Age Of Stories

"Nine hundred and eighty-five…"

A voice, deep yet resonant, echoed through the cramped carriage.

"Nine hundred and eighty-six…"

It wasn't loud. Not at all. But it carried—a slow, methodical chant, threading through the still, stagnant air.

No one reacted.

The prisoners sat like stone figures, their gazes either vacant or trained downward, refusing to acknowledge the sound.

The lackey, however, heard every single number as if it were a nail being driven into his skull.

He sat with his back pressed to the wooden walls, his breath shallow, his arms trembling against his sides. His fingers twitched every time the voice ticked forward another count.

To his right, his young master sat in ruined silence.

The arrogant, loudmouthed noble from before was reduced to a pitiful heap. His once-pristine attire was wrinkled, stained with sweat and dried blood, and the hastily wrapped bandages around his midsection looked as if they had been ripped from a dirtied tablecloth.

He didn't speak.

He didn't scream.

He sobbed.

His shoulders quivered as he kept his head buried between his knees, making himself small, as though trying to disappear.

The lackey swallowed.

It unsettled him.

For all his master's arrogance, for all the pride and entitlement that had defined his every movement, every word… it was all gone.

The boy hadn't made a single sound except for his muffled weeping since he had been dragged back into the carriage.

The lackey wanted to believe it was because of the pain. That made sense. Getting stabbed twice by accident, getting manhandled, having your wound hastily checked by disinterested guards before being tossed back into a prison cart like discarded trash—that was enough to shatter any tough ego.

But…

His gut told him otherwise.

His master wasn't silent because of pain.

He was silent because of fear.

The same fear that made he himself shiver.

And that realization only made the lackey's own terror grow.

Because if someone like his master—pampered, arrogant, untouchable in his own mind—could be reduced to this, then what did that say about the source of their fear?

The same source of fear that was about to kill him.

"Nine hundred and ninety-eight…"

His breath hitched. The displeasing look he saw in that youth's eyes when he had lied about what happened.

"Nine hundred and ninety-nine…"

His hands clenched into weak, clammy fists. He was sure that he wanted to count down till when he would kill him.

And all he could do was wait.

"One thousand."

The counting stopped.

The lackey felt his chest tighten. His mind, irrational and desperate, had expected it to continue. Somehow, the unceasing rhythm had become a twisted constant—and its sudden absence felt even worse.

His throat bobbed as he turned his head forward, forcing himself to look.

Zayne.

The young man who had been counting.

The one person in the carriage who would give anything to avoid.

Zayne sat with his head tilted back against the wooden wall, his arms lax at his sides, his legs sprawled carelessly in front of him. His chains rattled faintly as he sighed—a long, drawn-out exhale that almost sounded disappointed.

Then, slowly, he lifted his hands, letting his fingers stretch and flex as though checking to see if they still worked.

His expression was unreadable.

But the lackey felt something stir in his gut as he stared at him.

That sigh… that was boredom.

'Is that all?'

The question wasn't spoken, but the lackey felt it.

He shuddered.

This entire time… he was just bored?

****

Zayne's fingers curled and uncurled absentmindedly as he stared at his hands, internally screaming at the monotony of it all.

'How much longer?'

The waiting was going to kill him before the executioner did.

It wasn't even fear that was gnawing at him. It was annoyance.

A full week of being chained in a dark, rattling box, surrounded by people whose personal stench was probably a war crime, with nothing but the occasional outburst of violence to break the monotony.

Was this supposed to be some twisted form of torture?

Zayne scoffed internally.

If it was, it was pathetic.

If anything, this was just an elaborate, slow-moving waste of time.

And if there was one thing he despised, it was wasting time.

His mind drifted to that man.

The one who wanted him dead.

The one who wouldn't stop until his head was rolling across the execution block.

If it weren't for him, this whole charade wouldn't be happening.

Zayne's eyes darkened.

How irritating.

Then, CRASH.

A sharp, thunderous impact shook the carriage.

Zayne's eyes flicked open.

Outside, voices rose—muffled but agitated.

The carriage slowed.

Then it stopped.

The lackey stiffened beside him, but Zayne barely paid him any attention.

His mind was already turning.

'Another prisoner collapsed? A bandit attack? Vampires came to attack us to turn us into juicebags?'

He almost hoped it was something interesting.

His gaze wandered, and without thinking, it landed on the lackey again.

It was supposed to be a normal look.

At least, that's what Zayne thought.

But to the lackey…

It was anything but.

The moment their eyes met, a violent shudder wracked the boy's body.

His pupils shrank, his breath hitched, and his skin turned an unhealthy shade of white.

What did he see?

Anger?

Nothingness?

Madness?

Pride?

The lackey himself didn't know.

And somehow, that made it even worse.

Before he could choke on his own tongue, the carriage door swung open.

The same armored guards as before entered.

The female guard stepped forward, her tone bored but firm.

"All prisoners, out. Orderly."

She leaned slightly on her spear, her gaze scanning the faces before her. "If any of you start acting up, we'll start removing body parts."

A few shuffles. Chains clinking. Silent compliance.

One by one, the prisoners began moving.

Zayne exhaled through his nose.

Finally.

He rose without hesitation, not bothering to feign any false humility.

No one stopped him.

No one so much as spared him a second glance.

The guards counted each prisoner as they exited, and Zayne simply became another number in their eyes.

And then, at last—

Air.

Zayne stepped into the open, feeling night's cool breath wash over his skin.

The sky stretched above, endless and dark, speckled with stars.

Towering mountains loomed on either side of the valley, their jagged silhouettes sharp against the moonlit horizon. The air was crisp, fresh—untainted by the sweat and filth that had clung to him for days.

He took a slow, deep breath.

And relished it.

For the first time in a week, the wind actually reached him.

Drifted past him.

Through him.

Even his privates felt the breeze.

Zayne almost sighed again—this time, in actual relief.

Maybe I won't lose my mind before the execution, after all.

Zayne's fleeting moment of peace was shattered by a sharp shout.

"Get the hell up, you worthless brat!"

A dull smack followed, cutting through the murmurs of prisoners adjusting to their newfound air and space. Zayne turned his head, half out of curiosity, half out of irritation.

It was the noble boy again.

The once-haughty young master was on his hands and knees, trembling, his posture meek to the point of absurdity. His head was low, practically pressed against the dirt, and his entire form shuddered as though his limbs had forgotten how to function.

The guard who had struck him clicked his tongue in disgust, his patience already worn thin.

"Move, you sniveling wretch!"

The boy barely reacted, his body frozen in what could only be abject terror.

The guard sighed, then, without a shred of hesitation, sent a boot straight into his ribs.

A sickening thud filled the air, followed by a pathetic wheeze as the youth toppled over. Another kick. And another. The guard wasn't trying to brutalize him—just get him to move. But the sheer fragility of the noble made it look much worse than it was.

Zayne clicked his tongue, irritated by the sheer overdramatics of it all. Pathetic.

Eventually, the youth managed to crawl to his feet, still shaking but at least standing. The guard gave a final sneer before moving on, leaving the boy swaying unsteadily in place.

Zayne, already bored with the scene, let his gaze drift past the prisoners, past the guards, to the carriage they had all been packed inside like cattle.

And what he saw made him pause.

They had fallen.

Or at least, the carriage had.

The entire transport lay in a deep ditch, half-submerged in uneven earth. But what confused Zayne wasn't just the fact that they were in a hole—it was that he hadn't felt a single thing. No drop, no sudden tilt, not even a shift in weight.

His mind ticked forward, processing. His body had always been sensitive to movement. Even in sleep, he would have noticed the sensation of falling. And yet… he had felt nothing.

His brow furrowed as his eyes traced the strange topography around them.

The land didn't look natural.

It wasn't a landslide, nor did it resemble the usual wear of erosion. Instead, it looked as though a piece of the ground had been forcibly displaced.

Like something had just… pushed the land inward on itself.

A vague unease crawled up his spine, something too familiar, yet too distant to recall.

There was… something. A memory, lingering just outside his reach. A voice.

"Never forget this, Zayne. If you ever see something like this…"

His fingers twitched involuntarily.

Who said that?

He could almost grasp the thought, could almost drag the memory out of the void of his subconscious—but like a cruel joke, it slipped away.

Gone.

Zayne exhaled sharply through his nose, irritated at the sensation. He hated when that happened.

His focus snapped back as movement stirred around him. The prisoners had been fully offloaded now, standing in ragged lines, their expressions blank, their postures devoid of any real resistance.

The guards, however, were not as composed.

Zayne caught snippets of hushed conversation—worried tones, whispers laced with tension.

"…this isn't normal…"

"…appeared out of nowhere…"

"…we should go back…"

"…you've heard about this before, haven't you?"

"…a sign…"

The female guard, the one leading this operation, clapped her hands sharply. "Enough." Her tone was authoritative, but there was a flicker of unease beneath it. "We're all paid by the Empire. This isn't our problem. We don't run just because something seems odd."

That didn't seem to reassure the others.

One of them muttered something about the road being heavily traveled and that beasts or bandits weren't a concern, but Zayne could tell—their fear had nothing to do with mundane threats.

'Interesting.'

Most people would have found this development concerning.

Zayne, on the other hand, found it far better than sitting in that damned carriage for another week.

Eventually, the female guard gave up trying to placate them and instead barked out commands.

"We're abandoning the carriages. The terrain's unstable, and getting them out would take too much time. We climb out of the ditch and continue on foot."

A murmur rippled through the prisoners, but no one dared actually to complain.

The guard smirked, her tone mocking.

"Lucky you, lot. If we hadn't gotten stuck, you would've reached your destination by daybreak. But it seems the Emperor has granted mercy and smiles upon you, granting you an extra day."

Zayne almost laughed.

Mercy?

She was right about one thing. He wasn't bound for one of those 'secure' prisons.

No, he was on the direct path to the execution block.

And he knew it.

An extra day didn't mean salvation.

It just meant one more day to wait for the inevitable.

His eyes drifted back to the unnatural ditch.

'Then again…

Maybe not.'