Echoes from Cell Seven

The sound of his footsteps echoed along the cold stone walls, as if every rock in that mountain passage remembered the footsteps and played them back in the worst tone possible.

The staircase he descended was damp, slipping under his feet like it didn't want anyone going down. The air was heavy, and the moisture clung to his throat.

Everything here was rotting… even the silence.

As he reached the final turn leading to the cells, he stopped, raised one hand to his nose, and waved the other in front of his face with boredom as he said:

"What is this rotten stench?... I hate this place."

The smell was like a mix of old blood, rust, and meat left to ferment underground.

He stepped cautiously toward the end of the corridor, where cell number (7) lay. A thick iron door stood there, slightly tilted on its hinge as if it hadn't been opened in a century. Rust had eaten into its lock, and the air around it was colder than the rest of the corridor.

He approached, pressed his ear to the door, and waited.

Silence.

No coughing, no breath, no murmurs.

"Yamibõ...?" he called softly, as if he didn’t truly want an answer.

He knocked with his fingertips, then reached for the iron lock. He turned the key carefully, and the grinding metal made him grit his teeth.

He opened the door slowly… and stood still.

The cell was vacant.

The shackles still hung, the dry bloodstain on the floor hadn’t fully faded, and the prison wall bore witness to who had once been there… but no body.

He took a step back, his breathing quickening.

Then he turned and ran back up, his feet pounding the stairs, thoughts racing ahead of him.

Every step on the staircase echoed with a dreadful resonance, and the air in his chest felt heavier than his iron helmet. He whispered to himself as he ran: "Impossible… impossible… this didn’t happen… this can’t be…"

He reached the large door leading to the leader’s chamber, pushed it open with a trembling hand, and it creaked like a metallic scream.

"L–Leader! My Lord!" he shouted as he stumbled inside.

At the center of the room, under the flickering glow of fire dancing inside a stone hearth, sat the leader on a chair covered in dark leather, his eyes closed, running his fingers slowly along the blade of his long sword, as if waiting.

He opened his eyes slowly, and without turning, said:

"Speak."

"Th–The prisoner… the one in cell seven… he… he escaped!"

A moment passed.

Then the leader rose, calm in a way that didn’t match the situation. He walked toward him, and each step was heavier than anything in the hall.

"Escaped?"

"Y–Yes… I swear I didn’t do anything… I just went down to check… the door was locked… I swear it was"

But the sword moved faster.

One strike.

His head flew sideways and hit the wall behind him like a filthy ball, while his body fell to its knees first… then collapsed like a lifeless doll.

Blood slowly spread across the stone floor.

The leader turned toward the open door and spoke in a low voice:

"You..."

The other guard had seen it all. His throat went dry, and he took a step back, his hands trembling.

"G–Give me your orders, my lord…" he said in a choked voice.

[Find him.]

He didn’t reply immediately.

He stood there, as if his legs no longer obeyed him, as if his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Then finally he muttered, in a shaky voice lacking conviction:

"Y–Yes."

The brass horn blared in the heart of the abandoned village, its sound echoing between the broken wooden houses, as if even the ghosts stirred.

The houses had no doors, their windows shattered, their walls coated in mold and ash. The ground was full of debris, and tree trunks pierced some of the roofs, as if nature had taken its revenge and then forgotten the place.

Soldiers emerged from the corners of the old homes. Some had been sleeping on the ground, others in a stable no longer fit even for beasts. Their footsteps struck the rotting wood, and each of them gripped their sword or spear as they peered into the darkness.

The leader stood in the center of the square, by a buried well, and raised his voice:

"The fugitive has escaped from cell seven."

One sentence… but enough to freeze the blood.

[Divide the land into four directions. Each squad takes a path. No one returns until we find a trace.]

Squad leaders moved, issuing orders without debate.

One soldier whispered to his friend:

"Impossible… I saw him dying… he wasn’t moving."

"Silence."

"But if it’s really him…"

"I said silence. Don’t say his name."

Another stopped at the mouth of a narrow alley and said in a barely audible voice:

"Yami—"

His comrade struck him in the chest:

– "Do you want to be summoned to the leader?"

They moved, yes, but their eyes didn’t just scan the ground… they watched the sky, the shadows, the broken rooftops.

Each of them felt like someone was watching them… before the search even began.

The leader remained where he stood, watching silently.

The air was heavier than usual… and the forest made no sound but the faint rustle of weary feet.

Yamibõ crouched behind a tilted tree trunk, his eyes watching silently. A few meters ahead, a group of soldiers moved through the forest, surrounding a long line of chained slaves.

They herded them with sticks and spears. The slaves’ heads were bowed, their bodies dragging their feet along the leaf-covered ground, their groans melting into the thick air.

Yamibõ narrowed his eyes.

The sight was disgusting.

Every part of him screamed to strike. He hated them… hated even their breaths, hated the arrogant stomp of their feet. He gripped the earth with a trembling hand and began to rise.

But he bit his lower lip hard.

Blood trickled slightly.

"Not now…" he said inwardly, as if choking a scream in his chest.

"I’ll see where they go first… then cut them down one by one."

He returned to hiding, his eyes burning.

In the line, one of the slaves fell to the ground.

A soldier kicked him and forced him up, cursing him as he did.

Yamibõ clasped his hands together to keep from moving.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers stopped, then turned around.

"Wait…"

He said it while staring into the space between the trees.

His companion asked:

"What is it?"

He answered with a hoarse voice:

"I feel… like someone’s following us."

The other laughed and said mockingly:

"Oh, don’t start rambling like the rest."

But the soldier didn’t laugh.

He just stood there, staring at the shadows.

Where nothing could be seen…

But Yamibõ was there.

And he was closer than they thought.

They continued walking.

Step after step, the sound of feet mixing with the clinking of iron chains, as they gradually descended into a sloping path among the trees.

Yamibõ crawled from above, moving along the interwoven tree trunks, his eyes never leaving them, until they approached a dark gap among the rocks.

A cave.

From afar, it looked like a gaping mouth in the heart of the mountain, its teeth jagged stones, and inside, a darkness with no end.

The slaves stopped.

And the soldiers with them.

But Yamibõ… froze.

He felt something strange. Something deeper than fear.

The sight was rotten.

The air coming from the cave carried an unbearable stench, a mix of filth, rot, and death. Even the wind seemed sick as it blew out from within.

Yamibõ immediately grabbed his nose, closing his eyes for a second.

One of the soldiers at the back grumbled, covering his mouth:

"Didn’t they clean this place yet?! This smell is suffocating."

The rest ignored him, and pushed the slaves forward into the cave.

But Yamibõ’s heart was beating differently.

He moved slightly from his spot, creeping toward the edge.

The sight made his skin crawl… but he couldn’t look away.

The smell was vile… but behind it, there was something else.

Something strange… invisible… but palpable.

There was a presence emanating from inside the cave.