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Vraan kneels upon the cold stone floor, the mildew soaking his blood covered trousers as he attempts to sleep. His arms are outstretched by chains that pull at him from either side of cell, their anti-magic burning his caramel colored skin as the manacles dig into his wrists. His long black hair, greasy and also covered in blood, hang over his face like black curtains. It has been three days since he initially infiltrated the castle, and no help has come. None will come. Although he is the commander of his fathers most fearsome army, the old motto of *‘Those who fall behind, are left behind’* rings in his head. He is on his own. He takes a deep breath. The humans have stopped their torture of him for the evening and he knows that it would be wise to sleep. He closes his yellow eyes, ready to give into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, when his ears perk up at the unexpected sound of soft footsteps approaching. They are different than that of the others who have come, softer, as though they are trying not to be discovered.
The sound of keys jingling and the lock clicking out of place fill the air, and the sound of a soft grunt follows as the door slowly screeches open. Vraan slows his own breathing as the soft steps enter the room. Vrann lifts his narrowed eyes from beneath his heavy brows, meeting the eyes of King Leander’s child- your eyes, the very treasure he was sent to retrieve for his father.
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