The Stellate Vortex

Keith was doing rapid movements, pushing his body to its limit despite the pain that strained every muscle. He didn't care. If he wanted to escape, he had to grow stronger—and quickly. Months of immobility had weakened his body, and his injuries weren't entirely healed, but he refused to let that stop him.

"Forty-eight... forty-nine... fifty... fifty-one..." he muttered, each squat feeling heavier than the last.

As he straightened up again, he turned to see trying to mimic him. She was doing squats too, wobbling slightly but determined to keep up. Her turquoise eyes sparkled with focus, and Keith couldn't help but smile.

"Good form," he chuckled softly, though his breath was ragged.

He continued his exercises—pushups, sit-ups, curl-ups, and balancing on one leg—all part of the daily routine he had been following for a month now. Each session was brutal, and every muscle ached, but the progress was undeniable.

By now, Keith could run short distances and throw a decent punch, though his injuries meant his stamina and strength were still far from ideal. He was painfully aware of his limits.

I can't drag the fights out. Two minutes, tops, for each guard statue, he resolved.

---

Every day, he studied the two remaining statues guarding the throne room. From a safe distance, he analyzed their weapons and imagined their potential attack patterns, replaying every scenario in his mind.

The right statue held a longsword, its blade gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. The left one carried a greataxe, massive and menacing.

The rest of the statues had been destroyed long ago, leaving these two as the final obstacles. Keith suspected the statues were enchanted, likely capable of fast and deadly strikes.

But he had no weapon of his own, and retrieving one from the statues without triggering them was risky. He decided he would attempt to secure a weapon on the day of the fight. Until then, he practiced with sticks, wielding them like makeshift weapons to simulate combat.

---

"Papa, play!" the girl's voice broke through his intense concentration.

Keith glanced down at her, a rare warmth flickering in his chest.

"Ah, sure," he said, setting the stick aside and sitting down to rest.

She eagerly brought over her collection of colorful rocks, the ones she loved to play with. She handed a particularly messy, multicolored one to Keith and waited for him to join in.

He looked at the rock in his hand, its uneven surface smeared with vibrant hues.

Just rocks... messy colors... yet they make her so happy.

He smiled faintly and began stacking the stones with her, letting himself enjoy the brief reprieve before his next grueling session. Moments like these—however fleeting—reminded him of the humanity he was trying to preserve, both for himself and for her.

"This one... your pet!" the girl declared, holding up a colorful, misshapen rock with pride.

"This rock is my pet?" Keith raised an eyebrow, amused, as she handed it to him.

"Yes," she nodded seriously.

"What should I do with it?"

"It's hungry. Give it food!"

"There's no food," Keith replied, playing along.

"Rock!" she said, passing him a smaller stone.

"What? No, the rock can't eat other rocks! They're its family."

"Family? No, no—it's food!"

Keith chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, alright." He pretended to feed the "pet" rock the smaller ones as she watched, beaming with delight.

They continued for a while, her strange imagination weaving a narrative Keith could barely follow. But he didn't mind. Her laughter made the bizarre games worth it.

As the hours wore on, she began to doze off, her head tilting as she tried to keep playing.

"Alright, alright. Come on, it's time to sleep," Keith said softly.

"No..." she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"Yes," he countered gently. "We'll play again after you wake up, okay?"

"Okay..." she mumbled, reluctantly agreeing. She leaned against him, her small hands clutching his shirt as she drifted off.

Keith sat still, letting her rest. After a while, he reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek softly, almost instinctively.

For the first time in a long while, he felt something resembling peace.

Keith walked out of the room, the makeshift flail swinging lightly at his side. He had fashioned it from a long cloth tied securely to a jagged rock, giving it enough weight to be effective in combat. His splints were reinforced, the sticks now more secure around his still-healing bones.

With quiet determination, he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, his movements careful and deliberate. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint echo of his footsteps on the stone floor.

Ahead, the statues stood motionless, towering and ominous, their weapons glinting faintly in the sparse light. Keith's eyes scanned them, trying to discern any weakness.

He bent down, picking up a small rock from the ground. Taking aim, he hurled it at one of the statues that seemed more worn than the others. The impact sent a sharp crack through the air.

The statue groaned under its own weight before collapsing with a resounding crash, stirring up a thick cloud of dust.

Keith covered his face with an arm, coughing lightly as the dust swirled around him. The sound of grinding metal rang out—slow, deliberate movements echoing in the hall.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, his movements deliberate and slow as he approached the gate. His heart pounded in his chest, every beat reminding him of the stakes.

The statues stirred. Dust fell from their rusted forms, and the grinding of ancient joints filled the air as they came to life. Their movements were slow at first, as if recalibrating, but Keith knew better than to wait for them to regain their full speed.

He dashed forward, aiming for the one holding the longsword. With all his strength, he swung the flail, the wrapped rock crashing into the statue's chest. A loud metallic clang echoed as the blow dented its armor.

Without hesitating, Keith pivoted and slammed the flail into its leg. The statue wavered, losing balance, and Keith spotted an opportunity. Grabbing a discarded sword from the ground, he thrust it into the hollow eye socket of the longsword-wielding statue.

But nothing happened.

It didn't falter, didn't stop moving. Keith's eyes widened as he realized the statue was hollow, its movements unaffected by the blow.

The sound of grinding metal from behind forced him to act. He turned just in time to see the greataxe swinging toward him. He dived to the side, barely dodging the massive blade as it struck the ground with a deafening crash.

The axe-wielding statue was slower, but its sheer strength made up for the lack of speed. Keith knew he had to exploit its sluggishness. Staying close, he darted toward the larger statue. Its massive axe made it difficult to strike him at such close range.

The longsword statue, however, moved faster and swung its weapon toward him. Keith ducked as the blade narrowly missed his head and instead struck the greataxe statue's leg, creating a large gash in the armor. The larger statue stumbled, dropping to one knee.

Keith didn't waste the opening. Using the momentum from his flail, he swung upward with all his might, aiming for the greataxe statue's chin. The impact sent a sharp reverberation through the air as the head tilted back.

Keith's eyes darted between the crumbled statues strewn around the hall. There was a commonality he couldn't ignore—each had been torn apart, their hollow interiors exposed.

"Maybe that's the trick," he muttered under his breath. "Expose their hollowness."

He gripped his makeshift flail tighter. This is the best part about a flail, he thought, his gaze fixed on the two advancing statues. You don't need brute strength—just momentum.

He spun the flail in a wide arc, building up speed before bringing it down with all his might. The statue wielding the longsword staggered backward under the impact, its chestplate dented. Seizing the opportunity, Keith leapt forward, hammering the flail down repeatedly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the axe-wielding statue raising its weapon. Acting on instinct, he rolled to the side just as the axe came crashing down. The blade cleaved through the damaged sword-wielding statue, splitting its armor cleanly in two.

The statue quivered, vibrating as if malfunctioning, then stilled entirely.

Keith hesitated, taken aback by the sight. "Nice It stopped."

But his moment of distraction cost him. The axe-wielding statue, undeterred, swung its massive hand toward him. Keith barely had time to raise his arms to block, the force sending him stumbling back. Pain shot through his body, and his already injured arms screamed in protest.

"Damn it—did I break it again?" Keith hissed through gritted teeth, flexing his fingers tentatively. They moved. Not broken.

Regaining his focus, Keith saw the statue struggling to free its axe, now embedded in the stone floor. He didn't waste the opportunity. Grabbing a nearby lance, he hurled it with all his strength. The weapon was heavy, but it flew true, piercing the statue's torso.

The statue faltered but continued its relentless movements, yanking the lance out with eerie precision.

Keith sprinted forward, ducking under the statue's wild, swinging arms. Grabbing a discarded longsword, he drove it into the statue's armor, the blade biting deep. With a determined shout, he pulled upward, tearing through the chestplate. The hollow core was exposed, and the statue shuddered violently before collapsing in a heap of fragmented metal.

Panting, Keith stood over the remnants, his body aching and his breath ragged. He stared at the destroyed statues, his grip tightening on the flail.

"One step closer," he muttered.

Keith stepped closer to the door. He could push it open easily, but something made him stop. He wasn't ready—not like this. He turned back, deciding to wait until he healed.

When he returned, she was still sound asleep. Barely ten minutes had passed, yet he was already out of breath.

He lay down beside her, letting himself relax. While she slept, her tiny frame clung to his arm.

Keith slept peacefully, even though the dull ache in his hands lingered.

He woke to the feeling of tiny pats on his hand. Opening his eyes, he saw her standing beside him, her expression curious and expectant.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm up," he muttered groggily.

He sat up as she extended her hand. "Chalk," she said.

He reached into his pocket and handed it to her. "Don't eat it," he warned.

"Ok," she replied simply, and scampered off to the floor, where she began drawing.

Refreshed, Keith got to his feet. He left the room, map in hand, and headed for unexplored parts of the underground castle.

As he passed the hallway where the statues once stood guard, he noted the rubble with a faint smile. They weren't a threat anymore.

He arrived at a rusty door. It didn't budge when he pushed, so he swung his flail at it. After a few hard strikes, the door groaned open.

The room beyond was unlike any he'd seen before. It was filled with books, scrolls, and scattered papers, all covered in a thick layer of dust.

Most of the writing was in a language he couldn't understand, but the drawings caught his attention. They seemed to depict research—magic, to be precise.

One paper stood out, placed apart from the rest like a treasure. Keith hesitated before picking it up. The moment his fingers touched it, the paper began to burn faintly, and glowing words appeared:

Swap places. Five chances left.

"What…" Keith whispered, his heart quickening.

It was some kind of skill, but it seemed temporary and limited. He didn't dare test it yet, not when he had only five uses. Carefully, he tucked the paper away and continued his search.

One set of drawings caught his attention immediately. They depicted a creature—massive and feline, but monstrous in design.

"A tiger," Keith muttered, studying the details.

The beast's claws were long and curved like scythes, its size dwarfing any tiger he had ever heard of. Its glowing eyes seemed almost alive, even in the sketches.

His stomach tightened as the realization dawned. "The beast behind the door… it's this tiger."

After spending an hour in the room, Keith returned to his chamber.

She was waiting for him, her hands and face smudged with chalk dust. When she saw him, she ran up and hugged him tightly.

"Where you go?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Work," he replied, ruffling her hair.

"Work?" she echoed, her head tilting.

"Yes," he said, sitting down beside her.

She seemed to think about it for a moment, her brow furrowing. "Why?"

"Because… work helps us leave here," Keith explained.

"Leave?"

"Yes. Out of here," he said, leaning back.

"Stay?" she asked softly, her voice unsure.

Keith hesitated. "We'll see," he said finally.

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, she returned to her chalk drawings. Keith watched her for a while, letting her innocent determination ease his mind. Then his thoughts turned back to the tiger.

If the sketches were right, the creature was unlike anything he'd faced before—a predator built for killing. And it is the beast he needs to kill to get out of here.

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