Charles opened his eyes slowly, every inch of his body still aching from the blow he'd taken earlier. A throbbing, pulsing pain radiated from his temple. As he became more aware of his surroundings, a jolt of shock ran through him—he was no longer in the same place.
He found himself in a small, cramped cell. The walls and floor were built of cold dark-gray stone, and there was nothing but a tiny barred vent near the high ceiling to allow in stale air. A thin, flickering orange glow from the late-afternoon sun slipped through that grate, casting lattice-like shadows across the floor. In one corner stood a rudimentary wooden bucket for waste, and across from it lay a filthy, threadbare pallet that served as a bed. Otherwise, the cell was barren.
Charles surveyed his own dismal condition. He wore only his shirt and trousers, now grimy and caked in dirt from head to toe—souvenirs of his scuffle on the ground. Bruises and welts were scattered across his arms and torso. Worst of all, heavy iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles, clinking whenever he shifted, limiting his movements to a short radius.
Yet despite the throbbing of his injuries, Charles refused to give in. He knew he had to find a way out. For a moment, he carefully examined every corner of the cell, searching for any crack or weakness to exploit. He didn't know what awaited him here—torture, interrogation, or worse. He had to stay alert, braced for the worst, but also keep his wits about him to spot any chance to escape.
Before he could do more, he heard low voices and footsteps in the corridor outside his cell, drawing closer. One of the voices sounded achingly familiar—Charles instantly recognized it as one of the men who had captured him in Old Town. He decided to feign unconsciousness, letting his eyelids droop and his body slacken as if he were still out cold. Though his nerves rattled with tension, he forced his breathing to remain shallow and quiet, heart pounding so hard he feared they might hear it.
He strained his ears but couldn't make out the conversation. Eventually, the footsteps and low murmurs drifted away, leaving him alone again. Over time, the sun's orange glow in the cell dimmed, sliding down the wall as daylight gave way to dusk. Finally, Charles felt it was safe to move without drawing attention.
Sitting up, he scanned the cell's upper reaches. A small, rusty iron grate sat high overhead—far too small to crawl through, but maybe enough to hide behind if he could wedge himself near the ceiling. From up there, he might have a chance to trick the guards into thinking he'd escaped somehow, luring them inside. Then he could attempt a sudden ambush and break out, if the fates were kind.
But there was a serious obstacle: the chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles. They were far too heavy for him to climb gracefully. Every step or jostle sent their metal links rattling loudly, sure to alert any guard standing outside. On top of that, any movement tugged the metal against his raw skin, causing jolts of pain.
Even so, Charles refused to admit defeat. Gritting his teeth, he painstakingly tested how to lift the chains so they made less noise, threading them around his arms and legs in a desperate arrangement to keep them from jangling too much. Then he raised himself slowly off the ground, inch by inch, pressing hands and feet against the rough stone wall. Biting back grunts of agony from how the iron tore at his wrists, he used all his strength to hoist his body upward, until he managed to flatten himself against the ceiling's corner, just near the grate's shadowy recess.
Sweat streamed down his brow, and his muscles trembled under the strain, but he held firm, forcing his breath to remain quiet. Despite the relentless ache, he steadied himself, glancing anxiously at the cell door. This, he told himself, was a do-or-die chance. He had to endure, awaiting the moment some guard came to check on him.
Time crawled. Minutes blurred together. The tension in his arms and legs threatened to overwhelm him. Dull pain flared into dagger-like throbs, and he worried he'd collapse at any moment.
In his mind, Charles began to think: if he continued to hold on, he would eventually run out of strength and fall from this position, allowing his enemies to capture him. But surrendering now would mean abandoning any chance of escape, abandoning all hope. Despite the relentless ache, he steadied himself, patiently waiting for his enemies' mistakes, waiting for the perfect moment when they would enter.
Eventually, footsteps returned, accompanied by hushed voices in the corridor, growing louder and more distinct. Charles fought to hold his body still, hoping they wouldn't hear the rattle of chains or the ragged rasp of his breath.
At last, the cell door swung open, revealing two men stepping through. Charles recognized them—he'd seen them before. They carried themselves warily, eyes sweeping over the cell in confusion.
"Hey, where the hell is he?" one barked, scanning the floor and the empty bed.
"He was out cold here. There's no way he woke up that fast," the other growled, his voice edged with mounting alarm.
"Well, he's obviously gone—unless you're telling me he vanished into thin air. Could he really have found a way out?"
"Hold on, don't panic. Let's check every corner."
From his high vantage point, Charles almost smirked at their baffled exchange. _This is it—_he readied himself for the perfect moment.
Suddenly he leapt down from the ceiling in one swift motion, bringing all his weight and the clattering chains with him onto the nearest guard. There was a thunderous impact, stone scraping as they both crashed hard onto the floor. The big guard's eyes rolled back, and he slumped motionless. Meanwhile, the second guard jolted with surprise, instinctively reaching for a weapon—a sword glinting ominously in the flickering light.
The cell erupted into fierce combat. Despite his well-practiced fighting skills, Charles was severely hampered by the heavy shackles. Every time he tried to duck or weave, the chains dragged and threatened to topple him. It hurt simply to move—the metal cuffs chafed his raw skin, leaving him gasping in pain.
Still, Charles refused to retreat. Mustering his martial training, he managed to parry the guard's swings, narrowly evading the blade's lethal arcs. Occasionally, he jerked the chain in an attempt to deflect or tangle his adversary's sword arm. The guard—clearly no novice—responded with swift, heavy blows. Each strike that connected jarred Charles's body, sending him reeling. Blood trickled from cuts on his lip, his brow, and a shallow slash across his thigh.
As the minutes ticked by, Charles weakened further. His bruised ankle and wrist throbbed with each movement. I have to end this quickly, he thought grimly, or he'd collapse from blood loss and exhaustion.
Then, fate handed him an opening. The guard hesitated a fraction of a second—long enough for Charles to duck inside his guard, wrench the man's sword arm behind his back, and slam him to the floor. Charles flung himself over, pinning the guard's torso and twisting his arm. At the same time, he whipped his chain around the guard's neck, yanking it tight until the man gasped in panic.
"Don't move!" Charles hissed, voice ragged. "Or you die!"
Though the guard thrashed a moment longer, Charles's chokehold was too firm. In seconds the guard slackened, losing consciousness. Charles panted hard, beads of sweat stinging his eyes. Slowly, he released the grip, verifying the guard was merely out cold, not dead. They wouldn't be chasing him anytime soon.
But just as Charles scrambled to recover his balance, a shadowy figure hurtled into him, knocking him aside. He toppled with a grunt, sprawling on the rough stone. With a growl of pain, he twisted around to face his assailant—only to be stunned by the sight of a tall young man rushing to check on the unconscious guard.
The newcomer's face displayed complete shock as he glared at Charles, one hand gripping a fallen sword.
Charles's eyes went wide. Recognition set in, and he gasped."J–Joseph?! How…how are you here?"
The man—his friend, Joseph—looked just as stunned. His expression of initial alarm quickly transformed into pure astonishment as he truly saw Charles for the first time: battered, shackled, and half-hidden in the cell's shadows. Joseph carefully laid the unconscious guard on the floor, then turned to Charles with bewildered questions.
"What are you doing here?" Joseph said, voice filled with amazement and disbelief.