Traverse The Fog

Multiple questions ran through Cyrus' head in those few seconds. Had the sun not existed in this world? But how could that be? They had a term for it, after all.

Meanwhile, Orionis furrowed his brow before motioning for the guards to exit. Once alone, he pointed to the image again, endeavoring to keep his voice measured.

"You arrive from an area where the sun is observable?" Orionis said, using precise words.

"Yes, I arrived here through a cave tunnel," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "However, that monster lurked nearby."

There was a pause in the conversation. Orionis fell into more silent contemplation until he abruptly stood up. Under Cyrus' gaze, he then strode over the metal door. On the other side awaited one of the guardsmen. And both he and Orionis spoke in some unknown code until the latter dismissed the former with a nod.

A few minutes later, the guardsman returned, holding a paper and accompanied by the second guard. The guardsmen then placed a map in front of Cyrus before standing guard behind him.

"This is a map of the city of Avalorn and its surroundings," Orionis explained, placing a black-gloved finger on the east side of the walled city. "Start from here."

But Cyrus didn't. Rather, he found it more prominent to study Avalorn in its entirety. His gaze lingered on the city's dimensions, discovering its size was merely one-sixth of the ground within the enormous ring.

One breath. Two.

Quickly, Cyrus' attention then shifted back to the issue at hand.

"It's here," he began, slowly tracing his way back from the gate, hamlet, and cave.

"And the wra—monster lurks here?" Orionis asked.

"Yes. It was a miracle that I managed to escape."

"Thank you." Orionis stepped back and stored the camera inside the black box, much to Cyrus' distress. "One last question: Do you know what part of the continent you are?"

So, he believed that Cyrus was from a different region. I can work with this. A pause. "No, I don't."

"Then there is one last test." Orionis nodded to one of the guardsmen. "Go ahead, Caleb."

Caleb? Wha—Cyrus was pressed onto the table again.

"W-what are you doing? I've been cooperating!" Cyrus struggled with all his might.

But Orionis abstained from speaking. Slowly, he knelt down and retrieved a steel dagger strapped to his ankle. Without fanfare, he stood up, produced a small clay cup, and laid it on the table.

"Relax, Wade," he muttered. "It's just standard procedure."

Under the strength of both guardsmen, Cyrus was forced to stick out his finger. He hissed at the cut on the tip of his finger, watching his blood spill into the cup.

Then came a strange reaction. The cup began glowing red hot, burning Cyrus' blood and emitting a putrid smell. And... that was all. There was no other reaction.

But that seemed to relieve those around him.

"Apologies, Wade," Orionis said, gesturing for the guardsmen to release him. "But I had to ensure you did not have any signs of corruption." Cyrus looked disapprovingly despite the bandage given. Still, Orionis ignored it. "Everything you told us is of grave importance, Wade. Until The Steward confirms your situation, you shall wait in your cell."

Without explaining who 'The Steward' was or what the 'corruption' was, Orionis ordered the guardsmen to escort him out despite Cyrus' pleas.

…

"Hey—HEY, I'm complying!"

In a manner befitting a captive, the guards dragged Cyrus back to his dim cell and shoved him in. Annoyed, Cyrus rubbed at his wrist. These guys hadn't bothered to remove his cuffs, either.

But this didn't matter. No, what did matter was what he learned.

Sitting on top of the bed, Cyrus fell into thought. The fog, this 'corruption,' and that look of fervor on Orionis' face when he glimpsed the sun pointed to one conclusion: Escape.

Cyrus could see it now: Should they manage to extract the knowledge of his otherworldly origins, then the next step would be imprisonment and experimentation. And he'd be a fool to assume the kindness for his well-being from a stranger.

More importantly, what was the reason for him stepping into that cave? To find meaning and purpose. Not playing as some intergalactic experiment. So, it all came back to escape.

But as Cyrus focused his gaze on the flickering bulb, a wave of rationality washed over him.

"...What a joke," Cyrus smiled bitterly.

Undoubtedly, these guardsmen would not hesitate to put him down like a dog. And Cyrus would not deign to consider the idea that his meager boxing skills would protect him from a sword. Not to mention—These guys have both magic and guns!?

The idea was incredulous. Bitterly chuckling, Cyrus broke out in a cold sweat when he reminisced on the rounds passing by his head last night. And should he try to 'escape,' any guard could just brandish a gun and start blasting.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But the idea of imprisonment lingered in the back of his mind. So he stood back up and began pacing.

Stealth? But I need a layout of this place. Shaking his head, Cyrus ran his fingers on his messy beard. Fake attempts? They might shoot me...

As the minutes passed, a risky idea began to take shape, one that ignored his instinct for self-preservation but was rooted in some logic on the idea that his life might carry importance now.

This would require weeks, possibly months, of patience and information gathering. It was a stupid plan—one where the consequences could be dire. But Cyrus would rather die than be imprisoned all his life.

How gloomy, Cyrus mused, staring at the wall as if trying to peer through it. A world where the sun doesn't shine.

That picture struck a chord so powerful that Orionis dropped the matter of the medallion and corpse entirely. Could he exploit that?

Probably Not.

Thoughtful, Cyrus sat on the bed's edge and wondered what would come in the following days.

The Stewart. What kind of man is he?

…

"It's time for breakfast, Cyrus!" A young blonde-haired and blue-eyed guardsman yelled as he banged on the door.

For the past week, Fergus has been delivering the prisoners' meals. At first, he had resigned himself to doing the gruntwork the others had coerced him into. But nowadays, he had come to enjoy these visits. It was like a small break.

Carefully, Fergus slid into the feed slot—a bowl of handpicked fruit and water.

"Wake up!" He heavily knocked on the door.

His efforts were rewarded with an exaggerated groan. "Relax. I just woke up..."

And Fergus chuckled. Who would have thought that this mountain man was so friendly? He was so sure that Cyrus would have been some hardened criminal on the run, but it was just a man his age who lacked proper hair care. That very man groggily popped his head behind the bars with sleepy eyes and a tired smile.

"Mornin' Ferg," Cyrus yawned. "How's it going?"

That question again. Every time the two met, Cyrus had asked him with a smile. And it meant something to Fergus. After transferring to the wall, no one—not his troop members or the cleaning staff had ever asked him such a question.

Fergus returned the smile, albeit a slightly weary one. "It's been a long day."

Cyrus responded with two tired blinks as if he were still processing the idea that he was awake.

"The day has only started, and you're already tired of it." He tilted his head, speaking softly. "What's wrong?"

Fergus shifted uncomfortably, hesitating. But at the sight of Cyrus' patience and gentle smile, something cracked.

"It's" —He breathed deeply to gather himself— "It's just the other guys. They're making it hard to be part of the group, you know?"

"What, they're forcing all the work on you?"

It's not just that..."

Fergus voiced his thoughts on his companions. They would take advantage of his newbie status while excluding him from their weekly drinking nights. It was both isolating and suffocating.

Meanwhile, Cyrus remained ever patient, listening silently to his every word without complaint. Who would have thought he would find a confidant in a prisoner? Whenever Fergus recalled his wary attitude when they first met, he could not help but laugh. Now, Fergus was glad he spilled his heart out on that particularly bad day.

Cyrus remained quiet until Fergus finished. "Well, if I were in your shoes, I would carefully choose my friends." He plopped a pink and sweet guapa berry in his mouth. "I'd rather have a short number of lifelong friends than hundreds of nobodies to talk to."

Fergus straightened his back from those resonating words. Indeed, why waste his time trying to get into a social group that will not accept him? Grateful and smiling, He thanked Cyrus from the bottom of his heart, ingraining those words into his very being.

Recognizing his mood lifting, Cyrus changed the subject. "So, what about Carol?" His lips stretched into a knowing smile. "Any progress?"

Fergus flushed in response. Although inwardly, he thanks those lazy jerks for assigning him to this duty. So there he was, leaning against the wall and taking a break from his responsibilities.

Time quickly passed as they chatted. It was mainly Fergus who spoke while Cyrus listened, occasionally offering advice. But all good things come to an end.

"Hey, Fergus," Cyrus abruptly said, turning his gaze toward his untouched food. "It's uh, it's been two hours."

"What?! Fergus nearly leaped from the wall. He had almost broken into a sprint, but instead covered his face with his hands. "Damn it, I messed up badly this time."

"It's alright, Fergus." Behind the metal bars, Cyrus casually waved his hand, offering an excuse. "Just blame me. Tell them I was causing trouble." He grandly gestured around the room with a sarcastic chuckle. "What are they going to do? Put me in jail?"

Fergus hesitated. Was he the type of man who would take advantage of his friends?

"No, no, I-I couldn't do that... I'll figure something out," he said, slowly treading backward. "I got to go and fix this mess."

"Take care!" Cyrus said, grinning. "I'll see you later, then?"

Another question he often posed. One that Fergus felt guilty about, as he thought he was wasting Cyrus' time. Thus, he had to make it up to him.

"Hey, uh..." He stopped and drew close to the metal door, his voice hushed. "I'll sneak in a book. Something to pass the time, you know?"

In response, Cyrus' grin widened into a smile that reached his eyes.

"You have no idea what that means to me," he said, pretending to struggle against the bars. "I've been crawling up the walls day in and day out."

`The two laughed, and warmth welled up in Fergus' heart. It was good to have friends.

`"Clear Skies, Cyrus," he said before reluctantly taking his leave.

***

He trusts me. Slowly, the smile on Cyrus' face fell off like a mask.

All along, this had been an attempt to build trust with the guardsman—conversation after conversation about pointless matters in search of intelligence. And how was he supposed to obtain information from Fergus? Simple.

There was no doubt that Fergus was genuinely lonely. And the moment he vented his feelings onto a complete stranger, Cyrus knew he had an in, for he knew that when loneliness sets in, humanity always tries to alleviate it by any means.

"Just a few more months of this," Cyrus said, clutching his fists and closing his eyes. "Deep breaths."

Reinvigorated, he picked up his plate and sat on the bed's edge. As Cyrus began eating, memories of his transient childhood—silent, empty houses and constantly moving around to new places for fleeting months. It had almost driven him mad.

In the end, he saw a bit of himself in Fergus, and through that, he almost felt guilty for taking advantage of him. Almost.

But there was no other choice. It was either this or the possible future of being locked away for an exceedingly long time, and if Fergus' trust was the leverage to freedom, then so be it.

`"Just a few more months," Cyrus repeated.

He would look for the answers to the right questions. And Fergus would freely give them all, with a smile, even.