Down here, at the deepest point of an abyss-like prison lies the last cell, long forgotten, almost a decrepit tomb. Within holding a prisoner shackled to ominous chains that have seemingly held for centuries.

  The prisoner had been locked away so long that time had forgotten his name, his face, and even the sins that had brought him to this forsaken place. His body was withered, frail, and shrouded in the mists of a history that seemed more like legend than fact.

  His white hair, long enough to almost touch his shoulders, cascaded in slight waves around his gaunt face. It had once been the colour of moonlight, but now it seemed practically ghostly—like a relic of something long lost to the world. His skin, pallid and tinged with an unnatural grey, clung tightly to his sharp features as if the years of confinement had drained the life from him. The tattered remains of what was once a robe hung from his frame, stiff with age and stained by the dust of centuries.

  The prisoner stirred.

  The first thing he registered was the sound—faint at first, then growing clearer. Footsteps. An echoing procession of them, distant yet drawing closer.

  Then came the light.

  At first, a faint sliver slipped through the cracks of his world of darkness. Then more, until it pressed against his closed eyelids, piercing through the centuries-long void. It was blinding. His body, long accustomed to the abyss, recoiled from it.

  The steady clanking of metal followed, though lighter than what he once remembered. Armour—not the heavy plating of war, but something meant for manoeuvrability rather than sheer defence. The faint rustle of cloth against reinforced leather, the shift of weight over well-worn boots. These were knights, but not ones built for the front lines of battle.

  A voice spoke, firm yet hushed. "Gods... how is he still alive?"

  The prisoner remained motionless, his breathing shallow.

  A shadow loomed over him. One of the knights stepped closer, his features tense beneath the dim torchlight. His armour was modest, adorned only with the insignia of his order—a symbol the prisoner did not recognize. The knight hesitated before speaking.

  "Is this him?"

  His voice was uncertain, edged with something between caution and disbelief.

  The captain, a man of composed stature, regarded the shackled figure with unreadable eyes. He gave a single nod. "Yeah, he is the last one, Mallyn."

  The other knights exchanged uneasy glances. The air in the chamber had shifted. Even after centuries in chains, something about the prisoner exuded presence—a quiet, oppressive weight that made the flickering torchlight feel insufficient.

  Yet he remained still, observing in silence. It wasn't the rancid appearance, of the shackled, it was his eyes that held them captive.

  A deep amethyst glow, sharp and piercing, cut through the dimness like an ember in the void. There was no exhaustion in them, no dullness of a man beaten by time—only an unsettling clarity as if the centuries had not worn him down but simply waited alongside him.

  The youngest knight among them, barely past his initiation, took a step back.

  The captain did not flinch. "Release him."

  The command was met with hesitation. No one moved at first. Even after centuries of stillness, the prisoner’s presence unsettled them.

  Then, with a reluctant nod, one of the knights stepped forward. He fumbled slightly as he reached for the key at his belt, fingers cold with unease. The heavy manacles, inscribed with ancient runes, had long since rusted, but their strength had never faltered. They were crafted to hold something beyond mere flesh.

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  With a metallic scrape, the key turned in the lock.

  The chains fell away with a dreadful creak, metal striking stone in a hollow, mournful sound. But it did not end there. A faint glow pulsed from the shackles as they lay discarded on the ground, their symbols flickering weakly as if their very essence was dying.

  A sudden hush fell over the knights.

  The youngest among them swallowed hard, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Those chains... they almost sound like they're screaming," he whispered.

  "Don’t be ridiculous," another muttered, though he did not look away.

  The prisoner slowly rolled his shoulders, the first motion he had made in an eternity. His bones did not creak; his muscles did not shudder. Despite his withered state, his movement was fluid—too fluid.

  Then, for the first time, he exhaled. A slow, steady breath, as if savouring the sensation.

  His gaze lifted to meet the captain’s, those unsettling eyes catching the torchlight.

  "You’ve freed me from this horrendous prison," he murmured. His voice was quiet yet carried, each word measured. It had been so long since he had last spoken, the act itself almost foreign.

  He tilted his head slightly, observing them.

  "For what reason?"

  The question lingered, heavier than the chains that once bound him.

  The captain exhaled sharply as if grounding himself. He met the prisoner’s gaze with steady resolve, though the flicker of unease in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

  "By decree of the Emperor, all who were imprisoned in this place are to be released," he stated. His voice was firm, carrying the weight of authority, yet it was clear even he found the words difficult to say.

  A murmur of discontent rippled through the knights behind him. A few exchanged uneasy glances while others tightened their grips on their weapons. It was evident that not all of them agreed with this decree.

  The prisoner studied them in silence. The emperor? He knew nothing of this emperor.

  "How generous," he finally said, his tone unreadable.

  The captain’s jaw tightened. "You are to come with us. Others are being gathered as we speak."

  The prisoner did not immediately respond. Instead, he cast a slow glance around the chamber as if taking in the vast emptiness around him one last time.

  Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he stepped forward.

  The knights stiffened. Even without chains, there was something unnatural in the way he moved—graceful yet deliberate, like a beast long confined now testing the weight of its limbs.

  The captain turned on his heel. "This way."

  The prisoner followed, stepping through the threshold of his cell for the first time in centuries. The air outside felt different—less stagnant, though still heavy with the weight of old stone.

  The knights formed a loose circle around him, maintaining a careful distance as they ascended the winding path out of the abyss.

  None dared to speak.

  Yet the silence only made the weight of the moment more profound.