One prisoner meeting another wasn’t anything strange or even prohibited. People met every day, and if they decided to meet in the library or gym, they could have it a bit more private. Meeting at each other's cells wasn’t illegal either, though it did require one prisoner to be escorted there by a guard. At times, the procedure required planning on the part of the guards and staff, but usually, it wasn’t a problem.

This shouldn’t have been any different, despite the early hour.

At least, that was what Gerald thought while the guard put a pair of handcuffs around his wrists and made to walk. His mind changed as soon as the guard brought him to a door Gerald had never seen before and used some sort of magic to open it. Once inside, he found the atmosphere to be much different than before. Stale, white walls, cold light… Something was off.

Before they walked any further, the guard pressed a few buttons on his artefact and held it up to Gerald. A voice resounded from within it, saying: “I don't have permission to descend into the deeper levels” in a somewhat female, barely human voice. The guard pressed a few more buttons and the voice spoke again: “Other guards will soon join us to escort you to the inmate.”

Gerald wasn’t exactly sure what this meant. If War was being treated like a normal prisoner (allowed to mingle with other prisoners), shouldn’t he be in one of the normal cells? Normally, Gerald would have voiced his thoughts, but the guard seemed too annoyed to bother.

So, he let himself be led through the hallways, and the second he thought that War might be at the end of it, he found himself in front of a staircase going down, and at the end of that staircase, a gradually more heavily armoured man would stand. By the time they got to the first elevator, Gerald was escorted by no fewer than five heavily armoured guards and Fighters, all tired and mildly disgruntled at having to be awake at such a damn hour just to please some kid.

Another dozen hallways, three more stairs, two more elevators, three more guards, each tougher and more dangerous-looking than the last…

Gerald had to admit that unless they kept War in the deepest recess of the world, they must be leading him to some execution or something. This couldn’t possibly be actually happening.

But, no. It was happening. They just kept going further down.

By the point Gerald thought they had surely passed by the underworld, they finally stopped, standing in the middle of a hallway all too alike the other ones. In front of the squadron of people, a regular-looking metal door slid open and a well-dressed black man stepped out. His dark eyes fell upon the group, or, more specifically, on Gerald, and lit up. He didn’t smile, but Gerald had seen War enough to know when a man’s eyes smiled.

“Ah, Inmate Speerhalter! A true pleasure, my name would be Dr Darius Falk,” Darius said, stepping up to Gerald without any hesitation, ploughing past the guards and Fighters, who willingly parted for him.

Gerald was a bit taken aback, not just by the language the man spoke, but also by the sheer weight his presence seemed to hold. “-Who are you?...”

“I am the Head Observer of Inmate Kreig Wiedemann, and you are, at the moment, a very important figure. Come, follow me inside,” Darius said with such perfect confidence that he must have thought that Gerald understood everything he said, which he did not. But, as per what the man asked, he did follow him into the room Darius stepped out though, even though everyone else remained outside as if predetermined.

The room he stepped into wasn’t abnormally large, but not small either. The wall parallel to the one he entered through was made up of a large, mounted window that showed the inside of another room.

A room with a person Gerald recognized in.

War was sitting by a comically small table atop an equally small chair. His body was hunched over it, and in his hand he held a small brush, flowing over a paper with the fluidity of a river and the beauty of a cobra.

The second Gerald stepped into the observation room, the second he saw War, War himself perked up. His body flinched, his face snapped up from where he’d been looking, and he turned to look at Gerald, his nostrils flaring. And in a mere moment, Gerald suddenly felt like a very small rabbit, faced by a ginormous wolf staring down at him, sniffing his fur and smelling his fear.

“Don’t worry, he can’t see you. From his side, it’s just a mirror,” Darius said. “Though he can smell you.”

Gerald whipped his head around to face Darius, catching the slightest hint of a grin escaping his lips. That did nothing to quell the sudden fear rising in Gerald like a flood. War could smell him? From beyond a wall? Not just that, he was being kept this deep underground, constantly observed, even having a head observer keeping a close eye on his every move…

A realization bloomed in Gerald’s mind. These people knew. They knew he wasn’t just a warrior, that he was War of the North. And still, they had let him up with the other prisoners. What in the world had they been-,

“Since he’s already aware of your presence, we will soon turn the viewing-mirror into a window. I trust you have no objections to this?” Darius said, leaving no room for refusal. And while Gerald stood paralyzed in place, Darius turned to the half-a-dozen other people in the room, told them something in English, and waited patiently for them all to leave the room. “Despite Inmate Wiedemann’s knowledge of their persons, we strive to assure that their faces and names remain anonymous.”

“Is, is that so…” Gerald muttered in reply. His eyes were glued to War’s. By this point, War had risen to stand up, eyes fixated on where Gerald stood.

Although Gerald hated to take his eyes off of War’s face, he felt the need to do so only because he happened to notice that War wasn’t wearing his collar. Furthermore, the room itself was… It confirmed the theory that War had, somehow, painted the picture himself. As a matter of fact, the whole room was littered with paintings and drawings and sketches and ink and things that Gerald felt he was too poor to be allowed to view.

And among these hundreds of paintings and drawings, he, of course, noticed those portraying a young boy, his eyes hollowed out by war, lips thin and skin pale.

Himself. There were at least two dozen paintings of himself in varying situations. Two were mere sketches, three were full paintings (one uncomfortably enough portraying the moment he’d been discovered by War behind the rock from the perspective of War), and all the rest had their quality and make as well. It was impressive and made Gerald feel somewhat embarrassed. If he hadn’t deserved to be apart of one painting, how could he possibly justify having a number of self-portraits usually reserved for nobles?

While Gerald stared at the room, Darius wandered over to a desk, pressed a few buttons, twisted a key into a keyhole and pressed a final button.

A great whirring ensured as something happened to the one-sided mirror mounted in the wall. On their side, the only visible change was the other room becoming slightly clearer, but considering that War’s eyes were widening somewhat, the changes on his side must have been grander.

And there they were. Gerald and War, face-to-face.