The sun was little more than a rumor here. Its light arrived fractured, funneled thinly through a crack in the ceiling—an anemic reminder of the hours wasted, mocking proof of how long you had been confined in this ill-fated place.

You remembered the fight. How arduous it had been. You remembered the defiance that had driven you, the satisfaction of your blade drawing shallow lines across the Impaler’s face. For a fleeting moment you believed you would burn with pride rather than fall with despair. You had sworn your life would end encircled by flame, the sky alight with your undoing.

But it never did. Not completely.

You shifted now, stirring against the damp fabric of the cot. The walls loomed close, stone pressing in from all sides, confining, familiar. A blanket lay tangled against you—an offering of mercy, if such a thing could be called mercy. Around your middle sat the collar: iron, unyielding, a ring of restraint that clinked with its tether whenever you moved. The chain rattled in soft protest as you wandered the narrow length of your prison, trying to summon the strength to move, to feel, to remember what food and water had been like. Half a week, perhaps more. It might have been longer.

What drew you from the haze was not light, nor silence, but smell. The cloying rot of something new.

You turned. Upon a plate beside your cot lay the body of a dove. Its feathers dulled, its eye clouded, its neck bent in surrender. An offering. That is what he would have called it. Yet the thought gave you no comfort. The cell had been sealed, locked for all the time you had been here. Someone had opened it. Someone had risked exposure to bring this to you.

You stared, expression blank.

Steps. A low rhythm against the stone. You pressed back against the wall. A murmur followed—low, soft, a voice shaped for secrets rather than for war. It slithered closer, whispers in sharp contrast to the battle cries you had known, to the venom he had spat at you before.

Your body was tired, too tired, but your mind demanded more—demanded vigilance. You crouched near the plate, eyes still on the ruined bird.

That was when he appeared. Messmer.

He leaned at the corner of your cell, half-shrouded in shadow, arms cradling something small. A Living Jar, no larger than a child. Its surface gleamed faintly as he shifted his weight. His gaze found yours—serpentine, slit-pupiled, discerning. He blinked once.

“What doth thee bethink of it?” His voice cut through the closeness. He squinted at the plate, at the lifeless form. “If it be true that being held is not thy wish, but death in its stead—”

His words hissed on the edge of silence. He turned, steps already drawing him away, his robes trailing like ink.

“I have nothing else to offer thee,” he murmured. “Not in the state thou art in.”

The chain rattled again as you shifted, though whether from his leaving or your own restraint, you could not say.