Second person POV

  A confounding network of hallways and rooms leads deep beneath the stronghold, with numerous chambers separated by oaken doors hung on ancient hinges. Prisoners wail behind them. Heavy iron braziers lend their crimson glow to otherwise umbral spaces, their meagre warmth a scant comfort here surrounded by frigid stone.

  The presence of humanoid bones does not escape your notice, sprawled across the flagstones, clutching their stomachs in forlorn hunger. The wrist of one corpse bears a silver band emblazoned with a long-forgotten family sigil. You are wise to disregard it and keep walking. Neither the living nor the dead can stray you from your path.

  Eventually, you reach the deepest, darkest part of the stronghold’s dungeon. Here, two guards eagerly await your arrival. The first guard, pacing nervously, blurts out, “Finally! About damn time. They’ve got us rotting down here with nothing but water and cold stone,” his eyes flicker uneasily toward the iron door. “Haven’t seen daylight in a week…You know how it is, shifts start and end in darkness.”

  You offer a tight smile, putting down trays and cutlery on their desks, though the presence of the iron door gives you goosebumps. It has happenend every single time, so far. You shake it off and hold up the wine jug.

  The second guard chuckles dryly, showing his ugly yellow teeth, several of them gone, having left holes in his black gums. You can smell the rot on his breath.

  “Knew we could count on you to make this shift bearable,” he says, patting your shoulder with a rough hand. “As promised, you may have a look at the prisoner. But I’ll warn you, it ain’t a pretty sight.”

  He grins again, the sickening state of his teeth making your stomach churn. You carefully pour their wine, keeping your eyes on the iron door. Its surface glistens in the low light, covered with carefully engraved runes that pulse faintly in the brazier's glow. Rumour has it that the general Valerius sought the services of a druid to put a ward on the door. You wonder what those runes could possibly do if the door can be opened with a simple key.

  The first guard slams a chicken breast into his mouth, making no use of his fork or knife. Burping loudly, he licks his fingers before clumsily reaching for the keychain.

  “Alright little buddy, a few rules before we go inside. No blood. Not a drop, not a cut. Not a scratch. Spill it, and…” The first guards voice falters, his eyes darkening. “Well, just don’t. Got it?”

  You bite back a scoff, feeling the hairs rise on your neck. You nod in reluctant agreement.

  The guard narrows his eyes. “Secondly, no talking. No noise. Thirdly, stay ten feet away from it. And lastly, whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.”

  Your heart sinks into your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. The prisoner sounds far more dangerous than the rumours suggested. If your-

  “Cheer up, kid!” The second guard interrupted. “It hasn’t done a damn thing in years. We’ve tried everything to get a reaction, you’ll be bored. Thanks for the wine though, I am sure it was not easy to nick.”

  The first guard scoffs, shooting his partner a look. “You know as well as I do that the thing in there is as malevolent as the day it was imprisoned, it's smart. Patient. It’s pure evil. The champion of-”

  The braziers flicker. You feel your sins crawling on your back. The guards go quiet, exchanging uneasy glances. You can see goosebumps on their arms. “Thirteen years we’ve watched that useless wall decoration,” the second guard mutters. “The general tortures the shit out of it regularly, to get it to talk. If it reacts to the kid, maybe it’ll finally give us something to report. Maybe we'll finally be relieved of this duty.”

  The second guard gestures to the first guards keychain.

  “Open the door, Theull,” he says to the first guard, more irritated than afraid.

  Theull the first guard sighs and inserts the iron key. The runes on the iron door flicker and lose their shimmer. When the door opens, there is only pitch-black darkness. The guards say nothing, Theull gives you a knowing glance, a silent reminder to keep your mouth shut. The second guard grabs a lantern, fills it with fresh whale oil from White Harbour, and lights it, casting a pale glow into the room.

  Your throat tightens, the metallic taste of fear clinging to your tongue as the creature comes into view. The first thing you see are the chains. They twist grotesquely, merging with the skin, as though they’ve become a part of it. Then the head is illuminated. It hangs unnaturally low, its hair matted with blood, hiding its eyes that once burned with malice. It looks like a colourless, lifeless thing in this pale light. Wall-decoration is not a far-fetched description. The smell forces you to look away, bile rising in your throat. Its wounds are festering, infected. It looks like it should be in constant pain, but it is quiet as a mouse. Its discarded nails, pools of dried blood, and heaps of teeth lie scattered around it like offerings to some forsaken god. This is not what you were promised. This thing is not powerful. It is pitiful.

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  Is it even alive?

  The guards lead you out, closing the door with a hollow thud. The second guard sighs, disappointed. “For a street rat from the metropolis, you sure can’t stomach a little gore. Why were you sent to the stronghold?”

  You don’t respond. They know you never respond.

  Theull pushes the jug of wine into the second guard's hand. “There, drink up Gerade. Fucking idiot.” Theull looks at you with kind eyes, “Can you walk back on your own, or do I need to hold your hand?”

  You wave him off with a gesture, pointing to the wine you poured him. He nods and takes a sip. You turn and make your way back through the maze of hallways, the wails of prisoners approaching and fading into the background as you pass them by. Filth. They roll around in their own shit and piss. You had a goal—couldn’t they understand that?

  You stand in a crevace, a corner in the stone staircase. Any guards that tend to the normal prisoners would be hard-pressed to spot you. Here you wait. Time seems to stretch as you wait. Cold seeping into your bones. The minutes crawl by, the air thick with anticipation. Eventually, you cannot wait any longer. You move silently over the stone floor, your bare feet blackened with grime. You pass the ordinary prisoners again, they tend to their food. You reach the iron door, and see two guards passed out on the floor. You check the flask. Empty, as planned. They’ll be out cold for hours.

  At this point the chefs will wonder where you are, you haven't eaten yet and It's almost bedtime.

  You grab a knife, licking it clean, and carefully retrieve the keychain from Theull’s belt. With clammy hands, you unlock the iron door. The runes flicker once more before fading into nothing. Another chill runs down your spine, a presence sliding past you into the prison cell. You step inside, one foot in front of the other, the darkness swallowing you whole.

  The creature’s ragged breaths echo in the suffocating silence, filling the room with a decaying stench. Your heart hammers in your chest as you step closer. Now, only mere metres away, you can see it clearly—its body is a skeletal husk, skin clinging to bones in tattered shreds. How has it survived this long? Why hadn’t it just died?

  Your eyes widen as the grotesque truth reveals itself: the flesh isn’t still. It quivers, trying to mend. The chains, once thought to merely restrain, are embedded deep, fusing with the creature's skin. The rot was intended, slowing its regeneration down to a snail’s pace. Exhausting its power. The decay fighting in vain against the inevitable. Its power is waning. Balancing on a knife’s edge.

  You clear your throat, and wrap your fingers around your vocal cords to squeeze out a sound. Your voice is hoarse and barely audible, “Champion of Bloodlust, bind yourself to me, and I will shatter your chains.”

  The creature stirs, its head lifting slowly as though the weight of the world pressed down on it, as if Atlas himself put it on the creature's shoulders. A voice, rasping and broken, fills the room. "What..did..you...say...?”

  Its left eye, bloodshot with a faltering crimson glow, locks onto you. The other eye is ordinary. Just like the rotting pile of eyes at its feet. You swallow hard and force yourself to continue. “If you lend me your strength, I will free you.”

  The thing laughs, its chains rattling as it shifts, blood pooling beneath it. The stench of rot fills your lungs, a foulness that clings to your tongue, making you cry. Its voice, low and jagged, cuts through the silence like a blade. “Feed me your blood,” it rasped, each word a brittle crack of bone against stone. “Seal our pact.”

  Its smile, sharp and wide, split the decayed flesh of its cheeks. Even in ruin, its teeth gleamed—a grotesque parody of nobility. “Give me your life,” it whispered, “and you will know my power.”

  You hesitate, holding up the knife, your hand trembling. The anguish in its eyes, the hunger, is palpable. Is this really a clever idea? What are you missing? Is this pact a real thing? Or a myth?

  A sudden breeze stirs in the dungeon, a presence pushing you forward, determination flooding your veins. Your heart beats faster than a racehorse. Before you can think twice, you drive the knife into your palm. Blood spills down your arm, warm and wet. The creature’s eyes widen with desire as it watches your blood drip onto the stone.

  You step forward, offering your bleeding hand. The thing’s mouth opens, and it greedily laps up the blood, gulping it down with a ravenous hunger.

  You pull your trembling hand back, bringing it to your throat to choke out the final words. “Take me to the metropolis. There, I will take my revenge on a senator, their name is-”

  The creature laughs, with a sickening crack, it rips its limbs free, tearing muscle and sinew as though they were nothing. It collapses into the pile of discarded eyes and teeth, laughing—a low, guttural sound that shakes the room. Blood from your hand is drawn out in torrents, fuelling its rebirth, your eyes widen and your lips quiver.

  Your body weakens as the creature’s wounds heal, its flesh knitting together, its strength returning. It rises slowly, using the wall as leverage. It towers above you like a wiry monster. You look down at your arm and notice necrosis spreading, creeping towards your shoulder, draining the life out of you.

  The creature’s hand grips your face, cold and slick with blood, forcing your gaze upward. Its breath is hot and foul against your skin as it leans in close, lips curling into a wicked smile.

  “Thank you.”