Behind The Bars [Short Story] ✅

Part 3

The other prisoners of Dungeon 52 look stunned to see me show up in the refectory for breakfast the next day. I have been insisting on Edgar that he take me to the kitchen with the elves, but he says breakfast is mandatory, because they always check on us in the mornings during breakfast. He says he can't just bring me food, as they're not allowed to do so. In the end, I have no other choice but to trail behind him. The stares they all give me are making me more and more uncomfortable, as if there is the word "Murderer" attached at the back of my head, as if they haven't done anything crooked to land themselves here.

Why are they not staring at Edgar, who looks as young as me? He looks no more than eighteen. Has he been here that long that they're used to his presence? But soon, I notice that they have some articles spread out before them as they look at me. I know at once what they're reading, why they're looking at me as if I am some grand example of the flaw in humanity. So I keep my head down, following Edgar's footsteps as he walks around the refectory to find an empty table.

The place is as dark as everywhere else around the prison. Long, wooden tables have been set out in rows in the hall, where elves carry food and drinks - make them levitate, to say the correct term - and place them neatly on the table. There are two doors situated at either end of the hall, each guarded by a pair of trolls. There are no wizards in charge to watch us, but I am not going to take too lightly on this.

Edgar and I eat in silence, interacting only when I need some sugar or he needs the little fork beside me. There is nothing to talk about anyway. Every now and then, I notice how his eyes wander around the hall, just looking at the others, and soon they land on me for a second before moving on. Again, I feel that guilt inside me. Because, if I'm not mistaken, he might as well be scared of me. As a matter of fact, people easily get intimidated by me, so I'm not really surprised. Now, for some people, they enjoy that little power of being feared of, as if they can boss around anyone when they feel like it. But it makes them have followers instead of friends. It makes their lives lonely, even though they have people behind their back.

I, for one, have none.

It takes only half of an hour before the doors open and a pair of wizards walk in. They make a brief stop while we all look at them. Soon, their eyes land on me and start heading in my direction. "Raine Akers?" one of them addresses me.

I nod.

"Cerdik Armen has arrived," he continues, meaning the chief warlock. "He will have to discuss you about your sentence."

Again, I nod. I then stand up and follow them out. But not before I sneak a glance over my shoulder to see Edgar looking at me with slightly raised eyebrows.

Armen is waiting for me in the same, dank courtroom. He has his fingers interlocked, resting them on the table, at which the same thick decree book lay open to the farthest page. He is wearing silvery-blue robes today, which matches his grey hair that is now tied behind his head, while his round spectacles lay perched on his crooked nose. He nods at me to sit down as soon as I am admitted into the room. Without a word, I take a ginger step towards the chair before him, with the same, rusty metal table separating us. It doesn't take me long to notice that my wand is resting at the centre of the book, just lying in the small crook that divides the pages, as if he has used it as a bookmark. If only I could grab it.

But I don't make such a move. I sit on the chair, facing him, like he has motioned me to, and nothing else. He waits for me to settle comfortably, before asking, "Eaten?"

I nod.

"Slept well?"

I nod. A lie, of course.

"Now, your sentence," he shuffles in his seat, leaning forwards on the table. "You already know, of course, that your wand is going to be confiscated-"