A ten-year-old boy opened his eyes slowly, the damp air burning his lungs.
Chains clinked as he tried to move—his wrists and ankles were shackled. Around him, the stone cell was dark and wet, the walls slick with moisture. A foul stench of rot hung in the air.
"W-where am I?" he whispered, voice trembling.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor. A guard in dark, battered armor appeared, face shadowed under his helmet.
"On your feet, boy. We don't have all day."
The boy struggled, panic rising, as the guard yanked him up.
"Let me go! I didn't do anything—I don't even know why I'm here!"
"You'll find out soon, boy...very, very soon."
Without another word, the guard dragged him through a narrow corridor and up a spiral staircase. At the top, a massive door marked the end of the passage. The hall before it was grand—golden chandeliers, marble floors, and tall windows pouring in light. A stark contrast to the dungeon below.
Two armored sentinels stood before the door, a strange symbol etched onto their shoulders—the same symbol the boy had seen carved into the dungeon walls.
The guard turned to the boy, his grip tightening.
"Don't try anything stupid. You'll suffer worse than you already will."
"But I—"
"Shut your mouth if you want to live," the guard snapped. "Not that you will."
The boy fell silent, fear and confusion swirling inside him.
Then the guard raised his voice.
"Glory to the 58!"
With a heavy groan, the grand doors opened. The boy was pushed forward.
"You're on your own now, kid. Good luck... You'll need it."
The room he entered was vast — a high-ceilinged chamber with stone pillars carved like twisting serpents. A massive window overlooked an endless ocean, waves crashing far below. In the center stood a round table, around which sat 57 figures, each cloaked in unique robes or armor, each marked by symbols of distant nations.
Behind each of them stood two guards, motionless, their armor gleaming with designs foreign to the boy. He froze, trembling beneath their cold gazes.
"W-why am I h—"
Before he could finish, one of the nearby guards struck him hard across the face. A hot sting of pain followed, and blood trickled down his cheek, leaving a red line that would surely scar.
"Silence," the guard growled.
"Is that the boy?" one of the council members muttered.
"I am not certain," replied another, tone indifferent.
"That makes it easier," said the one at the head of the table — an old woman draped in crimson and gold, her eyes sharp like a hawk's.
She rose, slowly approaching the boy. Her steps echoed across the chamber. Stooping slightly, she studied his face for a long moment, as if looking for a memory she hoped to forget.
Then, she stood straight and said coldly, "You are."
The boy blinked. "I… I am what?"
"Consider this a mercy."
Her voice cut the air like a blade.
"Kill him."
A gasp rippled through the room.
"But… Your Highness, he is only a child!" said a man with pointed ears and emerald-green eyes — clearly the ruler of the elves.
"It is final," she said, her tone like steel. "Do you challenge my authority, Ethan?"
A tense silence followed. No one moved.
"Take him away."
Tears welled in the boy's eyes.
"Why? What have I done? I don't even know why or where this is!" on what guilt I will be killed
A hand gripped his face roughly, forcing him to look upward.
"You ask what guilt? Your only guilt…" The woman's voice was low and full of venom.
"…is that you were born."
The guards dragged him away as he cried, pleading, struggling. Down stone steps, through dark corridors, into a cold, empty chamber where chains hung from the ceiling.
They bound him again. This time, tighter. Then blindfolded him and left.
Alone.
He sobbed until fear finally pulled him into unconsciousness.
\---
He woke to the sound of scraping metal.
A figure was sharpening a sword by the doorway. It was the same guard from before.
"We meet again, kid," the man said without looking up. His voice was low, casual. "Seems your life's gonna be short."
"Please… I don't want to die…" the boy whispered.
"We all gonna die, kid. The timing's the only difference."
The guard stood, sliding the blade back into its sheath, then walked toward him.
"My name's Ralf. What's yours?"
"A-Alex…" the boy stammered.
"Not that it matters. Won't be using it much longer .bye now my friend."
Ralf raised the sword.