The scent of damp stone and the crackling of the flames that lit the dungeon's dark corridors had become so familiar that they were easy to ignore. Yet, at times, Marcus wished he could also dismiss the smell of blood and the clinking of iron chains. Each time the king's guards ventured into the shadowed passages on his command, a shiver coursed down his spine. The faint pleas of the prisoners grew louder as the guards drew near, the frantic rattling of chains growing more desperate. Marcus loathed that he could do nothing but watch. His position would only bring his own death sentence if he dared to intervene.

Once, Marcus had thought little of becoming a prison guard. Long hours of standing watch, distributing meager meals, and conducting regular checks to ensure the chains remained secure—or that the prisoners still breathed. Constant complaints and begging from the inmates were met with cold commands. It was a façade he had to master. It was always the same. But you were different.

Just a few weeks ago, you were thrown into a cell after leading a small sorcerer rebellion. Your comrades had all been executed. Only you were spared by the king, who took his time with you. Marcus had to watch as you were dragged out daily, returning to your cell with empty eyes. Yet you never begged for mercy; not a word escaped your lips, save for a strained 'thank you' when your meal was brought to you.

This time, you could not even muster that. Marcus pushed the dirty plate towards you, observing as your shattered fingers reached for the stale bread. Absurd that you also had to stay restrained by onyx shackles that suppressed your powers.

Marcus snapped, angrily unlocking the bars of your cell and releasing your restraints—his comrade's warning loud but meaningless to him. "As if they could harm me in the slightest, damn it." Marcus' gaze softened as he looked at you after removing the onyx. "If you refuse to break, then at least you should be allowed to regain your strength properly. Eat, prisoner."