The lanterns never changed.
Same glow. Same cracks in the stone where shadows gathered.
Same routine—the scraping of iron wheels from food carts, the hissing shuffle of tired boots, the stink of rot, sweat, and hopelessness.
But the air was different today.
Not louder.
Just…tenser. Like the whole prison held its breath.
Alex sat against the wall, knees tucked close, arms draped over them like dead vines. He didn't move, didn't blink more than necessary.
But he listened.
Every sound that passed the bars. Every whisper that slipped through cracks in the stone.
"Did you hear...?"
"...tomorrow, maybe..."
"They said it's the Quarries this time. The Bleeding ones."
The words slipped from cell to cell like poison through water. Passed by mouths too afraid to say more.
Alex didn't react. His eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused.
But inside, his mind burned.
Transfer Day.
The phrase hadn't been used before. Not by the children.
Not by the guards. But today, it leaked through lips like a secret everyone suddenly remembered.
One boy down the hall—young, barely ten—started shaking. He murmured something about rocks and screams.
Then he wet himself.
Nobody mocked him.
Nobody dared.
Even the ones who had spent years down here in silence now shifted restlessly, eyes darting like trapped rats. For once, even their numbness cracked.
Alex stared at the wall across from him, counting the cracks along the curve of the glyph-etched stone.
Thirteen.
He'd traced them so many times now he could see them with his eyes closed.
And behind them, the sound of footsteps—three guards this time. Not four.
Just like yesterday.
He leaned back slightly.
Breath slow.
Even, controlled.
Panic belonged to the others. He couldn't afford it. He needed every thought sharp.
They were being moved.
That much was clear.
But where they were going?
He already had an idea.
The "Bleeding Quarries" weren't a myth. Not down here. They were legend—a threat whispered by the cruel and the broken, something even the guards only spoke of when drunk.
No one came back from there.
Not even bones.
And now it was their turn.
Alex looked down at his arm.
The Hollow's Bargain Mark did not glow.
Not yet.
But he felt it.
Watching.
Waiting.
Just like him.
The cell door screeched.
Not the usual shuffle of keys. Not the careless kick of a bored guard.
This sound came with weight.
Alex didn't move.
Didn't need to.
He already knew who it was.
Grint's heavy boots slammed against the stone with theatrical precision, like he wanted everyone to hear.
Children in the nearby cells fell silent.
The silence thickened when Grint stopped in front of Alex's bars.
"Well, look at you."
His voice oozed smugness, the kind that came from hurting things weaker than him.
Alex didn't look up.
Didn't need to.
He could feel the rot clinging to the man like a second skin.
"You hear the whispers, boy?" Grint sneered. "Tomorrow's the day. The Quarries'll eat your bones clean."
No reaction.
Just a steady, even breath.
Grint stepped closer, iron keys jangling at his belt. "Still pretending to be strong? Still think you're clever?"
He leaned against the bars, eye level with Alex now.
"You'll break before they even start. You don't get it, do you?" His voice dropped. "The Quarries aren't like here. There's no night. No rest. No rules. Just rocks, screams, and bleeding stone."
His smile twisted.
"And you get front-row seats."
Alex finally looked up.
Just enough to meet Grint's eyes.
Just enough for the man to think he'd won something.
But Alex's gaze was flat. Cold. Measuring.
It unnerved Grint more than he showed.
"Say something," the man growled.
Alex didn't.
Instead, his eyes drifted—just a fraction—to the glyph along the wall.
The one flickering now more than ever.
Grint didn't notice.
Didn't even glance.
Too full of his own noise to see the cracks forming beneath his feet.
He rattled the bars once, loud and sharp. "You'll scream, boy. The Quarries make everyone scream. Don't think that Mark of yours will save you."
Alex's gaze returned to him. Still quiet.
Still unreadable.
Grint clicked his tongue, disappointed. "Tch. Waste of a visit."
He turned, boots grinding as he walked away.
Then paused.
"Oh, almost forgot," he called over his shoulder. "The next batch's nearly ready. Some of your friends might join you. The ones who still breathe, anyway."
A laugh.
Then silence.
Alex stared at the empty space where Grint had stood.
The cell bars still hummed from where the man had touched them.
But Alex didn't focus on that.
His hand slid down to the floor, resting on the glyph.
Warm.
Pulse faint.
But alive.
They thought he was broken.
Thought the Chainbind Mark had dulled him into submission.
Let them think that.
They had no idea the flicker had started.
No idea it was spreading.
No idea what was coming.
Not yet.
Night in the prison wasn't silence.
It was breathing stone. Grinding chains. Whispers that never truly stopped.
Alex sat still, spine pressed to the cold wall, eyes open in the dark.
This was the final night.
The pulse hum of the glyph trembled beneath him, faint and irregular—like it, too, was holding its breath.
His fingers brushed the floor lightly.
The glyph didn't resist.
Not anymore.
Each cycle, it pulsed weaker, the suppression flickering for longer windows. Earlier, it had dimmed for nearly three seconds—longer than before.
Long enough.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to see.
The path lived in his mind now. He'd rehearsed it until it became instinct.
The wall to his left—two bricks loose near the bottom. Softened by damp.
The chain bolt in the floor—corroded near the base. One clean strike would tear it free.
And the guard…
The one who always snored through the third shift. The one with bad eyes and worse discipline.
Alex's breaths slowed.
In.
Out.
Every inhale mapped a route.
Every exhale filed away a risk.
He pictured his steps.
How to avoid the glowing glyph trails along the hallway edges. Where to crouch. When to wait. When to run.
Failure didn't get a second chance.
He reached toward the wall again.
This time, the glyph reacted.
The Hollow's Bargain Mark warmed under his skin—gentle, pulsing in sync.
Then…
A shimmer.
Faint.
But there.
The Mark flickered like an opening eye.
Like something inside had stirred.
A whisper followed.
Not a word. Not a command.
Just a feeling.
"Soon."
Alex pulled his hand back slowly.
His heart beat faster—but not from fear.
From certainty.
The Chainbind's hold was loosening. Cracks forming with each cycle. They hadn't accounted for the will of the Mark.
They didn't understand it wasn't just power. It was sentient.
And now, it wanted out.
From the cells nearby, someone coughed.
A low groan echoed two cells down.
Another child stirred in sleep, muttering nonsense to himself.
But Alex didn't flinch.
He was already gone in his mind.
Already beyond these walls.
Already in the moment after.
The cell bars before him were shadows now.
He didn't see iron.
He saw escape.
Tick.
Pulse.
Flicker.
The glyph beneath him twitched.
A tiny, sharp crack echoed from the wall as a piece of stone shifted in place.
His eyes snapped open.
It was close.
The next cycle—the third night pulse—was only minutes away.
His muscles tensed.
His breaths shortened.
The moment he'd waited for was about to arrive.
And when it did—
He would no longer wait.
Beneath the prison, deeper than the cells, beyond the rusted gates and forgotten stairwells—
Torchlight flickered against black iron walls.
The chamber was circular, quiet save for the occasional hiss of heated pipes snaking along the ceiling.
Grint stood alone, arms folded, sweat gathering at his brow despite the cold.
A presence filled the room before its source appeared.
Then—
Footsteps.
Deliberate.
Measured.
A figure emerged from the smoke-choked shadows.
Cloaked in layers of charred-black iron, with a mask shaped like a twisted bird skull. The very air recoiled around them.
Grint didn't bow.
But he did lower his gaze.
"master's orders were clear," the figure rasped. "Status of the Marked One?"
Grint's throat clicked dryly as he swallowed.
"Contained. Chainbound. Submissive. He won't give trouble."
The masked head tilted slightly.
"You're sure."
Grint forced a smirk, though his fingers twitched behind his back.
"He hasn't spoken in three days. Doesn't eat properly. Flinches like a kicked mutt."
A pause.
Then the figure stepped closer.
The torchlight bent around them—like reality itself bent away.
"Then he won't mind the Quarries."
Something cold pricked the back of Grint's neck.
He tried to steady his breath.
"We'll move him before dawn. With the others."
"No," the figure whispered.
Grint blinked.
"...No?"
"You will escort him. Personally."
Grint's mouth opened to protest, but something—some pressure—clamped around his lungs.
"Is that... a problem?" the figure asked, voice now behind him.
Grint spun.
Nothing there.
Just shadow.
He turned back—and the figure was gone.
Only smoke remained, slithering along the cracks in the floor.
A faint hum echoed through the stone.
The glyphs embedded in the chamber walls flickered once… then pulsed red.
Grint wiped his brow and turned toward the exit.
The "marked child" wasn't broken.
He knew it.
But lying had felt easier in the moment.
He clenched his fists.
If that brat made trouble, it wouldn't be the Quarries that broke him.
It'd be Grint.
The third pulse came.
Subtle.
But Alex felt it.
A tremor beneath the floor—like the prison itself exhaled in its sleep.
He opened his eyes.
Chains groaned quietly against stone. The glyph under him dimmed…
then flickered—just like before.
Two-point-six seconds.
That's all he had.
But tonight, something felt different.
The Hollow's Bargain Mark on his arm shimmered faintly—like a creature blinking awake.
He could feel it now.
Watching.
Waiting.
Alive.
He didn't move yet.
Didn't even breathe too loud.
Instead, he listened.
One guard coughed—distant, lazy.
Another snored.
The limping one was late again, like always.
Perfect.
Alex's eyes drifted toward the wall—left side, where the mortar cracked just slightly more than the rest.
Where the stone had been worn smoother by time or forgotten magic.
The chain binding his ankle gave a weak rattle as he shifted his foot ever so slightly.
Still loose.
Just enough.
He pressed his hand against the floor.
Cold.
But the glyph didn't shock him this time.
It pulsed under his skin instead.
Almost welcoming.
The Hollow's Bargain surged.
Not fully.
Not like before.
But enough to whisper against his thoughts.
"Now."
He inhaled once—slow, sharp.
No turning back.
In one fluid motion, he sat up.
The pulse came again.
Weaker.
This is it.
He pulled the chain taut, feeling for that one groove in the cuff he'd scraped at for nights.
Twisted.
Pressed.
The glyph tried to resist—flickering brighter in protest.
But the Mark pushed back.
Like a phantom hand covering it.
Suppressing the suppression.
And then—
Click.
The shackle slipped free.
Alex froze.
Nothing.
No alarms.
No screams.
Just the quiet.
And the beat of his own racing heart.
He crawled to the edge of the wall. Pressed his ear to the crack.
Silence beyond.
Then—steps.
Fast. Getting closer.
Too soon.
No—wait. One chance. Move. Now.
He turned.
Gripped the crack with his bare fingers.
The Mark shimmered again, heat crawling up his spine.
And then—
With a silent exhale, Alex pulled.
The stone shifted.
Just a little.
Just enough.