Adrenaline's blessed numbness had worn off entirely. Now, Hillel was forced to endure the excruciating pain of what he assumed to be badly broken ribs. Each breath brought the sensation of being prodded by a firebrand whenever he inhaled sharply. The coppery taste of blood never seemed to leave his mouth, while his nose continued to leak blood and mucus as he struggled to move forward down the dimly lit hallway.
The corridor felt like a rough-hewn tunnel burrowed deep underground. It stretched before him, seemingly endless. Every so often, he would come across a sputtering torch that seemed determined to hoard its meager light.
The air hung damp and cold, smelling of decay and some nauseating odor that Hillel instinctively associated with vomit. Every shuffling step became an ordeal, and he could feel himself slowly losing his grip on consciousness.
Finally, the tunnel-like hallway opened into a slightly wider space. Stone steps ascended into darkness above.
Stairs. Heading upwards...
The thought immediately rekindled the fading flames of hope within his heart. Gritting his teeth against the grinding of his ribs, Hillel reached for the cold wall, using it for support as he placed one trembling foot after another forward. One step at a time. Once he reached the stairs, he began hauling his battered frame upward by leaning against the wall and pushing himself against it with each ascending step.
He had barely reached the third step when a faint, sharp shing echoed from the hallway behind him.
What the-?
The sound sliced through the damp quiet. Hillel froze, his heart suddenly pounding louder than before. Slowly, bracing himself against the wall, he turned his weary head.
Standing at the entrance to the stairwell, wreathed in shadow, was an ordinary-looking man with a weathered face. He wore a grey overcoat with equally grey pants, and held a pitch-black sword that he pointed at the ground. He watched Hillel with wary brown eyes, his grey-speckled comb-over catching what little light there was.
A thick silence descended, punctuated only by Hillel's ragged breathing. For a brief few seconds, fear twisted his gut as he gazed upon the naked steel. Yet, beneath it all, he felt relieved...
After the cyclops, the organ-growing plants on the farm, and that monster in the hallway... this man seemed strangely normal. Maybe, just maybe, there was a path here besides violence. However, Hillel felt a sinking feeling settle in the back of his mind.
The man shattered the silence, his voice cutting through the air. "You. How did you enter this facility? Answer me."
Hillel leaned heavily against the wall, struggling to force air past the flames in his chest. "I... I came through... a... door," he rasped. "Back there... in that farmhouse."
The man's eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over Hillel's wretched condition. He was practically covered in blood. Much of it originated from his mouth and nose, but other splotches belonged to the cyclops and the various organs he had run over. He looked Hillel directly in the eyes.
"The farmhouse gateway...? Nonsense. You lie. Tell me the truth." He took a deliberate step closer, his voice hardening with suspicion. "Did you enter through the surface access tunnel? You must have fought the scarecrows at the upper levels... no matter. Who are you working for? What is your objective here?"
Scarecrows? Upper levels? The terms meant nothing to Hillel, serving only to deepen his confusion about the circumstances. He shook his head weakly, fresh blood welling in his mouth as he coughed. "No... I didn't come from... above," he forced out. "I came through that door... the one from the farmhouse." He paused, fighting for each breath. "The one... in the middle... of the room."
The change in the man's demeanor was instantaneous and absolute. The calculated suspicion vanished, replaced by horrified alarm. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his focus sharpening to a razor's edge as the implications hit him. This boy knew of the inside of the organ farm!
Before Hillel could even register the shift, let alone react, the man moved with shocking speed. A dark liquid burst from beneath his feet.
It slammed into Hillel's vision before he could even blink. Absolute blackness, thick and suffocating, swallowed the dim stairwell whole. He smelled something acrid, chemical, like harsh ink, felt a split second of overwhelming sensory deprivation, and then—
Nothing.
Consciousness seeped back like muddy water, bringing with it a wave of profound nausea and a dull, throbbing headache. Hillel felt clammy, feverish, his body aching with a bone-deep weariness. He tried to shift, to push away the sickness, but found himself pinned. Panic surged. His limbs were bound tight, strapped securely to a flat surface beneath him. A thick gag pressed uncomfortably against his mouth, stifling the groan that rose in his throat. Only his head could move, turning slightly on a rough pillow. His eyes shot open, darting around a dimly lit room with rough wooden walls.
Beside the bed, his back to Hillel, sat a figure hunched over a simple wooden desk. The figure wore dark rags, and its posture seemed unnaturally curved, as if its spine were damaged. In one thin, bony hand, it clutched a smooth stone that pulsed with a soft, rhythmic blue light. The figure held the stone near its head, listening, before speaking into it. The voice was a low, gravelly rasp, thick with desperation.
"...I tell you, the tremors are worsening! The Pashenope infusion is the only thing that provides any relief! You have to find more, you must! The young master… his condition is failing by the day!"
A tinny, distorted voice replied from the stone, just loud enough for Hillel to hear. <"We are aware of the situation, and the urgency. However, the reality remains unchanged. The early frost hit the highlands hard this year. The Pashenope is dormant beneath the snow; it cannot be harvested. There simply is no supply available.">
"No supply?" the hunched figure repeated, the words tight with disbelief and rising anger. "Don't talk to me about 'no supply'! Do you forget who it is we serve? There are always contingencies, reserves! Check the deep storage vaults again!"
<"The deep storage was depleted during the Grey Cough pandemic last season,"> the tinny voice returned, sounding weary but firm. <"Everyone is facing the same shortage. Have you considered seeking alternative aid? Perhaps petitioning a Healer again? Surely one with a capable spark—">
"Healers!" The hunched figure slammed his free fist onto the desk hard enough to make the wood creak, startling Hillel. He spat the word like poison. "Curse them and their sparks! Do you think we haven't tried? We've begged help from them all! Not one of them can halt this decay, only slow it! The Pashenope… it's the only thing that truly works!"
<"Then I am sorry, but you must wait,"> the voice from the stone stated flatly. <"Like everyone else impacted by the frost. With luck, the late spring thaw might yield a viable harvest…">
"Spring thaw?" The hunched figure choked, voice cracking. He violently slammed the pulsating stone onto the desk; its light sputtered wildly. He pounded both fists against the wooden surface again and again, his thin shoulders shaking with impotent fury. "He won't survive until spring thaw! Damn you! Damn the winter! Damn it all to oblivion!"
Behind the gag, Hillel watched the display of raw, desperate rage, his own fear mixing with the nausea roiling in his stomach. Where am I? The question screamed in his mind. Who is this man? And where is the other one… the gray-haired man with the sword? Why did he leave me here, tied up like this? He needed answers, needed to understand. He had to get this man's attention.
Twisting his neck painfully, Hillel forced a sound through the gag, a desperate, muffled plea – Mmph! Mmph!
The hunched figure instantly froze, his fist still raised above the desk. Then, with a speed that defied nature, he spun around in his seat. It wasn't a fluid human motion; it was jarring, like a poorly handled marionette snapping into position. He unfolded slightly from his hunch and leaned toward the bed, his face lunging into Hillel's personal space far too quickly.
Hillel recoiled instinctively, pulling his head back against the pillow, his heart leaping violently against his ribs. The man's face… Bile rose in Hillel's throat. It was a ruin. Thick, puckered scars crisscrossed the leathery skin as if raked by immense claws. One eye socket was a dark, empty pit. His nose was flattened, horribly disfigured. Black, crude stitches pulled one side of his mouth taut in a nightmarish grimace. The single remaining eye, bloodshot and wide with a frantic, unstable light, fixed on Hillel.
The grotesque visage, combined with the unnatural speed, leering just inches away, was a sight of pure horror. It shattered Hillel's fragile hold on consciousness. A silent scream clawed its way up his throat, finding no release past the gag. The dim room swam, darkness rushing in from the edges—
—He gasped, sucking in a ragged breath, the phantom pressure of the gag gone. His eyes flew open again.
Not a bed. Cold, hard stone pressed against his back. He was lying on the floor of a small, barren cell. Iron chains, heavy and cold, bound his wrists and ankles, granting more movement than the dream-straps but leaving no doubt of his captivity.
Was that all... just a dream? It felt so real.
Pain flared through his ribs as he pushed himself up, leaning his trembling body against the damp stone wall. His head throbbed fiercely. Across the cell, beyond thick iron bars, stood the gray-haired man who had captured him.
That bastard.
And in the man's hand, undeniably, was a smooth stone pulsating with the same soft, rhythmic blue light as the one from the dream.
The gray-haired man spoke into the stone, his voice calm and low, yet carrying easily in the quiet of the presumed cell block. "...no, my lord, my assessment is certain. If he were to enter the lower levels, he would have had to get past the scarecrows, which he did not."
A tinny voice replied, too faint for Hillel to decipher the words, but the interrogative tone was unmistakable.
The man nodded slightly. "Yes, my lord. The beast tamer was the only one working the transfers at the time. He didn't notice his presence either." He listened for a moment. "Understood." He paused again. "Yes, my Lord. Be assured. I will watch over him at all costs. I eagerly await your arrival."