Gentle prison

The ropes were gone.

One moment they had cut into his wrists, fire beneath the skin, blood seeping at the corners of his mouth. The cell had pressed down like a coffin, dripping water falling into blackness. Then the world had folded in on itself—stone melting into wood, shadows thinning into lamplight.

Lucien’s breath hitched. He was no longer slumped against damp walls but lying on a bed—real linen, soft as clouds, the air scented faintly of cedar and old paper. A lamp glowed steady and warm on the bedside table, casting even light that didn’t flicker. On a tray beside it, steam curled from a bowl of broth, golden surface glimmering.

No chains. No bruises. No pain.

He sat up too quickly, expecting agony to follow, expecting rope to bite. Nothing came. His skin was smooth, unbroken. The raw grooves he had sworn were carved into his wrists were gone, replaced by pale, untouched flesh.

Lucien stared, his pulse thundering in his ears. His breath came short, shallow.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet met polished wood—smooth, waxed, no moss, no slime. The floor creaked faintly like a lived-in home, not a dungeon.

None of it was real.

His throat felt tight, words fighting through. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe.”

Lucien froze.

The voice was steady, low—familiar in a way that turned his stomach cold.

He looked up. In the corner of the room, a figure sat in the lamplight, watching. At first shadows clung to him, blurring edges, like he didn’t quite belong to this place. Then the lamplight steadied, and the face came clear.

Lucien’s chest seized.

“Cael?”

The name escaped before he could stop it. But no—this was not the Cael he knew.

This man’s eyes were older, sunken with sleepless years, heavy with something rawer than grief. His hair hung in uneven strands, streaked with gray, and his skin bore lines Lucien had never seen—deep, jagged, like scars from battles fought too long. His posture was familiar, his tone familiar, but worn thin, stretched like paper soaked through too many times and left to dry.

The smile that touched his mouth was too tight, too pained.

“You’re not dreaming anymore,” the older Cael said softly. “This is where you belong. No more pain. No more dying.”

Lucien’s mouth went dry. “What are you talking about?”

The man’s gaze softened, almost tender, almost pleading. “I’ve watched you die more times than you can count. Fire. Blades. Ropes. Poison. Each time I rewound, thinking I could save you. But it always ended the same. Always.”

Lucien felt the room tilt. His breath snagged. “Rewound?”

The older Cael nodded once. His hands trembled faintly, as if even saying it cost him. “I thought persistence would be enough. That if I tried again, and again, and again, I’d find the path where you survived. But the story…” His voice cracked, the smile twisting bitter. “…the story never let you go.”

He gestured around the chamber—the books, the lamp, the food waiting untouched. “So I built this place. Here, you can live. You’ll never suffer again.”

Lucien’s stomach turned. He stood, too fast, and the bed creaked behind him. “This… this is a prison.”

Future Cael shook his head slowly, as though speaking to a child who didn’t understand. “No. It’s protection. You don’t see it now, but you will. Out there, every path ends with your death. Here, you are safe. You can rest. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

The warmth of the lamplight pressed down suddenly heavy, suffocating. The soft sheets, the polished wood, the steaming broth—all of it clung tighter than rope.

Lucien’s hands curled into fists. His throat burned. “Protection,” he whispered, “is just another word for cage.”

Silence stretched between them.

Future Cael’s smile flickered, then faltered altogether. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his gaze cutting sharp. “You think I don’t know the difference? I’ve seen you screaming, choking, burning. I’ve seen the terror in your eyes every time the end came. Do you think I wanted this?” His voice cracked, broke, then hardened again. “I am doing what you never could. I’m keeping you alive.”

Lucien’s chest rose and fell hard. He stared at the man—at the familiar face, the familiar shape, twisted into something unrecognizable. A stranger wearing a mask of someone he trusted.

He forced his voice steady, though his insides churned. “Alive isn’t the same as living.”

Future Cael’s eyes flared. For a moment the room seemed to dim, shadows bending at the corners. His voice dropped low, jagged. “And dying isn’t the same as freedom.”

Lucien flinched, though he hated himself for it.

The older man sank back slowly, exhaling, his anger cooling to something quieter, more dangerous. “You don’t understand yet. But you will. I’ve taken the choice away. No more sacrifice, no more promises. You’re free of all that now.”

Free. The word cut sharper than chains.

Lucien’s mind reeled. He remembered the dream—the ropes, the voice whispering “You are meant for doors.” He remembered the vow carved into mist: TAKE HIM. And now this—this nightmare wrapped in kindness.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets until his knuckles ached. His voice came out low, raw. “You said you rewound. That you saw me die. How many times?”

Future Cael didn’t answer at once. His eyes dropped, his scarred hand flexing open and closed. When he spoke, his voice was thin. “…I lost count.”

The words struck colder than any dungeon.

Lucien swallowed hard. “And every time, you tried to save me.”

A pause. Then: “...Yes.”

“And every time, you failed.”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

Lucien pressed his palms over his eyes, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to tear this too-perfect chamber down to the bones beneath. Instead he forced his voice steady. “So now, instead of failing, you’ve decided to cheat. To lock me away where I can’t die. Where I can’t live.”

Future Cael didn’t deny it.

Lucien’s hands dropped. His gaze locked on the man in front of him—the man who bore Cael’s voice, his shape, his memories, but none of his soul. His stomach twisted.

“You’re not him,” he said softly.

The older Cael flinched, as if struck. His jaw worked. “I am him. I am what he becomes when he finally learns the truth.”

“No,” Lucien whispered. “You’re what he becomes when he stops listening.”

The air thickened. The lamplight seemed to gutter though the flame burned steady.

The older Cael leaned forward, eyes blazing with something like desperation. “You don’t have to understand now. One day you will. And when you do, you’ll thank me.” His voice trembled. “Because for the first time, you’ll live long enough to see what comes after.”

Lucien’s throat ached. He wanted to scream at him, to shatter that calm, to force him to see. But no words rose. Only silence.

The lamplight flickered once, twice, then steadied.

Future Cael rose from his chair, the movement slow, deliberate. His shadow stretched across the floor, long and dark.

“You need rest,” he said. His tone gentled again, the jagged edge sanded away, leaving something dangerously soft. “Eat. Sleep. When you wake, you’ll see. The world can rage and collapse outside these walls, but none of it will touch you here.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Future Cael’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer. Then he turned, steps quiet, and the door opened without a creak.

When it shut, the silence that followed was thicker than stone.

Lucien sat motionless, staring at the food gone cold, at the lamp that refused to flicker.

His hands trembled against the sheets.

“This isn’t safety,” he whispered, though no one heard. “This is a tomb.”

The words lingered, soft, swallowed by the quiet.

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