"Get up. What do you think will happen if someone sees us sitting here like this," Jacob muttered, his voice low and edged with impatience as he glanced down at the two men slumped against the wall, the pair so caught up in congratulating themselves you would have thought they had already left the prison far behind.

The words made them shiver, their momentary relief evaporating, and in a hurry they scrambled back to their feet, one of them clutching at the chain around Jacob's wrists as though the illusion of control would somehow steady his own nerves. They moved forward again in a clumsy line, Jacob trailing behind with a limp, his expression calm but his focus turned inward, split between body and mind.

From deep within his chest he could sense the faintest stirrings of mana, sluggish and reluctant as if it too were struggling to rouse itself after long confinement, returning little by little with each passing breath.

By the time they reached their destination, he knew, he would barely have enough strength to shape two weak flame runes, hardly enough to rely on. And so, even as his body stumbled along, his thoughts turned elsewhere, to his mind itself.

When his consciousness had fractured, he had glimpsed it once before, as though he had been able to step inside and look upon its shattered reflection, and now he tried again, straining for that same awareness, searching for some way to see what it had become after the gamble he had made.

Yet the more he pressed, the more impossible the act felt, for how could one truly look at their own mind, and from what vantage point could such a thing be done? Still he knew this was the first step, that only by finding it could he hope to open the so-called inner world, the place where runes might one day be stored and drawn upon without thought or gesture, but books had offered no guidance, and instinct was all he had.

Their progress was interrupted by the noise of others.

"Move aside, we're on important business." "Oi, don't shove, can't you see we're working?" "Hey Miriam, look at this job I got stuck with. Once I'm done maybe we can grab something to eat." "Prisoner, walk faster."

Jacob had let their chatter pass without reaction, their ridiculous pretense of importance nothing more than a cover for their fear, but when one of them decided to bark an order at him, jerking the chain so sharply he stumbled forward and nearly fell, his composure wavered for the first time, a quiet flare of irritation sparking in his chest.

Jacob's gaze hardened until it was almost lifeless, and with a sudden jerk he pulled back on the chain, the metal links rattling sharply and forcing the guard to stumble. He lowered his voice until it was little more than a breath against the man's ear, "Speak to me like that again, and I'll burn your face off."

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of both guards swallowing audibly, their bravado evaporating in an instant as they quickly resumed their pace, tugging him along with a caution they had not shown before.

This time Jacob abandoned his attempts at retreating into his own thoughts, choosing instead to lift his eyes and observe. As they moved along the path, he realized something that unsettled him more than he had expected: the prison's horrors were carefully contained, sealed beneath walls and iron doors, kept apart from the rest of the world as though brutality itself could be confined by stone.

Up here the atmosphere was different, quiet, almost pleasant, people going about their duties with the appearance of civility, voices low and cordial, no screams, no blood, no overt cruelty, and yet Jacob knew that every single person here must have been aware of what festered below.

They still chose to work for Whisper, they still carried on with polite smiles and bowed heads, and to Jacob that simple choice revealed more monstrosity than the iron instruments of torture he had seen; it meant they accepted it, embraced it even, and in his eyes that was enough to brand them all as monsters.

"Who is the warden, anyway," he asked suddenly, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. He had not dared to look directly at the man when they crossed paths, something instinctive had told him not to, but the unease had lingered, sharper even than the dread he had once felt when faced with a vampire, and now he wanted to know what exactly he had sensed.

"The warden…" one of the guards began hesitantly, "he's a rank zero knight, and a half-demon. He's in charge of every prison under Whisper's control. What you saw back there, that was just one of his bodies—he has dozens more."

A chill slid down Jacob's spine at those words, his steps faltering for half a moment. A rank zero. He had not only seen one, he had stood in front of one while bound and powerless, and though the man's gaze had never fully met his, Jacob understood why his instincts had screamed at him, because that was the kind of existence that could snuff him out without effort, and worse, one that reveled in doing so.

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"We're here," the other guard muttered, pulling Jacob out of his thoughts with a tug on the chain. Jacob blinked, then raised his head and saw the place they had arrived at. Before him was a wide opening leading into what resembled a church, the air inside heavy with incense and murmured words.

Rows of pews stretched neatly across the chamber, every seat occupied, and at the far front an altar stood, behind which a man preached with practiced fervor, his voice carrying over the bowed heads of the congregation.

"The ones who put their faith in the food are there," one of the guards said quietly. Jacob followed his gaze, and his expression darkened. There were not two or three gathered as he had imagined, but nearly fifty, each one bent in devotion, each one absorbing the sermon as though the man's words were sustenance itself.

He forced himself to calculate, yes, they were only rank tens, no single one could threaten him severely, but fifty at once, fifty working together with shared purpose, could overwhelm him with ease.

"Sir, I can see you're struggling," one of the guards said quietly after a moment, his voice careful, as though he were revealing something that should not be spoken aloud. "Just so you're aware, all the priests you see here are neither knights nor mages, their strength comes from nothing but their faith, and that alone is what allows them to reach rank ten. Nobody in that room can fight, they can't even control the power they've drawn from their faith properly. They're the lowest of the low really, useful only because their devotion allows them to lace food with it."

Jacob noticed the faint curl of disdain in the man's tone, though it was softened and quickly hidden, and for a moment he considered pressing him on it, but his thoughts were already turning elsewhere, circling a different question. "Why would you tell me that," he asked slowly, eyes narrowing on the man. "Why would you help me at all, and why this much."

The second guard, who until then had kept his gaze firmly ahead, turned his head slightly so Jacob could see the unease flicker across his face. "We have already led you beyond the prison quarters," he replied, his voice low but firm, as though reminding himself as much as Jacob. "If not for us the warden would have seen through you by now, and if anyone ever discovers what we've done, we would face a fate far worse than death."

Jacob gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth tightening, and then he turned his attention back to the chapel, his eyes lingering on the altar and the congregation. "Then lead me inside," he said at last. "Use the same excuse you gave the warden, and while you're at it, find a way to bring forward those who handled the food meant for the prisoners that came with me."

Both men exchanged a brief glance before nodding, and without further hesitation they guided him through the wide entrance.

From within, the chapel revealed itself more fully, and the impression it left was heavier, more deliberate, than the glimpse he had caught outside. The pews stretched in neat rows across the chamber, each one carved from wood and decorated with intricate drawings etched along the sides, figures bowed in reverence, kneeling in submission.

The ceiling above was painted in a pure, almost glowing white, while the walls surrounding them were a deep, heavy red that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. A circular hole in the center of the ceiling let sunlight fall in a narrow beam that cut across the room like a spotlight, striking the altar at the front, which itself was built of dark wood streaked with veins of silver, catching glimmers of the light whenever the beam shifted.

At the very end of the chapel, towering above the altar and dominating the room, was a massive panel of stained glass. The artistry was so precise that the image seemed alive: a colossal figure suspended in the sky, his hands gripping chains that stretched downward toward the earth. Below him, countless humans were depicted in painstaking detail, their expressions etched with submission and despair, each chain ending where their hearts should be, as though the glass itself bound them.

"What is this…" Jacob muttered under his breath, unable to keep the words from escaping as his gaze fixed on the stained glass and the altar before it. Things of this kind, depictions tied to gods or the worship of them, had never been permitted in Eterna, and this was the first time he had stood in front of something so blatant, so brazen in its devotion. The sight unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and in truth it was even more frightening to him than the memory of the warden's presence.

At the sound of his voice, every priest in the chapel turned their head in unison. They were all clad in flowing robes of deep crimson, their faces set in the same distant expression, eyes glazed as though their bodies were present while their thoughts drifted elsewhere. They looked at him, and yet it was as if they were not truly seeing him, their stares empty, hollow, unfocused.

"And this concludes today's worship," the priest standing at the altar intoned, his voice calm but carrying across the entire chapel with practiced weight. At once, the gathered priests stirred, the glassiness in their eyes fading as they blinked back into themselves, their gazes settling first on Jacob and then quickly on the guards at his side.

The priest at the altar regarded them for a moment before speaking again, his tone unchanged, though sharpened slightly by suspicion. "What are you doing here."

One of the guards drew in a breath, ready to answer with the excuse they had agreed upon, but before he could form the words a disembodied voice broke through the stillness of the chapel, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once: "Apostle Prisca has been slain by a prisoner, and that prisoner has escaped. He is being aided by two guards. Kill on sight."

The words fell over them like a decree. Both guards collapsed to their knees in terror, their faces drained of color as though the strength had left them entirely, while Jacob only exhaled through his nose, a quiet sigh escaping him as the weight of inevitability settled over his shoulders.

"This just became more difficult," he murmured.

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