Scraping sounds pulled me from uneasy dreams. I blinked, rubbing grit from my eyes as I sat up, muscles protesting every movement. Salt-laden air clung to my skin, and the damp cell floor left my clothes clinging uncomfortably. For several disorienting seconds, I couldn't place where I was—until the iron bars came into focus, their shadows striping the floor like accusatory fingers.

  My gut dropped like a stone.

  Right. Prison. The taste of bitter defeat still lingered on my tongue.

  But something was wrong. The cell felt emptier, colder somehow. I spun around, joints popping in protest, searching the back of the cell—finding only empty chains. They lay in a perfect coil, as if carefully arranged rather than dropped. Not a single link out of place.

  Frowning, I rose to massage a knot in my shoulder while scanning the rough-hewn walls for any sign of…well, anything. A door, a tunnel, some explanation for his impossible disappearance. The torchlight caught nothing but weathered stone and patches of salt-crusted moss. My enhanced senses, usually so reliable, detected no trace that he'd ever been here at all.

  His words echoed in my mind as I shuffled toward the abandoned chains, each link gleaming dully in the fading torchlight: Tell me, what happens when you get strong enough? When you have the power?

  I’ll make things right.

  He'd laughed—not cruel, but knowing. Like how the council makes things right? Like how that cult leader makes things right? Interesting how you hate authority while seeking the power to be one.

  Crouching, I pushed the chains aside, fingers brushing against gritty cement. The metal was cool, almost cold—no lingering body heat, as if he'd been gone for hours.

  Something about that conversation cut deeper than any blade, peeling back layers I'd rather leave untouched. Especially his casual mention of my past life, dropped like a stone in still water, ripples still spreading. I let out a shaky breath that misted in the cool air, confusion crystallizing into an icy knot in my chest. Who was that guy? And how much did he know?

  A scraping sound came again, sharper this time, drawing my attention to the metal door beyond the bars. Silver-white mist trickled beneath it like liquid moonlight, crawling across the floor in tendrils that seemed to reach for me. The sundial symbol on my palm responded, pulsing with answering light that cast strange shadows on the wall.

  "Cronia?"

  The mist rose in lazy spirals, coalescing into her familiar form. Her opal eyes like captured stars, her ethereal dress rippling as if stirred by an unfelt breeze. "Sorry," she said, floating to eye level. "I was scouting. The corridors here…they're not what they seem."

  She glanced toward the door, a flicker of concern crossing her usually stoic features. "Gripjaw's outside, but I told him to hide." Her expression turned grave as another scraping sound reached us. "Someone's coming. A guard, but…” She hesitated, which sent a chill down my spine. Cronia wasn’t usually this unsettled. "There's something off about him. The way he moves, the energy he gives off—it's wrong."

  She perched on my shoulder, shivering. The temperature dropped several degrees where she touched me. Footsteps clanked in the distance, a steady rhythm growing closer, each step echoing off stone like a hammer strike.

  Despite her worry, I found myself glancing back at the coiled chains.

  "Who was he?" I asked, unable to shake the old man's knowing smile from my mind. "The prisoner—did you sense anything strange about him, too?"

  Cronia shot to the pile of metal links, examining them with narrowed eyes that seemed to peer beyond their physical form. "To answer your first question—I have no idea…though, he gave off an aura unlike any I've sensed before." She traced patterns in the air above the chains, leaving momentary trails of silver light. "Every soul has a distinct energy signature, typically radiating their progress or power, as you put it. His was…almost familiar. Similar to what I've sensed in gods, but somehow muted, choked." Her frown deepened. "As if something were squeezing it. Look here." She gestured to the floor, where scratched letters caught the fading torchlight:

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  Thanks for the coin, and the conversation. We'll meet again, boy. And think about what we talked about.

  Until then.

  - T.O.M.

  The message seemed to shimmer slightly, or maybe it was just the play of shadows from the guttering flames. Before I could study it closer, keys rattled in the lock—a harsh, metallic sound. The door's hinges protested with a drawn-out creak that spoke of salt-rust and age. Heavy bootfalls announced the guard, each step precise and measured, almost mechanical.

  He cut an imposing figure in his silver armor, face hidden behind a conch-shaped helmet etched with Wavehaven's emblem. Torchlight slid over the polished metal like oil on water. In his gauntleted hands, he carried a tray with a single bowl of what might have been soup, though the murky contents did little to inspire.

  "Hungry?" His voice was gravel and rust, too rough to be natural. Something about the way he held himself, too stiff, too controlled, made my combat instincts scream warnings.

  I said nothing, muscles coiling tight as a spring. My tattoos tingled with suppressed energy, ready to channel power at a moment's notice. Cronia stood silent on my shoulder, but I could feel her tension radiating like frost. My fingers unconsciously pressed where that defense amulet had sunk into my chest, its power a reassuring hum beneath my skin. The inventory interface flickered at the edge of my vision—a reminder that my masks waited to be summoned.

  The guard unlocked the cell door with deliberate slowness, each click of the mechanism impossibly loud in the confined space. He hooked his keys back on his belt, metal clinking faintly against metal. "We don't want our prisoners to starve," he said, holding out the tray. Despite the casual words, his posture remained coiled, predatory.

  I watched the bowl then looked up at his hidden face, seeking any hint of expression through the helmet's eyeslits. "I'll eat when I'm ready."

  The words had barely left my mouth when his demeanor changed. A subtle shift in stance, a tightening of shoulders—subtle tells that saved my life. He snorted, the sound distorted by his helmet, and stepped closer. I shuffled back, eyeing the open cell door, wondering if this was some kind of—

  The tray flew at my face with explosive force. I shouted, weaving aside as droplets of lukewarm soup spattered my cheek. In the same fluid motion, he drew his blade—the whisper of steel leaving its scabbard almost lost beneath my pounding heartbeat. I ducked the horizontal slash that would have opened my throat, feeling the wind of its passage.

  But he was already reversing the motion, impossibly fast, blade singing straight at my chest. No time to dodge. No time to think.

  Pure instinct summoned my defense mask. The blade struck center mass in a burst of verdant light as I slammed against the wall.

  [MP -75]

  Immediately, I summned and activated my speed mask, shooting forward to smash my palm into his face. We crashed into stone, and I didn't stop—slamming his head against the wall again and again until my MP bottomed out.

  The mask turned parasitic, sucking at my soul. I deactivated it with a strangled gasp, collapsing as the guard slumped. His dented helmet clattered across the floor.

  Pain lanced from crown to toe, like someone was trying to stretch my veins to breaking point. I bit back another cry, hating my weakness, hating how fast my MP had dropped. Thank the gods it ran out before my stamina, or I'd be unconscious.

  To my shock, tinkling laughter broke the silence. Cronia danced above the fallen guard, dress flaring as she spun, trailing silver sparkles. "That was excellent!" she cried, an exuberant smile splitting her usually serious face. “Amazing!”

  The expression faded as she examined me, swirling around my battered form before shooting toward the open door. "Zale, you need to get up. More guards will come soon—this is our chance!"

  I nodded, struggling to steady my breathing as I checked the guard's inventory:

  [Wavehaven Prison Guard (Unconscious)]

  Items:

  - Guard's Uniform

  - Guard's Armor

  - Prison Keys

  - Medallion

  - Coin Purse (1000 coins)

  - Communication Crystal

  [Loot (Wavehaven Prison Guard?)]

  “Yes,” I croaked, and the man flashed white.

  The unconscious Tidewalker lay in his underwear, broken-chain tattoos stark against his skin. His sword waited nearby, but distant sounds made me jump. No time to hesitate.

  Fighting the feeling that my insides might snap, I grabbed the blade and, with a thought, donned the guard's uniform. The armor clicked into place, though the dented helmet pressed painfully against my skull.

  Gripjaw scuttled in, clacking urgently. Climbing up my leg. “Good to see you, boy.” With each heavy step forward, I built momentum until I could maintain a steady pace. Then I was out of the cell, out of the room, and into the torch-lit corridor beyond—my path to freedom, or death, waiting ahead.