The dungeon’s walls bled with condensation, old stones slick beneath Lazarel’s gloved fingers as he descended the narrow stairwell. His boots echoed softly — each step deliberate, unhurried. The smell of rust, of blood long dried, hung heavy in the stagnant air.

He had not expected to find anyone still breathing down here. This place had been abandoned decades ago, swallowed by ruin and superstition. But as he walked past rows of empty cells — iron doors half-eaten by rust — a faint sound drew him to a stop. A breath. Fragile, trembling.

He turned his head, crimson eyes catching the faint flicker of a torch through the bars.

Inside, huddled against the wall, was a woman.

She was thin — painfully so — her once-strong frame reduced to sharp angles beneath a tattered green cloak. Her copper hair, dulled by grime, still carried traces of its former fire. Strands clung to her face, to the dry blood at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes, though swollen and ringed with dark shadows, were an impossible blue, the kind that once reminded people of summer skies. Now they were empty, unfocused, staring at nothing.

He knew her.

Eryndis Thalen — the archer, the hero’s closest friend. The one who laughed even in battle, who mocked death with the same grace she drew her bowstring. The one whose laughter he once hated because it sounded alive.

Now she was a ghost wrapped in flesh.

Lazarel stood before the bars, his hand resting lightly on the cold iron. “Eryndis,” he said quietly. His voice broke the stillness like a blade through ice.

Her head jerked, weakly, as though the sound pierced through a fog. She squinted, blinking hard, lips parting in a dry rasp. “...Aedric?” she whispered — the hero’s name.

The sound of it made something twist in Lazarel’s chest. He did not correct her immediately. For a heartbeat, he simply watched her struggle to rise, her trembling hands clawing at the wall for balance. Chains rattled at her wrists, too heavy for her frail body. She staggered once, nearly fell, then looked up at him again.

Her cracked lips curved into a faint, trembling smile. “I knew you’d come... I... I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

Her voice was a thread, half-broken and soaked in delusion.

Lazarel exhaled slowly, a sound like disappointment and pity tangled together. “You think I’m him?”

She blinked. The confusion came first, then a flicker of realization — small, trembling, but sharp enough to cut through the haze. Her smile faltered. “...No,” she breathed. “No, your eyes—”

He stepped closer, and the dim light caught his face fully — the cruel, flawless symmetry of it, the faint red gleam behind his gaze. Her breath hitched. Fear replaced hope.

“You,” she whispered, voice shaking. “It’s you.”

“The Heartless,” he finished for her, quiet and steady. “Yes.”

She sank back against the wall, her hands curling around the chains as though they could protect her. But her voice — faint as it was — didn’t beg. “Why are you here?”

Lazarel tilted his head slightly. “I could ask the same.” His eyes swept over her: the bruises layered like paint, the marks on her arms where shackles had bitten deep. “You’ve been here for months. Perhaps longer. And your precious hero never came.”

“He... he tried,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “He—”

“He failed,” Lazarel said, cutting her off. “He failed you, and he will fail again. That’s what heroes do.”

Her silence was answer enough.

He crouched before the bars, resting his arm lazily against the rusted metal. “You were the bright one,” he murmured. “The light in his little fellowship. And now look at you.”

Her gaze fell to the ground. Her breath came in shallow tremors. “Why mock me?”

“I’m not mocking you,” he said. “I’m curious.” He leaned forward slightly. “How long does it take for light to rot in the dark?”

A tear slipped down her cheek, cutting through the dirt.

Lazarel watched in silence for a long time. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the lock. The metal crumbled at his touch — corroded by centuries of disuse and a whisper of his power. The door creaked open.