They took him back after that. To the dungeons.

 Zenaris Wiscith. A son of the lord of the Wiscith hills and the regions surrounding them. The Wiscith famly was of ancient blood; right next to the Erisctye family, the rulers of Valeris for more than a couple hundred years now, in royalty. Zen’s father and the Kind, Orean, were said to be the closest of friends. Most even joked about the two of them ruling the land together.

 Yet he heard nothing from them after the fire.

 He doesn’t know how it started, but it wasn’t natural. The entire family perished in the fire that ravaged their house; at least almost. He had survived, and he had fled. To Valeris. Everything was lost in a night, save a pouch of gold and his mother’s bracelet. His life on the run had been similar to the one every highborn child had dreamt of, but it wasn't as easy as he could have imagined. Alone and empty, he had managed to live anyway.

 Wiscith was declared a dead house caused by an accidental fire. Life continued in the great isle with only some gossip and the occasional drunken slander. Nobody would believe him if he told them who he was. Nobody could, to be fair. Maybe the king or his daughter, who had visited many times over the course of his childhood, might recognise him. But it was foolish to hope.

 And Zen found himself in the dungeon.

 His fingers trailed the walls as he walked from corner to corner. His legs ached, but he didn’t stop. His nails made a sound as he scratched them on the stone; they were overgrown. A beard now sprouted from his chin, ragged and spotty. His blue eyes now had just a sliver of their former charm.

 The door opened, making sounds as it lid across the floor. Lenny, a young guard, stood there with a plate and a glass of water. His eyes were a bright contrast to Zen’s; they were sharp, focused. He peered at the young boy that stood in front of him, eyebrows tinged with pity. A lad as young as his own brother, Lenny couldn’t help but sigh at the sight before him. He set down the plate and glass slowly on the floor.

 He looked up see Zen stare at him. His neck turned sharply sideway, his glassy eyes staring in Lenny’s direction. Lenny shuddered, his hand on his blade’s hilt.

 “Boy, you could just tell them about the bloodborn, and we can get you out of here, right? It’s been 4 weeks since you came back down here. This is enough, right?” he said, his voice straining.

 “I don’t know,” Zen said, blinking blankly, "is it?

 Lenny didn’t wait to chitchat; he turned towards the door and almost swung it shut, not bothering to wait for a reply. Every criminal down here was willing to conversate with another person; they had been pushed beyond their limits with a sort of isolation that should never exist; but not this one. The guards had talked about him; how he had gone a different route from the others; a silent madness. Lenny had never liked that sort of talk, but there was nothing he could deny.

 “Wait,” Zen said.

“What, boy?” Lenny asked, his hand barely managing to stop the door from closing. He inched it open completely, bound by curiousity. Zen’s hand stretched out towards him, weakly clutching the air.

“Is it okay if I kill you?” Zen asked.

 Lenny stared at him. Zen’s hand looked bony, the white of his knuckles showing. He was a feet away, his expression as empty as he had ever seen.

Lenny forced out a weak laugh. “You’re welcome to try, boy.”

 Moments passed, with sound flooding the undeground chambers.

 “Thank you,” Zen said, blood dripping off his palm, “I needed that push.”

 He left the cell, leaving Lenny with a sharp broken metal spoon embedded in his throat. Their eyes didn’t look that different now.

The spoon had hardly helped Zen.