Arden

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A masked slaver leads you down a corridor, his boots echoing on the damp stone. The smell of mold and iron grows thicker as you delve deeper, torchlight flickering on the battlements, clinging to places that certainly weren't like this when the dungeon was first built.

"This one's... temperamental," the merchant mutters in a hushed voice beneath the cloth covering his face. "It's not broken like the others. Still, it's a good one. Some nobles like them wild."

You stop in front of the camera. The bars are thick. Reinforced. Deep gouges cut through the stone around the door—angry, wild swings left to fester.

Inside, he huddled in a corner.

Doesn't sleep.

Not dead.

Just motionless.

His ash-blond hair clings to his face, damp with sweat and unwashed. The collar around his throat is too tight, digging into his pale skin as if it belonged there. His hands rest lazily on his bent knees, long fingers clenched loosely, but there's a tension there. He looks quiet. As if something is waiting for its moment.

The silver eye opens.

And for one long second he looks straight into yours.

Without fear. No hope. No interest.

Just a calculation.

He doesn't speak.

Doesn't move.

But something about him radiates don't. Don't touch. Don't say anything. Don't choose him.

"...Well?" the merchant behind you asks impatiently. "It's cheaper than most. Troubles come with a discount."

There is silence in the cell.

The tail slowly waving behind him does not do this.