4 - Morgraves #3
They then made their way through the inner corridors.
The air there was freezing, but the castle was teeming with bustling activity.
The surrounding darkness did not seem to bother the people in the least. Everywhere, servants hurried about, guards patrolled, and artisans busied themselves with their respective tasks, as if every individual in this desolate kingdom had a specific role to play in keeping things running.
Tariel, accustomed to the vast green expanses and bright mansions of his people, was horrified by this almost subterranean hive of activity.
Would this be the last thing he saw, or would the Morgraves opt for a public execution for the sake of entertainment?
At that thought, he swallowed and looked down at his feet.
The procession first stopped in front of a heavy oak door leading to the royal doctor’s office.
Unlike the rest of the castle, this smaller room felt warm, filled with wood paneling, shelves groaning under the weight of glass jars, and a surprising scent of dried herbs.
The man who greeted them was neither kind nor unkind.
He was a human, a man of science—cold and pragmatic—who viewed his patients as mere problems to be solved.
Without a word to the elf, he had Cassian lie down, examined the wound on his side, and, with a single gesture, administered the antidote to counter the prince’s poison. Tariel winced at the sight of such a large needle.
“The venom has been stopped, but the wound remains deep. Take them downstairs,” the doctor ordered in a monotonous voice.
The orders were carried out immediately.
They were led further down, where the bricks gave way to rough rock, into a damp crypt where the two men were laid out.
Cassian’s body was partially undressed so that the gaping wound could be cleaned, and he was left on a stone table, lying as if dead beside the elf, who remained chained and restrained.
The medical apprentices present in the room pointedly avoided Tariel, having been warned by the soldiers about the invisible shield protecting him. Fine, he thought, let them keep their filthy hands to themselves.
His gaze turned once more to Cassian, hovering quietly nearby.
Tariel felt… uneasy, and Brynjar was completely silent in his mind.
Not a word from the golem, not even when Tariel tried to reach out to him.
He felt… alone. Scared. All of this was new to him—and besides, he didn’t know anyone whose hobby was getting followed, kidnapped, and beaten up by two different groups anyway.
An hour passed in a heavy silence, and the elf was now sitting against a damp stone wall, his gaze lost in the void of darkness as he took a bite of an apple. He wasn’t hungry, but he wasn’t foolish enough to go without eating, especially since his jailers had brought food for the two men.
Cassian’s blood, washed away by the healers, had mixed with the water before trickling onto the stone floor.
There, among a few cracks in the dark rock, the miracle was unfolding once more before Tariel’s astonished, though weary, eyes.
Bright green moss and small flowering stems sprouted before his very eyes, defying the darkness of the crypt.
“We must file a report as soon as possible,” whispered the chief physician, his gaze fixed on the impossible vegetation. “Have them bring more water and food.”
Then he slipped away with his assistants, leaving the elf alone in the dark once more, with only a heavy-breathing mercenary for company.
He missed Brynjar. He missed his magic. He had nothing to occupy himself with, nothing to keep himself company, and it was very difficult to hold back the salty, wet tears that silently slid down his cheeks.
He wasn’t sobbing, but his body acted of its own accord, as if releasing an overflow of emotions.
The crypt’s darkness was depressing and unpleasant.
To escape his dark thoughts and stave off boredom, he finally stood up. His chains, linked to the mercenary’s unbreakable rope, clattered mournfully against the rock as he set out to explore their prison.
As he surveyed the contours of the room, Tariel quickly realized that the crypt was not entirely man-made.
It was, in fact, a vast natural cave, roughly modified by human hands.
The floor was littered with old bones bleached by time and heavy, abandoned chains—remnants of the former prisoners and creatures that had perished within these walls.
A steady ambient sound punctuated the silence, the incessant drip-drip of water falling from the ceiling and splashing into small, clear puddles.
From time to time, the distant creak of footsteps echoed behind the heavy iron door or directly above his head, a reminder that Morgraves’s hive was bustling right above them.
As he ventured a little further into the darkness, the elf spotted a shaft of natural light.
He approached it and looked up. Very, very far above him, a narrow opening revealed a faint orange glow—the last rays of the sun setting over the outside world.
It was breathtaking, yet cruel. The rock walls were steep and slippery, and he had absolutely no way of climbing up to freedom, especially with his bonds.
Before him, the cave plunged into dark, unknown passages.
But his instinct—though sometimes unreliable—told him not to venture any further.
The Morgraves were corrupt, but not stupid; if they’d placed them here without direct supervision, it was for a reason.
Escaping was probably not that simple, and these tunnels surely harbored traps or creatures far worse than the guards on the surface.
Playing it safe, he turned back with a sigh and made his way back to the relative brightness of the main room. He went back to sit against the stone wall, near the table where Cassian still remained.
Seeking some semblance of comfort, Tariel rummaged through the provisions bag they’d been left with, pulled out the rest of his apple, and began to nibble on it slowly, his gaze fixed on the motionless profile of the older man.
He chewed and chewed and chewed some more, losing himself in the automatic, repetitive motion, before freezing.
His bags. He felt along his sides and let out a very long sigh of relief: he still had his bags. Although the mercenaries had looted his provisions when they captured him, he still had everything else. His grimoire, his potions, his books, his weapons, and his vials…
Tariel wrapped his arms around himself, finding meager comfort as tears began to flow silently once more. At least he hadn’t lost everything. Well… They had taken his dignity, his magic, his freedom… But not his notes, not his knowledge.
As he tried to calm himself, a voice that was becoming all too familiar broke the stifling silence of the crypt:
“They didn’t even have the decency to bring you some honey…”