The Cost of a Misunderstanding

I have no idea where they have taken me. A hood was drawn over my head for the entirety of the journey to this dungeon, so I can only surmise that it is located somewhere in the vicinity of that grand, cathedral-like hall where the… incident occurred. The trip itself, a disorienting blend of walking and being jostled in some form of painfully sluggish transport, lasted less than half an hour.

After two full days spent in this cell, I have come to accept that this is no ordinary predicament. If this were merely one of Kazir’s elaborate and costly pranks, the punchline would have been delivered by now.

Thinking back to the events in that hall, the man who bore such a striking resemblance to Kazir seemed older, I believe. My initial reaction was one of pure denial; I wrote it off as a masterful application of stage makeup. But as one full day bled into the next with no resolution, the sheer, unyielding strangeness of the situation became impossible to ignore. I recall something the lookalike said. Was I truly summoned to another world? Could this be some kind of supernatural event, a genuine case of being ‘spirited away’?

Speaking of the paranormal, the concept is not entirely foreign to me. I once knew an esper back on Terra—an individual most would have dismissed as a ‘freak of nature.’ That single experience was enough to prove that such things, however rare, did exist. It is not a pleasant thought, but it does prepare one’s mind for the worst possibilities. As for being summoned to an entirely different universe… I cannot decide if surviving a six-story fall only to end up in this cell makes me incredibly lucky or profoundly unlucky. At the very least, I am still alive. I must have been brought here completely unharmed, given that I am still wearing my pizza-delivery jeans. A miracle, of a sort.

The cell itself is likely no more than three meters square. My bed consists of a thin mattress stuffed with lumpy cotton, laid out over a slab of cold, unforgiving stone. The space is clearly subterranean, so there are no windows; the only source of fresh air is the grated, locked door. There is no toilet, no mirror. For two days, I have not been permitted to wash. To relieve myself, a guard must escort me to a separate latrine down the corridor. The only light emanates from a lantern fixed to the wall opposite my cell, but it holds no candle or bulb. Instead, a peculiar stone housed within it glows with a dim, constant light.

Despite the squalor, my treatment has been surprisingly humane. Three times a day, a guard brings a hot meal. The food is bland, but it is filling—more than enough to keep a man going.

I have begun to track the passage of time by the rhythm of these meals, as I have no other means of gauging the length of a day in this strange new world. The guards delivered the last meal about an hour ago, so by my internal count, day three in this dungeon is drawing to a close.

There is no one to talk to. The guards are grim-faced and resolutely silent, rarely offering a response to my questions. Even during the humiliating trips to the latrine, with one of them standing just a few meters away, watching me do my business, my attempts to engage in conversation are met with a stony, indifferent silence.

The pseudo-medieval toilet—did I mention it? It's a gloomy little space, slightly larger than my cell, which I suppose passes for an amenity in a dungeon. It does not appear filthy, yet a faint, unpleasant odor hangs perpetually in the air. On the positive side, they provide a bucket of clean water and a supply of rough, cloth-like paper for wiping. At least the most basic elements of hygiene are covered.

Even though the hour grows late, I am not tired. I have done nothing but lie here all day, staring at the ceiling. I wonder how long they intend to keep me here. Planning an escape is currently impossible. In a world with a completely different set of rules—different science, different everything—there are simply too many unknowns. I need more information.

I recall one of the men at the summoning mentioning ‘insolence’ and a ‘king.’ If this really is another world, and that old man was its king… did I actually slap royalty? That’s a new one for me. I have dealt with powerful people before, but never an actual monarch.

As I lie there, lost in thought, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes down the stone corridor. It is too soon for another meal. Are they finally letting me go? Has a verdict been reached in my case of lèse-majesté? Surely they would not deliver it in the middle of the night.

The footsteps stop directly in front of my cell, casting a shadow across the floor. The shadow belongs to a small, hooded figure, no bigger than a child. I remain perfectly still, feigning sleep, and watch through slitted eyes as the visitor peers between the bars.

“Mr. Hero…” a girl whispers. What is a little girl doing down here in a dungeon?

I remain silent, my breathing even.

“Hey, Mr. Hero.”

Mr. Hero? Why does she keep calling me that?

“Hello? I need to talk to you. Hey.”

An undeniable urgency colors her voice. I decide to maintain the charade for another moment. This could be a valuable opportunity to gather some intelligence.

Her tone shifts, becoming low and serious. “Mr. Criminal,” she says, “you’re scheduled to be hanged tomorrow. I can help you escape.”

I bolt upright, scrambling to the front of the cell and pressing my face against the cold iron bars. “Hanged? They’re going to hang me? Get out of here!”

“So now you talk, huh?”

“Hah?!… Huh?…”

We stare at each other through the bars. The kid played me. And I fell for it completely. Who wouldn’t react when faced with their own execution? I have already had one near-death experience; I am not eager for another. This kid is clever. She is going to be a formidable woman one day.

Letting out a long, defeated sigh, I pull away from the bars and slump back onto my stone bed.

“We need to talk,” she insists.

“…What about?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the damp stone ceiling above.

After a brief pause, she continues. “I wanted to see for myself what kind of person the ‘Hero’ is.”

What kind of person? I’m no hero, I think. And I wish you’d stop using that embarrassing name.

“I’ve heard that heroes are noble people of great character,” she continues, her voice laced with the earnestness of youth. “My sisters always told me stories about how they save the world from monsters and evil.”

The classic hero spiel. Sorry to disappoint you, kid, but that’s not me. And if this world really is crawling with monsters and demons, that’s all the more reason not to count on me.

“But seeing you now,” she goes on, a clear note of disappointment in her voice, “you’re more like some common thug. I’m disappointed. You even struck my lord father, after he showed you such benevolence.”

“Say what you want, kid,” I retort, my voice flat. “But in case you’ve forgotten, I was summoned here against my will. Where I come from, that’s called kidnapping, a violation of my rights. If you’re looking for criminals, you should start with the people who dragged me here.” I am grateful to be alive, but they certainly do not need to know that. Did she say ‘lord father’? Is this kid a princess?

“Be silent! Only a truly awful person would lash out after being shown such grace!”

“I admit, slapping the old man was a mistake,” I say, the sudden concession seeming to surprise her. “He just had the distinct misfortune of looking exactly like someone I know who was long overdue for a slap.”

She looks taken aback by my swift, disarming apology. “So, you do have some decency, after all. I was beginning to lose hope.”

The nerve of this kid, talking down to her elder as if she were a disappointed schoolteacher.

“Oh, I’m all heart,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “In fact, you’ll never meet a more upstanding guy. Be sure to tell your father and sisters that the ‘Hero’ is a real stand-up fellow.” I roll over to face her, a lazy, mocking grin spreading across my face.

“Hmph. Give you one small compliment and your head swells to twice its size.” With an indignant snort, the young princess pulls back her hood. She cannot be more than eleven or twelve, a cute kid who bears absolutely no resemblance to her father. Long, chestnut-colored hair is tied into twin-tails that fall past her shoulders, the ends curling into soft, perfect waves. Her skin is fair, and her face, were it not for the deep frown creasing her brow, could belong to an angel. If she’s really that old man’s daughter, her mother must have been a goddess, I think. She has the face of an angel and the attitude of a little devil.

“Anyway,” I say, deciding to press my advantage, “I’ll talk. But first, you have to put in a good word for me. If the rest of the royal family is anything like you, I’ll be swinging from a rope for sure.”

“Don’t worry about that. My lord father is a busy man. He has already forgotten about you.”

Great. Does that mean I’m just supposed to rot in here forever?

“Then talk to your sisters,” I insist. “A princess must have some influence, right? Tell them the ‘Hero’ is a good guy who was just confused by the whole summoning business.”

She stops, her expression souring. “My sisters aren’t in the castle. They are far away. They can’t help you.” She punctuates the statement with another, definitive, “Hmph!”

Not in the castle, huh? I get it. Sent away for their education, or perhaps bartered off in political marriages. That sort of thing would be standard practice in a society that seems to be pseudo-medieval. A raw deal for high-born women. Not that it is any of my business.

“I see,” I murmur, turning away from her again. “My mistake. I apologize for assuming.”