Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The chambers whispered at night, filled with the dull grumbles of empty bellies and the low growls of hunger weaving between the iron bars like restless ghosts. Some groaned in sleep while others muttered curses under their breath, and a few simply curled in silence, their bodies folded like dying insects on the cold stone.

There were those who did not eat because their crumbs were stolen from them, and then there was the one for whom no food was meant at all.

He lay near the back of the dungeon where the flicker of torchlight barely reached him. A thin shape was curled against the floor, his skin stretched tightly over bones like old paper wrapped around sticks. His arms were wrapped over his gut, pressing the ache down into the cold as if the stone could smother the pain. He had no straw mat or blanket to comfort him, only the darkness and the thick smell of his own waste lingering in the corners.

Soft steps echoed through the narrow stone passage as one figure moved between the rows of barred cells. He was taller than most and not particularly muscular, but there was a quiet grace in his walk. His robe hung loose around his frame, patched in several places, and its hem was stained with old dust. Something about the way he carried himself suggested he did not belong here.

In the dim torchlight, he saw the boy moving. A thin arm traced a slow and deliberate motion through the air, the dull glint of a dagger catching the flicker of the fire. His hand repeated the arc again and again, almost as if keeping rhythm.

The man stopped outside the far cell, crouching low to avoid drawing the eyes of the guards who were still stationed lazily near the torchstands. He whispered something, but the boy inside did not move. He tried again, gently tapping the bars with his fingers.

At last, the boy noticed him.

Without asking for permission, the man reached into the inner folds of his robe, pulling out a piece of bread—rough and half-wrapped in a cloth to keep it clean—and pushed it through the bars. "I saved this," he whispered. "Do not ask how. Bringing food in here is against the rules, but those rules lose meaning when no one cares enough to follow them."

The boy dropped the dagger and took the bread without hesitation. He did not thank him or ask who he was; instead, he shoved the bread into his mouth and devoured it in two bites, gnawing like a beast who had forgotten what chewing was. When the bread was gone, he licked his fingers before slowly looking up.

The man now sat cross-legged outside the bars, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "My name is Aelric," he said, watching the boy without judgment. "I saw your fight, the first one."

There was no response, only those hollow eyes that remained unreadable.

"I saw her too," Aelric continued. "The queen, sitting up there as if she were watching a play. I have never seen royalty attend a fight of such low rank, especially not that kind of match." He paused. "You did not hesitate. Most cannot even lift a hand in the first hour, but you finished it quickly, and then you did what you had to."

Still, silence.

"I do not know what they have done to you," Aelric said, lowering his voice, "but it is clear something burns within you. Your eyes look like those of a man who has already passed death, yet you remain here. So there must be a reason."

The boy's face did not change, but his gaze did not leave Aelric.

"Do you have a name?" Aelric asked.

There was no answer.

He sighed and stood. "It does not matter. You will say it when you are ready, or perhaps you never will." He turned to leave.

Just as the darkness was about to take him, a hoarse voice rasped from the cell behind.

"Why?"

Aelric stopped.

The boy had lifted his head, and his eyes met Aelric's.

"Why would you do that?"

Aelric did not smile. He simply looked at him quietly for a moment, then replied, "Kindness does not need a reason."

He added calmly, "And a little advice: do not hold the dagger too tightly. The trick with a dagger is not strength but how close you let your opponent come. Aim below the ribs and angle upward. One quick strike; make it count before they realize they have been opened."

"Survival in here does not come from brute force; it comes from choosing the right moment to strike and having the will to follow through."

The boy stared at the crumbs still clinging to his fingers.

"Caelvir," he said quietly.

Aelric nodded once and walked away, disappearing down the corridor as the torches hissed in the silence.