Sixteen uneven white scratches in the once gloomy and dull grey stone wall. The blood splattered across the walls and the scraping of the chains which had secured his raw wrists to the floor spurred the overwhelming excitement of what his story could be. The scratches, the blood, and the chains could have been the telling of a long and in-depth story of years past and when Halis had finally outstayed his welcome in the Kingdoms. Despite his current circumstances, Halis’s story wasn’t as exciting as it could have been. He had spent most of his life cooped up by himself and away from curious eyes. This life he had lead often made him sound mysterious but he always assured that he was the most plain, most unworthy and most uninteresting question.

The scratches in the stone had been there for so long that he could barely remember the act of creating them. He had lost count after what he had assumed was sixteen days. He counted the days by each time food had been dropped as the light outside came and went without his knowledge. Halis couldn’t remember the sound of the small iron gate opening, it had become so unfamiliar to him over the time he has been here and it had been ages since he had seen anything of even mild nutrients.

The opening of the grate itself had only enough room for his body to be tossed down into the cell. Now, he assumed, he would be able to fit through without any minor complications. His body had become so malnourished that he could see his bones through his white shirt and black torn pants. Although if anyone was capable of picking out the original colors of the fabric Halis would have been impressed, the fabric of his pants had faded and both had turned red from the staining of his own blood.

Three questions remain with Halis after all the years he had been stuck in the dungeons of this wretched castle, although he couldn’t say if this was a castle or if he was in a dungeon. Who had captured him, who had the power and capability to take out a Lord of an old family? How long had he been here? And, did anyone remembered him? He doubted his name had been forgotten. Azamarr was an old family name of Viacean nobility, a name written in old manuscripts of Viacean law.

A person of his importance was usually remembered, unless titles had been passed down through the world. The younger the world became the more reluctant they were to read about the past, at least that is what he had observed over his years roaming the world.

Halis had a title but never found his peace with the titles he was given, unlike all others, he never grew into it and instead resented every piece of himself. It had all been thrust upon him, the power, the family name. This resentment he held may have made him an easy target and could have been the reason he had landed in this cell. But then again, all of the others would have made easy targets as well. Few wanted their titles in Drescosia, it was the major difference between Drescosia and the Nohen.

***

It had been a stormy night when he left his own home, a palace built into the edge of a cliff, sweeping stone arches and massive stone staircases ascended to the palace from the valley and from the other side of the chasm. He was the Lord of Healing, or poison, it depended on how he looked at it. Halis had never felt at home in the palace walls, and he enjoyed the solitude of the smaller home he lived in across the chasm in a small wooden home with a bed and a kitchen and a desk. Halis ran his people from the quiet and his messenger and right hand, Kavne Valeriy, came once a day, as the first of the three moons rose into the sky and the first of the two suns set, to take his orders and deliver news to him. Halis did not dislike constant contact with others, they would come and go and he would offer them food and shelter on rough nights. He would never give the travelers his name or explain why he lived there on the treacherous mountainside.

Really, Halis only wanted to know who thought he was a threat. It couldn’t be a human. No human would have reason to take him prisoner, nor be able to hold one of blood of the Azamarr name. He couldn’t hear the beating of wings and he never heard the door open. They were as quiet as the old assassins and the new ones of Vrai Ascarth’s army. It was as if they had sunk into the shadows. The sound of water seeping through the unsealed cracks of the ceiling and walls of the mansion was the only thing he could hear with the exception of the occasional crack of thunder in the sky.

The sharp pain of a needle dug into the back of his neck and the small hairs stood on their ends. Searing pain set in throughout his body and constantly grew with every beat of his heart as it thundered in his head. His eyes grew heavy and he was left defenseless. He assumed they had taken something of his own research, he had spent many of his years researching diseases and poisons, strengthening his army and keeping his people safe from the plagues that wreaked havoc through other kingdoms. Someone had managed to obtain something that belonged to him, he had stopped his research when he knew that if it was ever in the possession of another it would not be used for good—although, most anything that held power was used without good intentions when in the wrong hands.