A Savage Thief

It's been three days since I was thrown into this cell. My first day was a blur. I was in so much pain from the thrashing I received that I could hardly think. My body throbbed with agony, each bruise and cut a sharp reminder of the brutality I had faced. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my mind unable to focus on anything but the pain.

The second day was when I truly came to, and no amount of mental fortitude could have prepared me for the pain I felt. My entire body ached with every movement a fresh wave of torment. But the worst was the silence. I called out to CAI, desperate for any sign of my companion, but there was no response. The silence was deafening, a void that filled the cell and pressed in on me from all sides.

I wonder if I'm going crazy. Without CAI's voice to ground me, I feel lost and alone. I have yet to remember anything from my so-called previous life, and the uncertainty gnaws at me. Am I truly someone who had another life, or is this all some cruel illusion?

The isolation is unbearable. With nothing to do but think, my mind churns over every detail of my predicament. I try to recall my past, but it's like staring into a fog. There are no memories, no flashes of who I was or what I did. Just an empty void where my past should be.

I sit on the splintered bench, my head in my hands, trying to hold onto some semblance of sanity. The hours blur together, marked only by the dim light from the window and the occasional arrival of food. Each day feels like an eternity, the minutes dragging on in an endless cycle of pain and despair.

The silence is the worst part. It's oppressive, suffocating. It amplifies my fears and doubts, turning my thoughts into a cacophony of anxiety. Without CAI's voice, without any human contact, I feel myself slipping further into darkness.

 The air is damp and heavy, a mix of mildew and decay that clings to my skin and clothes. The cell is a small, dark enclosure with rough stone walls, their surfaces slick with moisture. The stones are uneven and jagged as if hastily assembled with little regard for comfort or stability.

A single, narrow window on one wall allows a sliver of light to penetrate the gloom. The window is barred with thick, rusted iron, the metal corroded and flaking. Through it, I can see only a patch of gray sky, a reminder of the world beyond these confining walls. The light it offers is dim and cold, casting long shadows that dance eerily on the floor.

The floor itself is covered in straw, damp and moldy, offering little protection against the hard, uneven stone beneath it. The straw smells of rot and urine, a stench that fills my nostrils and makes it hard to breathe. Every movement stirs up tiny particles of dust and straw, which cling to my clothes and skin, making me itch.

In one corner of the cell, a crude wooden bucket serves as a latrine, its foul odor mingling with the already oppressive stench. Flies buzz around it, their incessant droning adding to the sense of decay and despair.

There's a small, rough-hewn bench attached to one wall, its surface splintered and uneven. It's barely wide enough to sit on, and lying down is impossible without sliding off. The bench is my only piece of furniture, and it offers no comfort, only a hard surface to rest my weary body.

The iron bars of the cell door are thick and solid, their surface cold and unyielding to the touch. They are set into the stone with heavy bolts, designed to keep even the most determined prisoner from escaping. Beyond the bars, a dark corridor stretches out, lit only by the occasional flicker of a torch. The corridor echoes with distant sounds—the clank of metal, the murmur of voices, and the occasional scream, each a reminder of the other souls trapped in this place.

I feel a profound sense of hopelessness and despair. The darkness and confinement weigh heavily on me, making it hard to think clearly. My body aches from the hard surfaces and the damp cold that seeps into my bones. My spirit feels crushed by the isolation and the overwhelming sense of injustice.

I run my fingers over the rough stone walls, feeling their cold, unforgiving texture. Each touch is a reminder of my imprisonment, of the unfair accusations that brought me here. My thoughts drift back to the village, to the faces of the people I tried to help. How quickly they turned on me, how easily they believed I was a thief and a danger to this place. This extraordinary place is something I remember little of. 

A guard eventually comes for me in the afternoon. The stench of my own unwashed body hits me as I'm led from the holding area. The guard, a burly man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, orders me to be silent. I comply, too weary and broken to protest.

We leave the confines of the dank, oppressive jail and step out into the fresh air. It's overwhelming after days of confinement. The sunlight feels foreign on my skin, the brightness almost blinding. As we walk through the village, I notice the curious stares of the villagers. Whispers follow us, a mix of suspicion and pity. My head throbs, each step a reminder of the beating I endured.

We arrive at a modest home, and I'm led around to the back. The backyard opens into a well-tended garden, a stark contrast to the grim cell I was just in. The garden is beautiful, with vibrant flowers in full bloom and neatly trimmed hedges. The scent of roses and fresh earth fills the air, a welcome change from the damp, moldy smell of the cell.

Several people are gathered here, their faces serious and expectant. Among them are men and women of various ages. My eyes are drawn to a woman with thick white hair. She stands with a commanding presence, wearing an all-white dress and heels that seem impractical for a garden. Her face is stern, her eyes piercing as they study me.

Next to her is a woman with silver hair, appearing to be around my age, maybe a year or so older. There's a grace about her, a quiet strength in the way she holds herself. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or understanding.

The guard roughly pushes me forward, and I stumble slightly, my legs weak from days of confinement. "Stand there and be silent," he growls.

I nod, swallowing hard, and try to steady myself. The white-haired woman steps forward, her heels clicking on the stone path. She examines me with a critical eye, her expression unreadable.

"Is this the one?" she asks, her voice cold and authoritative.

"Yes, Madam," the guard replies, his tone deferential.

The silver-haired woman steps closer, her gaze never leaving my face. "What's your name?" she asks softly, but there's an edge to her voice.

"Hiro," I manage to say, my voice raspy from lack of use.

She nods slowly as if weighing my answer. "Well, that is a rather bland name. And not even a sure name either. Such a shame, but I am sure it cannot be helped. Do you know why you're here, Hiro?"

I shake my head, the fear and confusion evident in my eyes. "I don't. They said I was accused of being a thief and putting the chief's family in danger, but I didn't do anything wrong. I saved people from goblins. I'm not a thief."

The white-haired woman narrows her eyes, studying me closely. "We'll see about that," she says. "For now, you'll answer our questions and follow our instructions. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

A guard I recognize from my arrival in the village bows before the white-haired woman. "Lady Morgana," he addresses her with respect. The woman, who carries herself with an air of authority, acknowledges him with a nod.

"Lucan," she says, her voice firm and commanding.

Lucan is dressed in heavy armor with a red cloak that appears to have been blood-stained, with patches of white showing through in some spots. He is strong and well-toned, with a tan complexion. A scar runs across his cheek, and he has deep red hair that falls just above his shoulders. The sight of him, imposing and stern, adds to the weight of my situation.

They converse amongst themselves for what feels like an hour, their voices low and punctuated by occasional laughter. I can't make out what they're saying, and my curiosity mixes with frustration. The sun beats down on me, making me feel hot and dizzy. My legs burn from standing, and hunger gnaws at my stomach.

As I try to shift my weight to relieve the ache in my legs, the silver-haired young woman approaches. She's beautiful, with a graceful demeanor that contrasts with the harshness of the situation. Her expression, however, is one of disdain as she looks down at me.

She holds out a muffin, and my stomach growls loudly at the sight of it. I take the muffin from her, my hands trembling with hunger and exhaustion. She doesn't bother to speak to me, her eyes conveying a mixture of disgust and pity. I can tell she thinks I'm pathetic, and the realization makes me feel even worse.

I bite into the muffin, the slightly stale bread barely satisfying my gnawing hunger. Each chew feels like a battle, the dry crumbs scraping against my throat. As I eat, a sharp pain pierces my head, and suddenly, my vision blurs.

With every bite, images flash before my eyes—disjointed and strange. I see a cup with the words "Instant Ramen" being filled with hot water. The bright lights and pristine floors around me are overwhelming. The sounds of hundreds of fingers typing are deafening, filling the air with a relentless, rhythmic clatter. I'm standing in a vast office, the noise and brightness almost blinding.

Then the scene shifts and horror fills the room. One desk is empty, the person who should be there is slumped under it, chained by their wrists and ankles. They maneuver slowly, like a marionette on strings, preparing a small meal of simple crackers and peanut butter. Their hair is messy, their eyes are drained and hollow. I can't tell if this is a person or a skeleton, their skin clinging to their bones in a way that makes my stomach churn.

Each bite of the muffin makes the vision sharper, and more painful. The last bite is the most excruciating, the pain in my head intensifying until I feel like I might split apart. And then, just as suddenly, it's over. The vision fades, leaving me gasping for breath, my heart pounding in my chest.

I open my eyes and see Lucan has returned, the weapon I had crafted—the obsidian spear—in his hands. The spear is chipped and worn from the battle, but still deadly sharp. He holds it out as he and Lady Morgana approach me.

Lady Morgana's piercing gaze locked onto mine. "Hiro, you said your name was, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, my voice barely steady.

She nodded slowly, her expression inscrutable. "I am only going to ask you one question, Hiro, so I hope you answer with all honesty. If not, it could mean your life. Remember that, Hiro." Her eyes, a deep shade of brown, bore into me, her tone stern. "Your life depends on how honest you are with me."

"Yes, ma'am," I repeated, feeling a chill run down my spine.

"Lillian and Bernard were to bring an expensive healing potion capable of bestowing Greater Healing, Regeneration, and removing ailments. This crafted potion is rather expensive, but I am sure you know that. And I do not blame you for stealing it,"

I protest, "But ma'am, I didn't steal it—"

She halts me with a raised hand. "Let me finish, Hiro," she says. I go silent, and she continues elegantly. "Know that there is no greater love on this planet than a woman who loves her family. My husband has always been such a kind man and has given back to not only this village but this country countless times. And I would love him and gladly choose him as my husband in countless lifetimes if it were possible."

Just out of the corner of my eye, I notice a faint glow as she speaks. Words, brief but clear, flash in my mind: Processing memory. What did that mean? But I couldn't wonder for long, as Lucan had taken an offensive stance, the spear aimed directly at me.

"Know that there are no limits I would not go through for my family," Lady Morgana continues. "No amount of pain you would not know if this potion is not returned to me. And no amount of pleasure, if you are willing to kindly hand over what I ask of you." Her tone turns more sadistic, sending a chill down my spine. "So be kind, my boy. Tell me... Where is that potion?"

Terror grips me, my body trembling. I feel the weight of her words and the cold determination in her eyes. "I don't have it," I plead, my voice shaking. "I swear, I didn't take it. I don't know where it is."

Lucan steps closer, the spear's tip glinting ominously. The tension is suffocating, each second stretching into an eternity. My mind races, trying to find a way out, but there's nothing. Just the cold reality of my situation and the terrifying uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Lady Morgana's eyes narrow, and she takes a step forward. "Do not lie to me, Hiro. This is your last chance to speak the truth."

"I am telling the truth," I insist, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't have the potion. I don't know where it is."

"Lucan, make him talk," Lady Morgana commands coldly.

Lucan walks slowly toward me, a predatory smile curling his lips. "An obsidian spear is bold, kid. Doesn't do a damn thing against armor. But flesh... hehe... it cuts well."

He steps closer, the spear's sharp tip glinting ominously in the dim light. "You see," he says, his voice dripping with menace, "obsidian is incredibly sharp. It can create edges finer than any steel blade. Cuts through flesh like butter."

With a swift motion, Lucan nicks my cheek with the spear. The pain is immediate and sharp, a thin line of blood trickling down my face. I flinch, fear paralyzing me.

"Stop it!" Aria protests, her voice breaking through the tension. "What about the Colosseum?"

Lady Morgana looks at her curiously, one eyebrow raised. Lucan halts, the spear poised in his hand, only held back by a loud, commanding "WAIT!" from Lady Morgana. She proceeds to go silent for several minutes, deep in thought. The silence is oppressive, my fate hanging in the balance.

I feel sick with fear, the prospect of being tortured is horrifying beyond words. My stomach churns, and part of me wants to puke. Everything is becoming strange and surreal—eating that muffin, the flashbacks to that place, the cryptic words. I feel like I'm losing my grip on reality like I'm going insane.

"I am not a thief," I cry, my voice cracking with desperation. Tears well up in my eyes, but I fight them back, not wanting to show weakness. The guards and Lucan mock me, their laughter a cruel chorus that cuts deeper than any blade.

I try to fight back the tears, but I am congested, tired, and utterly overwhelmed. The fatigue and fear are too much to bear, and I hate being here, trapped in this nightmare.