The sounds of screams and guttural growls rose in a deafening crescendo, flames raging wildly as steel clashed sharply against steel, cutting through the chaos like thunder. Amidst the roaring firelight, a solitary figure stood atop a mound, silhouetted against the blaze behind him. The little that could be seen of his face slowly turned, revealing eyes glowing an eerie crimson that burned through the darkness like twin embers.
A low, booming voice spoke in a strange, ancient tongue—unintelligible yet commanding. Then, suddenly, all sound ceased. A crushing silence fell, sharp and cold as a blade.
A sudden, biting chill cut through the dark, stirring Diomede from unconsciousness.
His eyelids fluttered open just enough to glimpse the gloom around him. The swelling in his face had yet to subside; his cheekbones and jaw throbbed with shattered agony. It had been too long since he'd felt such pain—raw and unrelenting. Without regular combat, his body's healing slowed, and the severity of his injuries left him broken.
The cold stone beneath him pressed hard against his cheek, offering a small relief, cooling the heat trapped within his battered skin.
With a labored sigh, Diomede rolled onto his back, eyes half-lidded, surveying the murky confines. The chill and dampness spoke of a stone cell, hidden deep away from the village's bustle, though the air carried an unfamiliar, less oppressive scent.
"Excuse me," came a faint, cautious voice, threading through the darkness. "I said, excuse me, sir."
Diomede grunted in response, exhaustion thick in his voice.
A chuckle echoed softly. "Ah, you were beaten thoroughly when they brought you in."
"Had to be," Diomede muttered bitterly in Kutnar, the language of his people, trying to lift his head. Pain flared instantly, sharp and unforgiving.
"Oh! You speak Kutnar?" The voice brightened with surprise. "A man well-traveled, I must say."
Diomede forced a hoarse "Who?"
"Who I am? Well, I'm Francisco De La Martinez—the famed grand master of songs, stories, and tales of the Jeweled Islands!" The voice rang out proudly, bouncing off the cold walls with jovial warmth.
Suddenly, a harsh, booming shout tore through the silence:
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YOU OVERGROWN LIZARD! UNLESS YOU WANT US TO COME DOWN AND TAKE MORE OF YOUR TAIL!"
The echo faded, and Francisco's tone dropped back to a gentle whisper. "I suppose I haven't won their favor yet. But… are you alright?"
Diomede gingerly touched his jaw, the crunching and popping of bones unsettling yet hopeful. A final click signaled some semblance of healing as his bones realigned beneath bruised flesh. Though swollen, his face was slowly reclaiming its form.
"Dra-Ko-na-Do-ri-ca-Nar-i-co," Diomede intoned.
Francisco sprang to his feet, pressing against the iron bars. "I can't believe it—someone this far north speaks my tongue with such finesse, as if raised in its cradle!"
A flicker of pride warmed Diomede's chest, only to be dimmed as Francisco corrected gently, "Though… the root of your sentence—it should be 'Dro,' not 'Do.'"
Annoyance crept back.
A small, glowing light blinked into existence between their cells, dancing softly. Francisco twirled his finger in an elegant figure eight, commanding the orb.
"Impressive," Diomede whispered. "Not many bards can weave silent light magic, let alone a Nesfundur."
Francisco smiled, revealing sharp white teeth, "It's tricky, but the secret is all in finding the right rhythm."
The light flickered closer, offering a fragile comfort in the darkness.
"So," Francisco whispered, "what landed you here, my friend?"
Diomede leaned against the bars, voice low and grim: "For fighting the commander of the knights and resisting their... persuasive methods."
Francisco nodded knowingly. "I've seen those manners firsthand."
They shared a dry chuckle.
"Do they have wards to detect your casting?" Diomede asked.
"Yes," Francisco replied, "but my small spells like this don't trigger them. I'm only sending out weak waves."
The light hovered near Diomede's bruised face.
"Let me look at your injuries. I may not be a healer, but I might ease some pain."
Diomede tilted his head, revealing the battered but gradually healing flesh. The swelling was gone; his eyes still bloodshot, dark bruises etched his skin like badges of survival.
"By the High Ones… your face healed in mere hours!" Francisco exclaimed, enlarging the light until the cell was bathed in soft glow.
Startled, Diomede recoiled.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to blind you—I'm just amazed," Francisco chuckled sheepishly.
Diomede smirked weakly. "Just be careful where you float that thing."
Francisco's face lit up with the wonder of a child seeing magic anew.
"Are you one of the blessed? A chosen?"
Diomede's pride dimmed again. "No… just lucky. I've always healed fast."
Francisco's excitement dimmed as he flipped through a small pile of hay, searching for his journal or notepad—both missing.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed, growing louder. The door at the end of the corridor creaked open.
"Quick, can you cast an illusion?" Diomede asked urgently.
"Yes, but it won't last long."
"Then make me look like when they brought me in—I can't let them know I've healed."
Francisco reached out, needing to touch Diomede to cast the spell.
Diomede stretched his arm, pressing through the bars. The two hands nearly met, fingers twitching in desperate reach.
At last, Francisco's fingers brushed Diomede's hand.
A gentle breeze seemed to wrap around Diomede's face, pulling his features taut—not painfully, but like a cloak settling. His appearance shifted, restoring the swollen, beaten visage of his arrival.
Francisco slumped against the back wall as his light faded, the darkness creeping back in.
Diomede laid back on the cold stone floor, closing his eyes, bracing for what was to come.
Heavy boots stomped down the hall and halted at his cell. The jingle of keys rang sharply, the lock turned with a grinding screech.
Two figures entered, grabbing Diomede by both arms and yanking him upright, pinning him hard against the stone wall.
Then, two more entered.
Before Diomede could focus on them, a brutal right hook slammed into his stomach, followed swiftly by a left.
The blows came relentlessly, each one harder than the last.
His guttural grunts of pain echoed faintly to Francisco, who remained still, praying his companion would endure.