The Prison of Adagio Bastille

  The chill of stone pressed against his back as Themis Valeheart stirred to consciousness. Dripping water echoed somewhere beyond the bars, steady as a heartbeat marking his captivity. The air hung thick with rust and the sour scent of damp iron. His head throbbed, his limbs ached as if he had been dragged through a battlefield—and perhaps, in a way, he had.

  He blinked against the dim light filtering through the iron bars. The stench of damp stone and rusted metal clung to the air. He wasn’t alone. Across from him, sitting with unnerving stillness, was a woman. She looked as though she’d been carved from the stone itself—broad?shouldered, poised, her strength resting in stillness rather than motion. Fiery red hair spilled over her shoulders like embers waiting for wind, and her piercing green eyes glowed with calm, unyielding light.

  “Where… am I?” His voice cracked like dry parchment.

  “The underground prison of Adagio Bastille,” she said, her tone steady, almost too calm for someone locked away. “You were out cold for a while. Kept muttering someone’s name in your sleep.”

  He struggled to sit up, clutching his side. “Whose name?”

  “Shilol,” she answered. “Who is she?”

  Everything was white. No sky. No ground. No sound. Only emptiness stretching in every direction, blinding and endless.

  Themis stood barefoot, swordless, his hands trembling. “Shilol?” His voice echoed—distorted, as if the world didn’t know how to carry it.

  No answer.

  He started walking. Then running. “Shilol!” he called again, louder this time.

  Then—laughter. Faint. Distant. A child’s laugh—her laugh.

  He turned sharply. There—a small figure. Barefoot too. Spinning in place, arms out, her braids bouncing with every step.

  “Shilol!” he cried, sprinting toward her. But the closer he got, the farther she seemed. He reached out—

  She turned. Smiled. Then her face darkened. Not with sadness—but with ash. Like embers spreading across a page.

  “No—wait—Shilol—!”

  She mouthed something. He couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t reach her.

  And then—she vanished.

  The whiteness swallowed him whole.

  The name struck him like a blade. Shilol’s face flashed through his mind—her laughter, her fierce spirit, the promise she made him keep.

  “She’s… my childhood friend,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if she’s alive.”

  A silence settled over them, broken only by the distant dripping of water and the occasional moan of wind winding through the lower dungeons.

  “I’m Lyria, Lyria Caeliswyn” the woman said. “Templar of the Theocracy of Symphonia.”

  He glanced at her, surprised. “A Templar? How did you end up here?”

  Her expression didn’t waver. “I was giving confessions to the prisoners when the Rhapsodians attacked. I held them off the best I could… but they overwhelmed me.” She lifted her hands, still calloused and scarred. “When I fell, I didn’t resist. They locked me up. And I stayed.”

  “Why?” Themis asked, frowning. “You could’ve escaped, fought back—”

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  She watched him—young, tense, defiant even in defeat. His fists were clenched, his body still trembling from the remnants of battle and pain. But his spirit? Still ablaze. It reminded her too much of herself. Years ago. Before the oath. Before the bloodshed.

  “I fought as hard as I could,” she said, her voice steady, masking the memories clawing at her. The screams. The flames. The blood on the marble of Symphonia’s sacred halls. “But when I was defeated, I didn’t resist.”

  She didn’t add that she could have broken free during transport. She could have escaped. She chose not to. Why? That question haunted her every night. Was it faith? Cowardice? Acceptance?

  “I was locked up here,” she continued, her gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling where flickers of torchlight danced. “And I accepted it.”

  Because deep down… she believed it was punishment. Not for failing in battle—but for surviving when others had not.

  “After all,” she added with a faint smile, one that held no joy, “I believe this is my fate.”

  But as she looked at the boy across from her—burning with the need to protect, to change something—something in her chest stirred. A warmth she hadn’t felt in years.

  Maybe fate wasn’t meant to be accepted.

  Maybe it was meant to be broken.

  Themis stared at her, unsure whether to admire her conviction or challenge it. There was strength in her stillness—something ancient and unmoved by fear. But in his chest, something rebelled. Fate? No. If Shilol was out there, he wasn’t going to accept fate. He would break through it.

  Lyria’s voice broke the silence. “Why are you here, Themis?”

  He told her about the attack on Crotchet, the fall of his town, and how he was taken prisoner. When he finished, a sudden thought struck him.

  “Where’s Heathcliff? Where are the others?” he asked, scanning the dim cell.

  “You’re the only one they brought here,” Lyria replied, her piercing green eyes locking with his.

  A beat passed. Then her voice hardened with quiet resolve. “We can’t stay here, Themis. You need to find your friends—Heathcliff and Shilol.”

  Themis blinked. The sudden weight of reality crashed into him like a tidal wave. Heathcliff was missing. Shilol could be anywhere. And he was trapped in a prison with someone he’d just met.

  But something in Lyria’s eyes—calm, unshaken—anchored him.

  He took a breath, trying to steady the chaos in his chest. He couldn’t fall apart. Not now.

  “But how?” he asked, his voice steadier than he felt. “We’re locked up in here.”

  Lyria smiled, a flicker of fire lighting her eyes. “I’ve been here longer than you, Themis. I’ve studied the guards and their routines. I’ve been waiting for the right moment. I could break this door at any time with my Force magic… but I couldn’t do it alone.”

  “You were waiting for help,” Themis said, realization dawning.

  She nodded. “With you, we might just make it out.”

  Themis hesitated, his gaze lingering on her scarred hands. “If we make it out,” he said quietly, “I’ll find your temple. I’ll tell them you still fight.”

  Lyria’s eyes softened for the first time. “Then fight like a Templar, boy.”

  Themis met her gaze. His fear hadn’t vanished—but now it had purpose. “Alright, Lyria. Let’s do this. Let’s escape and find my friends.”

  With a focused breath, Lyria extended her palm toward the cell door. A ripple of invisible force shot from her hand, slamming into the lock with a loud metallic crack. The door creaked open.

  Footsteps echoed—the guards had heard.

  Steel clattered against stone as Themis snatched up a fallen sword, its weight unfamiliar but welcome in his trembling grip. Lyria’s fingers closed around a battered shield and a halberd, her eyes blazing with determination.

  The corridor ahead twisted with shadows and shouts—the alarm had spread.

  A guard lunged from the gloom, blade flashing. Themis parried, sparks leaping as steel met steel. He staggered, but Lyria was already moving, her shield intercepting a second attacker’s blow with a thunderous clang. She swept the halberd in a wide arc, forcing the guards back, her movements fluid and fierce.

  Themis found his rhythm, each breath sharpening his focus. He ducked beneath a wild swing, driving his sword’s hilt into a guard’s gut. The man crumpled, and Themis pressed forward, side by side with Lyria.

  The corridor became a blur of motion—boots pounding, weapons clashing, shouts echoing off the stone. A third guard tried to flank them, but Lyria spun, shield raised. The blow glanced off, and she countered with the halberd’s haft, knocking the man to his knees. Themis finished it with a swift, decisive strike.

  They moved as one, desperation lending them strength. Every heartbeat was a gamble, every step a risk. Blood smeared the floor, mingling with the sweat on their brows. Themis’s arms ached, but he refused to falter. Lyria’s presence was a beacon—unyielding, unbreakable.

  At last, they reached the stairwell, breathless and battered. The shouts behind them faded, replaced by the distant clang of more doors opening.

  They burst into the corridor above—and froze.