The cell was open on one side, thick iron bars separating Esa from the dim corridor beyond. A cage. A stage for suffering.

The damp sandstone walls bore the desperate scratches of past captives. The floor, uneven and slick with stagnant water, reeked of mildew and decay. Sweat, blood, filth—all of it festered in the suffocating heat. No fresh air. No light. Just the smell of death.

Faint torchlight flickered in the distance, stretching shadows long and distorted across the space.

His head throbbed. A steady, punishing rhythm. Each pulse a sharp reminder of his failure. Of what he couldn't do. Of what he hadn't done.

The half open cell offered no privacy. Just cold iron bars and the ever-watchful presence of the scaled ones. The occasional guard passing by was a cruel reminder—he was still theirs. Still trapped.

He had no idea where he was.

Sweat clung to his face, dampening his auburn hair, blurring his hazel-green eyes. Beads of sweat slid down his temples, carving paths through the grime. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue, sharp and bitter. The acrid stench of rot, filth, and death curled around him, pressing against his skull, sinking into his skin.

How long had it been? Hours? Days? Time had lost its shape, dissolving into a haze of pain and exhaustion.

He hung from glowing chains, with wrists bound high above his head and ankles locked in glowing shackles against the wall. His skin was bloody and raw, torn open where the strange metal had bitten into his flesh.

The chains pulsed. Faint. Constant. Etched with runes he couldn't decipher, radiating something unnatural—something rendered his abilities useless. No matter how hard he pulled, how much he strained, they wouldn't budge.  It was as if the metal itself had shut off his powers.

His hair had been cut short—a deliberate act. A message. Rage surged through him, hot and sharp. He knew who had ordered it.

Mali Khoraz.

She had done this before. Every time she caged him in her home, she kept his hair short. "That's to train you into civility," she would say, laughing—mocking. The memory churned his stomach. Even now, even here, she was trying to break him.

The purpose of his torment remained unclear. If they wanted him dead, why hadn't they killed him?

If they were trying to break him again—to civilize him, as Lady Khoraz so often put it—then where were the old techniques? The endless drills, the whispered corrections, the punishments dressed as lessons?

Instead, the scaled guards entered his cell at random. No words. No demands. Just fists, claws, and merciless violence. They beat him until they were satisfied, then left him hanging in the damp, open cell like a discarded thing.

Alone, aching, he clung to thoughts of his friends. Mazi. Master Sheera. Kaya. Yoshua.

They were his lifeline. The fragile thread keeping him tethered to hope.

He thought of Ibris, and a storm of conflict churned within him. Once, he had been a mentor. Someone Esa had trusted to protect the halfbreeds, to stand for the forgotten of Atlantis. But Ibris had failed him in the worse way imaginable. Esa had lost all faith in Ibris.

Disappointment. Anger. Rage.

Ibris' failure had cost so many lives. Everyone Esa had known and loved in the South—gone. Their screams haunted his nights. Their absence left a wound that refused to heal.

The weight of that betrayal burned. He tried to push it aside.

At least Master Sheera was safe. Esa clung to that thought, used it like a shield against the hatred and rage that threatened to consume him every time he thought of Ibris. But no matter how hard he tried, the bitterness remained. Gnawing. Unrelenting.

Esa held onto one small victory amidst the chaos of his capture in Buramiya. In those final moments—before exhaustion took him whole—he had used the last reserves of his strength to bury Joher's family in the earth. Not to kill them, but to save them. To shield them from the transport explosion, from the airships overhead, from the destruction closing in on all sides.

He remembered the way the ground had obeyed him, how he had folded it around them like a protective cocoon. Just enough air. Just enough space for them to escape. He had placed the Gab Nori in Sumaya's hand before sealing the earth, trusting her to find a way.

There had been no time for words. No strength left to offer reassurance.

But every day since, he had prayed. Prayed that Sumaya and her elderly in-laws had survived. That they had clawed their way out of the earth, found shelter, found safety.

It was a fragile hope. But it was enough to keep him from breaking.

Beyond the rusted iron bars, two scaled guards approached. Their sinewy forms glistened in the dim torchlight, their dark, slick green scales shimmering with an oil-slick sheen. They stood unnervingly still, their presence unnatural, their movements—too smooth, too deliberate, too serpentine.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the low hiss of one guard's voice.

"They'll break you soon enough," the scaled one sneered. His slitted eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned closer to the bars, a cruel smirk curling across his scarred face. "They always do."

Esa's hazel-green eyes snapped toward him. Burning. Furious.

He didn't respond. His fists clenched tight, nails digging into his raw palms.

The guard snickered, reveling in his dominance, before turning to his companion.

"The new one's a problem," the second guard muttered, frustration evident. "We can't just turn him off like this one." He gestured toward Esa, dismissively, as if Esa were nothing more than a broken machine.

"Did you know halfbreeds came in full eagle form that size?" the first guard asked, casually.

"Took seven guys in the South to capture him," the second replied, shaking his head. "He's a powerful, old fella."

The first guard smirked, leaning closer. "And get this," he added, with amusement. "They say he used to be the Head Priest in the Grand Citadel."

"He's fallen a long way," the second mused, a faint, cruel smile playing at his lips.

Esa's chest tightened. His breath caught mid-exhale. His eyes widened, the color draining from his face.

No.

His thoughts screamed, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

They have Master Sheera.

Hope drained from him like air from his lungs, leaving only a suffocating void.

"Master Sheera!" The name tore from Esa's throat, raw and desperate. He yanked against the glowing chains with everything he had, muscles burning, wrists tearing against the rune-etched metal.

"Master!" he shouted again, his voice splintering through the cold, damp corridor.

The guards didn't bother looking back, their cruel laughter fading as they sauntered off into the shadows.

Esa strained his ears, desperate to hear something—anything—from another cell.

A sound. A whisper. A breath. Anything to tell him Sheera was alive.

But there was only silence.

Esa's head dropped forward. He could feel the power surging within him, roaring to be unleashed. It churned and clawed at his insides.

He could almost feel the chains tremble under the strain of his suppressed energy. But the runes on the metal hummed and glowed faintly, neutralizing him, turning his abilities into nothing more than a dull ache in his core.

He let out a guttural scream.

Frustration and rage, echoing off the cell's unyielding walls.

Some hours later, another set of guards came by Esa's cell—human ones this time.

"This one?" The first guard scoffed, eyeing Esa up and down. "Doesn't look so dangerous. Just a kid."

The second guard snorted, adjusting the grip on his blade. "That kid is the reason the Buramiya farmhouse got torn apart in one go." He leaned in, sneering through the bars. "Doesn't look like much now, though."

Esa's rage threatened to boil over. He pulled hard against the restraints. He could feel the power inside him, raging like a storm, but it was caged—just like him.

"The Khoraz had those made especially for you," the second guard explained, pointing to Esa's restraints with satisfaction.

"Save your strength, sky god," the first guard jeered, with cruel amusement. "No one breaks free of those. Not even someone like you."

Sky god. The word cut like a taunt.

Esa yanked hard against the chains, his muscles straining, his breath sharp between clenched teeth. The restraints pulsed, drinking in his power, absorbing it, nullifying it.

He felt the energy within him surge, wild and untamed, but it had nowhere to go.

Another raw, guttural roar tore from Esa's throat, the sound crashing against the cold stone walls, rattling through the cell like a storm desperate to be unleashed.

"Let's check on the others," the first guard muttered, nervously.

Without another word, they disappeared down the hall into the shadows.

Esa stayed still, his breath shallow. The moment they left, something else crept in—memories he didn't want.

He had been here before. Chains like these. A cage. Nine years old.

The same helplessness pressed down on him, heavy and merciless. The same crushing weight of powerlessness twisted in his gut, sickening. Back then, he had felt like an animal—trapped, broken. He had sworn never again. Never.

And yet, here he was. The fear clawed at the edges of his mind. The knot of fury and despair curled tight in his chest.

If he wasn't restrained, he would have ended them. All of them.

Then—something shifted. The air turned cold.

A sound—faint, unraveling at the edges. A whisper. Esa went still. He knew this sound.

Esa's body went rigid.

The soft whisper of fabric against stone. The delicate rustle of jewels brushing together. He didn't need to see her to know. He knew the sound too well.

Lady Mali Banali Khoraz.

She floated down the corridor, moving like a specter, slow and deliberate. Her presence commanding.

Two armed guards followed at a measured pace. Silent. Waiting. But she barely acknowledged them. With a flick of her wrist—graceful, effortless—they obeyed. Bowed deeply. Stepped away.

The moment they vanished, she raised a single hand. The cell door swung open with a slow, deliberate creak, the metal groaning as if bending to her will.

She drifted forward, hovering just above the ground, her movements eerily weightless. As she reached him, her feet lowered, dainty slippers finally touching the cold stone floor. Time had not stolen her beauty—sun-kissed skin still radiant even in the dim light, long brown hair spilling over her shoulders like silk. She was draped in flowing deep blue garments, regal and befitting an Atlantean noble, cinched at the waist with an ornate golden belt, yellow crystals were sewn into the hemline glimmered faintly with every movement.

Mali's deep green eyes swept over him, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of his battered form. Though her expression remained poised, the tight line of her lips and the faint crease in her brow betrayed her disdain.

"Esa, Esa," she said, hauntingly calm. "I came down to this disgusting continent just for you, you wretched child. Just for you."

With a delicate yet venomous gesture, she extended a single finger, trailing it across his sweat-soaked face. The touch was ice against his burning skin. She pulled it back, examining the dampness with a look of contempt, then flicked it back at him. "You disgust me," she hissed, sharply.

Her emerald eyes narrowed as she continued: "You have caused my family a great deal of shame. We couldn't civilize you—no, you were always so defiant." Her lips curled into a sneer as she took a step closer, her gaze burning into him. "And then..." Her face twisted with repulsion at the memory. "You got away. Somehow you escaped the floating islands, Esa. You humiliated us, you humiliated me."

Mali's voice grew sharper, more cutting. "And now, you parade around the continent, flaunting your obscene abilities, making a mockery of our gifts, pretending to be a noble like us. You're filth. Nothing more than a mistake. A tragic accident."

Esa's eyes flared with restrained rage as Mali moved closer, the venom in her words washing over him. But this time, he didn't react to the insult of being called a noble. He focused instead on something else she had said—a tragic accident.

What did she mean?

"I told Khuri," she continued, trembling with anger, "not to meddle with the blood of the ancients. I warned him." Her voice cracked slightly. "But he wouldn't listen. He never does. No, he thought he could control it."

The blood of the ancients.

Is that what he was?

Esa's pulse pounded in his ears.

Esa went still as Mali's gaze softened, shifting from anger to something unsettling. She leaned in closer.  Her hand rose and touched his face, her fingers brushing against his cheek in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

Her voice dropped to a low murmur, almost sensual.

"You have become a very handsome man, Esa," she said, caressing his jawline.

"If you hadn't become this... monstrosity. If only you had learned to obey, to listen, perhaps we could have been friends... Or perhaps something more." Her touch light and deliberate.

Her fingers trailed from his cheek down to his neck, lingering sensually. Her fingers drifted lower, grazing over his sweat-drenched chest and the defined lines of his abs visible beneath his tunic.

Her touch was deliberate, calculated.

She paused.

Then her hand went back to his neck, slipping beneath his tunic. Mali's fingers curled around the the emerald amulet. His mother's amulet. The last thing he had of his mother.

She lifted it, pulling it free from beneath his tunic. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips as she held it up between them. "What's this?" She asked, examining it the dim torchlight.

He clenched his jaw, forcing stillness when all he wanted was to end her here and now.

"A ziru etellu amulet." She whispered, as if in awe.

What? What is that?

"These old amulets are rare," she continued, turning it in her hands. "Passed down through great families." Her gaze flicked back to him, her lips curling into a mocking smile. "Who gave you this?"

Esa stayed silent.

Mali's smile faded. She yanked the leather cord hard, so he leaned forward slightly. "Speak, or I'll break it."

His jaw clenched. "It was my mother's."

She stilled. Then, laughter—sharp, cruel. "Your mother's?" She scoffed. "That poor Northern woman from a fishermen village? Maybe she was good for breeding, but who in the world would have given her a ziru etellu amulet?"

She turned the emerald in her fingers, examining the delicate etchings. "I bet you don't even know what this is." Her voice dripped with mock pity.

He just stared at her.

She smirked. "It's an ancient stone, meant to protect you from seers."

What are seers?

His mind raced. Was Kora one of them?  He had never encountered anyone with Kora's prophetic abilities. The words and visions from her cave echoed in his mind. Save Mansa. Save the mother.

He shook away the memories.

"And judging by the carving techniques..." Mali said, leaning in closer, "this one is ancient. It probably predates the Android War—maybe even Atlantis itself."

With that, she snapped the leather cord, ripping the amulet from his neck.

The moment the metal broke, something inside Esa snapped with it. His body acted before his mind.

He spat in her face.

Mali froze for a moment, her face unreadable.

Then, slowly, her lips curled into a dangerous smile.

Without a word, she raised her hand.

Esa's breath vanished.

An invisible force clamped around his throat, crushing, relentless. His head slammed back against the cold stone wall. His body convulsed, instinctively struggling—but then he realized something.

She wasn't moving his arms or legs.

The same runes that caged his power were restraining hers too.

Mali's grip tightened, fury rippling beneath her perfect composure. Then, with a sharp flick of her wrist, she let go.

Esa gasped, choking in a breath, his chest heaving. His throat burned, but he forced himself upright, glaring at her with unwavering defiance.

Her lips curled in disdain. "You're nothing," she hissed. But something flickered in her expression—frustration.

Esa said nothing. Just held her gaze. Unbroken.

Mali straightened, her posture effortlessly regal. Slowly, her feet lifted from the ground again, her presence looming above him. A cruel smile tugged at her lips.

"Today, we will set all of this straight, once and for all," she said, icy and resolute.

Then, she turned, floating out of the cell. Her gown rippled behind her, waves of deep blue silk trailing in her wake. She didn't look back. A flick of her wrist was enough—she signaled to the guards.

The guards returned and hesitated. A glance passed between them. Then, cautiously, they stepped inside the cell.

Esa tensed.

One approached, a sleek, pen-like device in hand. Without hesitation, he pressed it to Esa's neck. A sharp hiss. A cold sting.

"That should keep you just lucid enough," the guard muttered.

Esa's vision wavered, the edges of the room blurring as a strange numbness spread through his body. But it didn't pull him into darkness—it left him on the brink, his mind hazy but awake, his body weakened yet aware.

Rough hands yanked him forward. The chains rattled as the guards dragged him from the wall, his legs barely holding him.  His boots scraped against the stone, every step sluggish. The drug dulled his senses, thickened his blood, made his limbs foreign. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

His head lolled slightly. The hallway shifted before him—blurred figures, flickering torchlight, the distant sound of voices just out of reach.

The cold stone walls pulsed in and out of focus, the dim torchlights flickering like dying stars. A low hum vibrated through the air—energy from unseen machines—melding with the rhythmic stomp of boots against stone. Sounds tangled together, warped and distant. His mind fought to untangle them, but the drug blurred everything into a shifting haze.

He didn't know where they were taking him. The only certainty was the iron grip of the guards dragging him forward.

The jeers swelled, crashing against the walls, warping in his ears—mocking, distorted. The air thickened, laced with blood, sweat, and sand, clinging to his skin like a second layer of grime. Esa's chest tightened, rage flickering beneath the drug's haze, but his body betrayed him. He was trapped—not just in chains, but within himself, a prisoner in his own skin.

Then, the world opened around him in a distorted dream.

Sunlight. So much sunlight. Roaring voices. The scent of death.

The guards dragged him into a vast arena, the sand beneath his boots uneven and warm. Towering walls loomed high, sealing him in. Above them, the sun burned blindingly bright, its golden rays casting harsh shadows across the pit. The pit reeked of old blood, its stains seared into the ground—evidence of past battles, past deaths.

Above, the crowd roared, their voices crashing like waves against the pit walls. Shadowy figures loomed high above, circling like vultures over a dying beast. The deafening cries of bloodlust filled the air, thick with hunger, drowning out all thought.

Through the drug-induced haze, Esa's mind sharpened.

He scanned the arena. He wasn't alone.

Scattered across the sand, other halfbreeds stood, their movements sluggish, their eyes clouded with confusion. A canine halfbreed clutched a jagged spear, knuckles white from strain. A tiger halfbreed gripped serrated daggers, her stance uneven and breath unsteady. A hulking boar halfbreed shifted his weight, struggling under the heft of a massive club.

They had all been drugged.

Then Esa saw him.

Sheera.

The mangificent eagle halfbreed flapped his wings, erratic and struggling. His golden eyes, once sharp and wise, were clouded with the same drugged haze dulling Esa's senses. A thick chain anchored one of his ankles to the ground, jerking him back whenever he tried to take flight. He screeched, a piercing, furious cry that cut through the roar of the crowd. Even weakened, even bound, Sheera's will held steady—unyielding and unbroken.

Rage boiled within Esa. He pulled against his chains, his power clawing to break free. His chest tightened as realization struck.

This wasn't a fight.

It was an execution.