Beneath Camelot, the dungeon did not hold prisoners—it buried them alive in time. Its corridors whispered with the clatter of chains and the low, persistent moan of souls long resigned to despair. Here, in this subterranean oubliette, darkness clung to every surface, rent only by the feeble glow of sputtering torches that cast eerie, quivering shadows over damp, moldy walls.
Time lost meaning as each hour bled into the next in a ceaseless cycle of sorrow and isolation. In one particularly grim cell, Adelaide crouched in an oversized Albion hoodie—cloaked not only in stolen fabric but in a subtle enchantment designed to hide her from prying eyes. The hoodie, threadbare and clinging, had long given up pretending to be warm, yet it remained a cherished relic of a time when hope still dared to flicker.
Beneath it, her face was drawn and pale; her stomach had stopped growling weeks ago, now curling in on itself—quiet, hollow, resigned.
When she stood too fast, the dungeon spun, forcing her to brace her trembling hands against the cold stone as if it might remind her she was still solid. Her feet were clad in a battered pair of Uptowns, their presence concealed beneath a delicate magical veil—a spell of forgetfulness woven from thread and memory. Even the guards had overlooked them. They were not mere shoes; they were defiance on her feet, a tangible promise of better days.
The days in the cell stretched like bruises across a never-ending wound. At first, the silence was broken only by shared sighs and groans in the thin air. One night, Winston coughed so hard that Adelaide feared he might vanish between ragged breaths.
Another, she wept quietly—unsure whether it was from thirst or the raw sting of memory. Slowly, without meaning to, they began to trade scraps of thought: murmurs about what the world had once looked like, wistful questions on whether spring still smelled of rosemary and wet cobblestone, and wondering if the moon had forgotten them too. Each day added a layer of unspoken intimacy to the pervasive gloom.
Then, one evening as the chill of starvation and isolation pressed down on her, a deep, resonant sigh drifted through the stone barrier of her cell. The sound, heavy with regret and exhaustion, stirred her from her reverie. Her dry, bloodshot eyes lifted in startled curiosity.
"You sound like you've been here forever," she ventured softly, her voice fragile yet imbued with cautious hope.
From the adjoining cell, illuminated by the dim gleam of a solitary torch and the unmistakable stench of decay, came a raspy reply. Winston sat hunched over, his elbows cradling a face etched with loss and regret. His rugged features, carved by memories of that catastrophic night in Charlevoix—a time when chaos reigned, and tragedy struck without mercy—spoke of grief too vast for words.
His voice, hoarse from weeks of suppressed pain, replied, "I suppose you could say that. And what about you? How long have you been marooned in this pit?"
A weighted silence followed, punctuated by the rhythmic drip of water and the scuttle of unseen rats. "Too long to count," she murmured, glancing down at her concealed sneakers. "I haven't eaten in weeks, and unless a guard takes pity, the only water is this miserable leak."
Winston closed his eyes briefly as memories surfaced—memories of a determined woman spoken of in hushed, reverent tones by Albion: "Stubborn as hell." That repetition had etched her into his memory even as he wrestled with the crushing burden of his own failures, especially the loss of his wife, Becca.
For a moment, he drifted into a dream—a vivid glimpse of Becca in a sunlit garden, her arms stained with lavender and soil as she hummed a forgotten song. He awoke choking on the absence of her voice, the echo of her touch a tender ache in his heart. His voice, thick with sorrow, finally broke the silence. "And what is your name?"
"Adelaide," she replied with a bittersweet smile—a fragile beacon in the encroaching darkness.
"And yours?"
"Winston," he answered, his tone heavy with unspoken grief.
For a moment, he recalled Albion's words—admiration mixed with resigned pity—before softly adding, "I've heard of you... even before this, through Albion." A long, reflective pause stretched between them. Winston's dry lips trembled as memories of better days and darker betrayals surfaced. "I was in Charlevoix... when everything shattered. I couldn't save her," he confessed, the words hanging like a solitary candle in a cold draft.
At the mere mention of Charlevoix, Adelaide's heart lurched. That city, once a destination for Albion, had been where hope and ruin danced perilously close. She recalled her desperate messages—calls for rescue amid starvation and isolation—each one a fragile plea now swallowed by silence. Another heavy silence settled as they both absorbed the enormity of their deprivation and loss.
Winston shifted, his calloused hands recalling a time when even the simplest morsel was a treasure. His fingers, though thin and worn, still twitched with the memory of weight—of a blade once gripped like a prayer. He had not forgotten how to strike. He had merely forgotten why.
"There was a time," he murmured, "when I dreamed of bread, honey, stew... dreams now replaced by the bitter taste of despair."
Adelaide's eyes softened with quiet understanding. "I rescued these sneakers from Albion once—a petty theft in days that felt light compared to now. They're the only inheritance I have left of better times." Her words, tinged with humor yet laden with sorrow, cut through the oppressive gloom.
A hint of a smile tugged at Winston's weathered face. "You never wore them anyway. They were wasting away in your closet," he teased—a spark of levity born of mutual suffering.
In the corridors, the stench of decay mingled with an emerging sense of shared resilience. Over the following days, time itself seemed to slow. Their conversation evolved from sparse, tentative words into a slow, methodical sharing of lives lost and dreams deferred. One restless night, as the drip of water and the rustle of rats were the only lullabies, Winston muttered, "You snore," more softly this time. Adelaide, with a half-smile, whispered back, "Good. That means I'm alive." Their small exchange of insults and endearments became an anchor—a defiant act of staying human.
For a moment, the two sat in silent accord—a fragile truce against isolation and starvation. Then, as if summoned by fate, the sound of heavy, determined footsteps shattered the stillness. The clamor of armored boots and raised voices signaled the approach of guards—a grim reminder of the prison's ever-present tyranny.
Just then, the clamor of approaching guards reached its peak. A stern officer, his face etched with irritation and grim resolve, appeared at the cell door. "Hope ends now. Move," he barked, his words as cold and final as the dungeon itself.
In that charged moment, a familiar figure emerged from the murk: Albion. Shackled and bruised, his dark curls were matted and his face streaked with the dust of countless struggles, yet his eyes shone with a defiant, sorrowful blue.
For a brief heartbeat, his gaze locked with Adelaide's. There was a silence—a moment where time snapped, split, and rewound. He didn't see a prisoner; he saw the girl he once knew in Reading, opening a portal in his office. Then, breaking the spell, his expression shifted as he roared, "You have to be kidding me!" His laughter, rough and fractured like a cracked bell, filled the space even as nearby guards glared with cold detachment. "My precious Uptowns? Of all things, you chose those?"
With an unrepentant shrug and a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, Adelaide shot back, "They were wasting away in your office. I rescued them." Her feet, hidden beneath a delicate magical veil—a spell of forgetfulness woven from thread and memory—were clad in battered Uptowns.
The enchantment, fraying now at its edges, had been carved in desperation onto the lining of the shoes—an old rune taught to her by her student, meant to bend attention away like light over a shadowed path.
Before any further word could pass, chaos erupted. The guards, emboldened by the tension, surged forward. In a blur of motion that seemed both calculated and born of raw desperation, Albion sprang into action. His strikes were swift and brutal—a mix of practiced skill and desperate resolve. One by one, the guards fell, their shouts silenced by the force of his fury. Though his escape plan had not been fully formed until that moment, every blow he dealt declared a singular purpose: freedom.
Once the last guard lay subdued, Albion moved swiftly through the smoky aftermath. He led them out of their cells and into the corridor where freedom—and danger—waited. There, away from the immediate threat, he reached beneath his tattered sleeve and produced two small tokens: a silver marble and a folded letter. With quiet intensity, he pressed them into Winston's hands. "It's from Becca," he said. "I found them after my time in Charlevoix. She wanted you to have them—a reminder that staying human was the hardest part of all."
Winston's fingers trembled as he accepted the marble, its surface catching the dim light—a perfect, tiny orb that, for an instant, looked like hope incarnate. Later, as he read the letter, his heart ached with the tender echo of her love, and he whispered, " I'm proud he stayed human." In that place built to strip away humanity, that simple truth resonated deeply.
In a synchronized moment of resolve, the trio braced themselves. Despite the specter of execution and the relentless gnawing of hunger that had eroded their strength for weeks, they clung to the fragile bond forged in shared hardship.
Their whispered conspiracies, furtive smiles, and even the small, playful barbs they exchanged were acts of quiet rebellion—a shared vow to reclaim not only their freedom but the hope that had once seemed irrevocably lost.
As the guards advanced—now reeling from Albion's sudden, violent reprisal—Winston, Adelaide, and Albion exchanged one final, wordless glance, a pact formed in the darkness and sealed with determination. With hearts beating a steady, defiant rhythm against the oppressive walls, they stepped forward into the unknown, each footfall a rebellion against despair and a tribute to the unyielding will to survive.
Somewhere above, a bell tolled twice. They listened, not for the third chime, but for the sound of a garden door opening—of footsteps on wet pavement, of a silver marble rolling against stone, catching light. In that sound, they heard the echo of a promise: that even in a place built to strip away humanity, staying human was the hardest part of all. As they were herded down the corridor, Adelaide leaned close to Winston and whispered, "I'm holding you to that promise—even if I have to fight fate myself."