The same dull orange light seeped from the rusty lanterns above.
Drips resonated from the ceiling to the broken stone floor, each splash adding to the remaining smell of decay and mold that never seemed to depart this area.
Blood splatters—old and brown—caked the edges of the prison walls. Iron bars creaked every time a body shifted.
Morning had arrived.
But time did not exist down here.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Chains clanked.
Then the screeching scrape of the food cart's wheels, pulled by two men in tattered uniforms. One of them laughed. The other continued to chew on what appeared to be dried meat.
Cells groaned open one by one.
Wooden bowls were thrown in, some of them landing right side up, some of them falling over and spilling their contents on the dusty stone.
Children rushed at the food like animals. Some ate silently. Others wept softly while chewing.
In one of the lower cells, a bowl came to rest by Alex's feet.
He gazed at it.
It contained hardly a handful of stale rice. A parched, cracked fragment of something—possibly meat—lay on top like a bad joke.
Enough to taunt his hunger.
Across the bars, a fat man leaned against the wall. His belly jiggled as he laughed, dark eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Eat up, little hero," he sneered. "This is how you break a rebel before he even thinks of rebelling."
His voice was oily, smug.
"Starve the will before it can think. Works every time."
He laughed again and turned away.
"Even the brave ones crawl eventually. You'll be crawling too."
Alex didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He sat down slowly beside the bowl, eyes calm, face blank.
He didn't look defeated.
Just distant.
Around him, other children stole glances. Some appeared sorry. Some were too frightened to respond at all. They were all about his age—between eight and twelve—but their eyes were already older, hardened by fear.
Alex didn't even look at them.
He wasn't thinking of food.
Not now.
Not even about the man who ridiculed him.
His eyes drifted somewhere beyond the rusted walls, beyond the stifling air of Kairo's dark well.
Something was revolving in his head.
A plan, or perhaps a glimmer of one.
He folded his knees up to his chest, his chin balancing on them.
Still quiet.
Still waiting.
Alex leaned back against the chilled stone wall, arms folded around his knees.
His gaze wasn't on the food.
Wasn't even on the cell.
They wandered somewhere far out beyond here.
Back to the sky-colored rooftops of Caelum.
Back to the small room where sunlight filtered through thin curtains, where Elias would hum when repairing broken tools, where the smell of warm bread sometimes lingered.
A world that seemed to belong to someone else now.
He blinked slowly.
Elias… where are you?
He hadn't seen him since that night. The breach.
The roar of breaking sky. The tower split open.
The hooded man who moved like shadow, who tore through Caelum like a scythe through wheat.
Who was he? Why?
Alex didn't want the answers anymore.
He just wanted Elias.
Not revenge. Not justice. Just that same familiar hand pulling him up when he fell. That calm voice saying, "It's okay. You're not alone."
But now…
Now there was no hand.
Only rusted bars.
Only silence.
He thought of the Fractured Light.
That impossible glow trapped in the back streets of the world.
They were meant to find it together.
The crow was meant to lead him.
Where are you now…?
His fingers outlined the inside of his arm. The Mark.
The Hollow's Bargain.
He had drawn it with no understanding, no intention—just desperation.
It was meant to be his aid.
His solution.
But even that seemed far away now.
He shut his eyes.
Tch. Eclipse, he muttered in his head. Are you still there?
Nothing.
No ripple. No whisper. Not even the slightest hum under his skin.
You said you'd be watching. That you'd assist when the time was right… So where are you then?
Still nothing.
Not even a flicker of existence.
It was as if the Eclipse Paradox had closed a door on him.
Left him to sort it out himself.
Alex clenched his teeth.
His arms shook—not with anger, but with how small he was.
He was a boy still.
Imprisoned in a world designed to shatter adults twice his age.
The cold clung to him like a second skin.
Why am I here? he wondered. Why did everything need to change?
His eyes misted for a moment.
But no tears dripped.
He had cried before, when Caelum burned.
Now there was nothing to cry out of.
He had to get out.
He had to live.
Because if he remained here long enough… if he waited…
Perhaps—just perhaps—he'd catch a glimpse of Elias again.
Perhaps he'd see the crow. See the Light. See a means to repair all of this.
But first…
He had to get out.
He breathed slowly and gazed down at his hand.
The faint glow beneath his skin throbbed once.
Not from hunger.
From determination.
Alex shifted when the faint hum returned.
Not from within his mind.
From the floor.
That glyph once more.
The same one carved under the moss-grown stone by his foot.
A Tier 3 Chainbind Mark—designed to suppress, control, dominate.
But it wasn't flawless.
He saw it yesterday.
And now again.
It flickered.
Briefly. A ripple of instability. As though something in the air resisted it.
His eyes dropped to his arm.
The faint, curled sigil of the Hollow's Bargain still rested upon his skin.
Half-concealed, nearly dormant.
But with each pass of the Chainbind pulse through the cell, it responded.
A twitch.
A shiver.
As if oil resisting water.
Not coincidence, Alex believed.
He waited for the next rotation. Observed the lanterns as their orange glow fell—another pulse racing through the prison.
The glyph on the floor flickered. Went dark for the space of half a breath.
And the Mark on his arm?
It strained.
Not forcibly. Not hard enough to fracture anything.
But it strained back.
The suppression was attenuated around him.
Not missing. But… frayed.
He remained motionless, adopting a dazed look while his mind whirred.
It wasn't just the floor symbol.
He'd seen the others as well.
Tier 2 suppression sigils etched into the walls.
Layered runes over the cell doors.
Marks sewn into the very bones of the prison.
Those weren't flickering.
They were whole.
Stable. Strong.
But the primary tether—this Tier 3 symbol—was not.
He looked around at the other children.
They didn't notice. They couldn't.
The majority were too exhausted, too famished, too desperate to feel it.
But Alex watched.
One fault. One precarious thread.
That was all he required.
One error on their part… and I escape.
He clung to that vision like a candle in the night.
They believed he was damaged.
That he was starving and helpless.
But he waited.
Watched.
Learned.
Dawn's orange glare seeped through the barred ceiling slit, washing the cells in bruised light.
The clammy air was sour with decay and sweat.
Flickering lanterns struggled to survive, their wicks fluttering as if they were afraid of the next day too.
Again, the wheels of the food cart screamed down the hallway.
Alex blinked, already sitting in his usual place against the chill wall.
He hugged his knees, waiting.
Other kids shifted—some groaned, others grumbled in half-sleep.
Then the banging of bowls on stone awakened them.
A few boys reached for their rations: stale bread, stew like water, a tiny bit of fish. The humiliating rations were not even sufficient to feed a mouse.
Alex's bowl dropped in front of him with an empty clunk.
He looked down: a handful of rice and a thin slice of dried fruit.
Next to nothing.
His lips twisted into a slight, beaten scowl.
Better, the Fat Man's voice scraped through the bars.
He leaned forward, belly jiggling. "See, kids? Same song and dance. You think one day breaks you? Try two."
He spat on the ground.
"Starve 'em long enough, and they'll beg for the very chains that bind 'em."
A few children winced—eyes cast down, clutching their bowls as if they might disappear.
Alex faked a shudder, pretending to shake with hunger.
He slumped his shoulders, head dipped, eyes vacant.
Grint snorted. "See him there—all victim mentality. But the charade?" That wouldn't endure.
He drummed his baton on the bars.
Steel sang its warning of cruel might.
Alex made his face slump.
He knew that having a spark meant that the lash appeared.
And instead, he slowly ate—barely enough to mimic taking what he "must."
He refrained from consuming the remaining few grains of rice.
Children from the crowd glared at him out of their periphery visions.
What's wrong with this boy?
Why won't he eat?
Is he waiting to die?
They whispered under their breath.
Fear and confusion contorted their faces.
Alex dared a look around the cell.
The same Tier 2 runes glowed softly on the walls.
Suppression glyphs, unbroken and strong—no flicker here.
His head fell back to the bowl.
Mouth closed, he just held it there.
A silent protest.
Grint's eyes narrowed. "You done? Or you want me to pull those chains tighter?"
Alex swallowed the lump in his throat.
He placed the bowl aside—unwashed.
That was his declaration.
A dozen eyes rolled in his direction.
Grint wiped his lips. "Huh. New trick. Fine."
He brushed the smaller guard aside.
Food cart withdrew with empty reverberations.
The door to the cell crashed.
Quiet.
Alex let out a drawn breath.
He stood still as the others looked around in confusion—some seething, some optimistic.
Moments crawled by in shattered time.
And then the children stirred, shuffled to the far corner of the chamber, where they hushed amongst themselves.
"I've got half a bread for goat milk."
"They'll sell us soon—keep your strength."
Alex listened, silent.
They worried about sale prices, about buyers, about escape rumors passed in broken whispers.
He watched their faces flicker with fear.
But he did not join them.
He stayed still, mind racing.
Tomorrow, he vowed inwardly. Tomorrow, I'll act.
He didn't know how.
He just knew the cage had a flaw.
That Tier 3 glyph still flickered.
And the Hollow's Bargain was waiting.
The massive door screeched open, protesting the weight of the world.
Within, the air was heavy with the smell of rust, sweat, and something far more sinister. The walls were decorated with rough chains, their unfinished edges reflected the faint light of a handful of dying torches nearby.
The soft radiance of a solitary lantern lit the enormous figure sitting on a throne constructed of distorted metal and bones.
Grint, the Gang Leader, sat reclined in his chair, a grotesque figure whose mass appeared to fill the room. His eyes, shining with cruelty, flashed toward the door without shifting his head.
His hand absently ran along the rim of a rusty cup at his side, one filled with something that appeared much too dark to be wine.
A figure emerged from the darkness—an enforcer, a woman whose stance was stiff, her movements precise and calculated.
She did not speak, waiting for his confirmation.
Grint's sneer was still set, but there was something more sinister in his eyes now, a look of satisfaction, as if he had been waiting for her to arrive.
"Are they ready?" he growled, his voice rough but heavy with authority.
The woman nodded once, not requiring to say anything.
Grint leaned forward, his vast bulk groaning in the chair.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed towards the ground, where the whispers of desperation from the children seemed to reverberate dimly within the stone walls.
"The new batch?" The words fell from his mouth like poison, heavy and venomous.
"They're ready for the next step," he replied, voice icy, a queasy pleasure in his tone. "They'll succeed—or they won't. Either way, it's just part of the process."
The woman's eyes wavered, but she quickly covered her uncertainty.
"Where are they going?" she asked, though the answer was already apparent in her eyes.
Grint's lip curled.
"To the Bleeding Quarries," he spoke, the words suffused with sinister glee. "Shall see how long they endure."
He settled back into his chair, the metal creaking beneath him, and he emitted a drawn-out, deliberate laugh, as though indulging in the vengeful thought.
The Bleeding Quarries.
The name lingered in the air as though it were a burden, a foreboding. A site of grueling despondency, where the strongest might be broken.
And the rest?" the woman asked, but she already knew the response. The children were nothing more than tools, and when they were broken, they would be discarded.
Grint did not reply at first, his gaze far away.
His hand crept along the armrest of the chair, like a cat playing with its victim before delivering the killing blow.
"They'll be taken care of," he whispered. "The weak will perish.
His voice dropped lower, darker now, with the threat of agony.
The dancing lantern cast long shadows across his face, making him some sort of monster.
The woman didn't move, her face unreadable, as Grint's eyes drifted back to the shadows, immersed in thoughts of agony, domination, and power.
Outside, in the prison below ground, the children were still oblivious to what was in store for them.
And Alex, quiet in his cell, would wait for the time when he would have to make his move.