Echoes In the Dark

The first star of the morning rose past the horizon. Its crimson rays slipped through the cracks in the dungeon’s stone walls. Then came the second, smaller than the previous one, yet it didn’t seem to dull its golden streak of light. But the dungeon was as cold as the night of their capture.

Stone walls dripped with condensation, every drop echoing like a clock marking down the hours of their despair. Seraphina sat with her knees drawn up, fingers wrapped tight around the trinket. Its edges were worn smooth, but it was the only warmth left to her.

Across the corridor of bars, Michael slumped against the iron, head bowed, hair hanging over his eyes. He hadn’t spoken since Uriel was dragged away. His silence frightened her more than his anger ever could. Michael was the one who always shouted, always found the words even in ruin. Now he was empty, his spirit like a candle guttered to smoke.

Luke stirred beside him in his own cell, the chains around his wrists clinking faintly as he shifted. His eyes carried a restless sharpness. Unlike Michael’s hollow gaze, Luke’s mind was still burning, questions gnawing at him. She saw it in the way he stared too long at the floor, or at the torchlight shivering on the walls.

“Leave him be,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying across the stale air.

Luke’s eyes flicked to her. He hadn’t spoken yet, but she could tell the words were stacked on his tongue. “He’s broken,” he said finally, voice low. “But if we don’t start planning, we’ll all be broken.”

Seraphina’s stomach tightened. She wanted to agree, but Michael’s stillness commanded respect. It wasn’t just grief—it was something deeper, heavier, as though part of him had been left behind with Uriel. “Planning won’t bring him back to us. Not yet.”

But Luke leaned forward, his expression sharp. “The Enchiridion. The Vicar. None of this makes sense, and none of you will tell me. I’ve been kept in the dark since the day I got here. If I’m supposed to survive, I need answers.”

Her chest pulled tight. She had wanted to keep her silence—her past was not for him, not yet—but the truth of the Vicar was a wound that throbbed too loud to hide forever. She let out a slow breath, lowering her trinket into her lap and looked out of the opening in her cell.

“The Vicar rose to power because of the Enchiridion,” she said. The words tasted like ash. “Rumours say it’s a person. Others claim it’s a book. A guide. But, to me it should have been left forgotten.”

“Whatever it was, he used it to twist the remnants of a race that once lived among us. We called them Valorkrinian. My father spoke of them with great pride and fascination, saying that they’re the reason our family gained their recognition and status.” Her eyes fell, an expression of grief briefly showed but quickly shifted.

“He carved them open, remade them, tried to chain them to his will, but he failed to control them. They broke free, bred in the deep valleys and fissures of the earth. Every time they screech, brave men fear the shadows," she continued. 

Luke’s brow furrowed. Was it one of those creatures i heard in the forest?  He thought. 

"The failure we called 'Morzbeasts' became his weapon. He used their existence as a nightmare, proof that he alone stood between civilization and chaos. And the people believed him. They still believe him.” 

Michael stirred faintly, his hollow eyes lifting for the first time. But he said nothing, only stared at the stone beneath his knees.

Seraphina clenched her jaw. She had said too much. Some truths were too heavy to lay bare.

Luke shifted closer to Sera waiting for her to continue, but noticed the look on her face. He tried changing the subject, still eager to know more.

“What were the two of them like?” Luke asked.

“In the two months that I’d been with them, they'd argue... a lot,” she giggled. “And I’d always have to bring them to neutral ground. But they never hated each other.”

“After the usual back-and-forth, Michael would take first watch, and I’d listen to the stories Uriel told,” she continued, reminiscing on happier times.

She then continued the story Uriel told her and gave a small smirk, her tone hopeful.“They met when they joined the Obsidian Legion together but left after seeing what the Morzbeasts had done to their friends. Uriel was the first to leave and Michael followed soon after.”

“Michael tried convincing Uriel to stay, but they both had different opinions about what was morally the right cause to fight for.” She looked over at Michael, hoping he’d be able to share in detail, but he remained silent.

“They drifted apart, refusing to talk to one another. The usual talks they had got less and less, day by day.” Her voice carrying sorrow with every word.

“Eventually, they decided to go their separate ways. Michael to join another army and Uriel on the hunt to find the *Boekord.” She concluded as silence filled the dungeon.

A pause. Then Michael broke the silence.

“Vrekh na Morra, en tra’venn” he muttered, almost whispering.

Luke sprung up and clutched the bars on Michael’s cell. “He spoke!” he said to Seraphina. But she knew unless Michael actually got up, he’d stay that way only muttering words that didn’t mean much.

The dungeon door scraped open.

Boots clicked against stone. The sound carried dread with it, each step deliberate, dragging the weight of inevitability.

The commander entered alone. No guards this time. Just him, his armour catching faint orange gleams from the torches. His scarred lip tugged faintly into a smirk as his eyes swept over the prisoners.

He stopped in front of Michael’s cell.

Michael didn’t lift his head. He stayed slumped against the bars, muttering as if the world had no more use for him.

“Disappointing,” the commander murmured, his voice calm, measured. “The one they call Artorius. A man who once raised hellfire against his enemies. Look at him now – a vegetable. Hollow. Might as well be dead.”

Seraphina’s chest flared with heat. She slammed her palm against the iron of her own cell. “Enough!” she snapped. “You’ll get nothing from mocking him. He’s suffered more than you could ever understand.”

The commander tilted his head, gaze sliding to her with something like amusement. Then, slowly, he turned his back on her, ignoring her completely, as if her defiance meant less than air.

The dismissal stung deeper than any lash.

Instead, he faced Luke.

“You,” he said simply.

Luke stiffened.

The commander’s eyes gleamed darkly. “You look clueless. Questions, doubts, ambitions. The kind of hunger I understand.”

He took out a key, and unlocked Luke’s cell. “We have lots to talk about.”

Luke remained still, refusing to respond. 

The Commander leaned closer to the bars, voice dropping into something colder. “I’ll give you a choice.”

“Either, you follow me and we… talk”

He paused, letting the silence thicken, the torchlight crackle.

“Or,” he said softly, “I can throw you back into the dark and treat you like one of them, so you understand what it means to refuse.”

Luke’s breath hitched, his fingers gripping the rusted iron between them. His face was taut, torn between fury and desperation.

Finally. This is my chance, he thought. I’ll be able to see the outside. Figure a way out. Get answers.

The commander studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching. Then he stepped back. 

Luke looked over at Seraphina, then over at Michael.

“Fine,” Luke said. “But I hate standing, so get me a chair”

The Commander turned, called the gaoler over, who escorted Luke out of the cell. His cloak whispered across the stone, as Luke’s worn sneakers scraped on the flagstones.

The heavy door shut behind him.

The dungeon was silent again. Silent except for the incessant tapping of the rain that had ceased, and the low, hollow sound of Michael’s muttering.

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*Boekord - An ancient library filled with knowledge from every continent