Fallen One (Book three of Alfireán age)

- On the road again-

Prisoner 91011 sat staring at his open cell door, his fingers running along the rim of the mask he held in his hands.

All the others were gone; the prisoners had accepted Vackzilian's offer and the guards had fled in terror. He could leave any time he wanted. It would be a simple matter of just getting up, walking out, and using his immense, stolen magic pool to escape across the ocean. But he dared not. That would defeat the very purpose of him putting himself here in the first place.

Standing up, the prisoner tossed the mask to the ground. Its hollow frame clattered as it bounced off the thick metal floor.

He had sat here alone in this cell for almost three days, and he still wasn't any closer to figuring out what he should do. Should he stay here and starve himself to death, or should he unleash himself upon the world once again, the man wondered.

With a sound akin to a wolf growling, his stomach rumbled and his eyes blurred from lack of water and food. Kneeling down, the prisoner picked back up the mask, and using his magic, he pulled water out of the air. Liquid coalesced in its dark depths and froze over the mouth and eyeholes. Then as the water continued to flow, he lifted it to his mouth and used the relic of his past as a makeshift cup.

Drinking deeply from the cool refreshing water, he decided starving himself to death wasn't an option.

For the first time in years, prisoner 91011 voluntarily walked through the open door, leaving the drab, grey metal-encased prison cell behind: the place where so many other prisoners had died by his hands.

The heavy thumping of his boots echoed off the metallic walls, and the smell of blood and old vomit assaulted the man's nose as he made his way down the long dark corridor. The signs of struggle appeared all around him in the deep scrape marks scarring the walls and floor. As the prisoner made his way forward, flakes of old, dried, splattered blood chipped off his boots, reminding him of the monster he was.

He had been the prison's bogeyman.

But unlike the ancient myth, he was real. Very real. And everyone had known being escorted down this corridor meant certain death. He had seen grown, battled hardened men, murderers, and rapists—the worst of the worst—cry and scream for mercy as they were dragged down this dark path.

Prisoner 91011 closed his eyes, pushing the images aside as he made his way up from the depths of Victile's Island—from the highest level of security to the lowest—until at last, he stood on the edge of the prison's courtyard.

Stepping out of the shadows and into the open light, he turned his face skyward. It had been close to a decade since he had allowed himself to see the sun, but now its majestic rays stung the man's eyes and scorched his pale cheeks.

He breathed deeply, inhaling the fresh salty air as he heard the crash of waves and howling wind, and a smile cracked his dry, parched lips.

"Still enjoying your self-imposed solitude I see," a deep, hollow voice said from the middle of the lifeless courtyard.

Prisoner 91011 turned his head to see a hologram of Vackzilian strolling towards him, the glowing figure life-like in every regard. With every step, the usurper's Imperial cape billowed about his shady figure as it hung loosely from his waist. The prisoner scowled at the blatant sign of disregard for the royal crown, but then again, Vackzilian had never shown respect for anyone but himself.

Deciding he was in no mood for this tomfoolery, he raised his hand.

With a popping hiss, blue strands of energy leaped from the hologram to the prisoner's fingers, and the water and light composing the image started to distort and fade away as he consumed the energy powering it.