word hit him like a physical blow, conjuring images of shattered lives, screams in the night. "What the hell did you guys do?" He slammed his fist against the nearest cell door, the iron rattling under the impact.
The man inside leaned closer, his breath foul even from a distance. He laughed, a cruel snarl twisting his features. "Come on, sweetheart, we're just having fun. No need to get so riled up. Like, did you even know any of those villagers? They were nobodies—easy pickings."
Sylas clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, rage boiling over the fear. "Having fun? I would expect at least fear from you people. When you're getting executed, it won't be this fun anymore."
The man tilted his head, repeating mockingly, "Execution?" The word hung for a beat before the entire dungeon erupted in laughter—mocking, uproarious, bouncing off the stone walls like a chorus of demons.
Catching his breath, the man wiped at his eyes. "Do you think we killed a king or something? Talking about execution like it's a given."
Sylas was dumbfounded, his mind reeling. "What? You people ravaged a village—death penalty is what you deserve!"
The man chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, this world isn't all rainbows and sunshine. You live in a village? Then be ready for bandits to ravage you. It's that simple. Law's for the lords, not for us out here in the dirt."
The laughter swelled again, louder, more vicious. From behind him a voice. "You wanna cry now, pretty boy? Go on—we've seen worse."
Sylas's vision blurred, the spinning world tilting violently. He clutched his head, staggering back. The bandits' jeers faded into a cacophony as he turned and fled, his feet pounding down the hallway. His head throbbed with every step, but he didn't think—he just ran. Stairs appeared before him, steep and winding upward. He ascended them in a blur, bursting out onto the grass above.
A gust of wind greeted him, sharp and freezing, carrying the chill of the night. Sylas tripped on the damp turf, falling to his knees. He clenched his chest, his heart pounding as if it might shatter his ribs. Curling into himself, he brought his head to his knees, hands covering his ears as if to block out the echoes of the dungeon. Tears flowed freely now, hot and unrelenting. "I want to wake up. This dream isn't fun anymore. Mother, wake me up. Kael, kick open the door. Please, someone wake me up—from this nightmare."
The pleas dissolved into sobs, the fortress grounds silent except for his ragged breaths. The moon watched impassively, casting long shadows over the wet grass. Time lost meaning again, the cold seeping into his bones, but he couldn't move, trapped in his own torment.
A soft meow pierced the quiet, gentle and unexpected. Sylas looked up through tear-streaked vision. Dark green eyes met his, steady and unblinking. They belonged to a sleek black cat, its fur glistening like polished obsidian in the moonlight. On its right eye, a thin red scar traced a faint line, almost mirroring Sylas's own wound but on the opposite side. The symmetry struck him as oddly poetic, a cruel jest from the universe.
The cat meowed again, its voice surprisingly soft, contrasting the fierce, predatory gleam in its eyes. Sylas stared, transfixed, as if this creature held some unspoken answer. The cat held his gaze for a moment longer, then averted its eyes, its body tensing. In a fluid motion, it lunged into the shadows, emerging with a wriggling rat clamped in its jaws. With a swift crunch, it devoured its prey, the sound sharp in the still night.
Sylas let out a snicker—a broken, hollow sound that bordered on madness. The cat's casual brutality mirrored the world he'd just glimpsed: raw, unforgiving, without pity. *That's right,* he thought, the realization settling like a weight on his soul. *I now live in a world without mercy.*