Caracara's Hunt 2 New Prisoner

And that would be the end of everything.

Not bothering himself with the newcomer anymore, Arawn returned to his corner and sat down. The damp, cold touch of the wall sent a chill through his back, and he immersed himself in it. Such basic things as cold and hunger were perfect to distract his mind from not obliterating the whole place.

When he thought about it, he was quite proud of himself. Just then, he'd used magic and not wiped out anyone. It was the first time, as far as he recalled.

"Can I stay here?" the young man asked, and Arawn looked up to see him having come over once more. "My name's Corwal."

The person wore long unwashed rags, but Arawn didn't believe it for a moment that he was just another street thug. The young man was well-muscled and healthy, his skin without blemishes. His face was child-like, not sporting a single scar or even a broken nose.

"If you don't value your life, sure," Arawn answered. It wouldn't be his fault if his powers lashed out at night and killed the man, would it? Then again, what would another life change?

Corwal glanced at the other men, then came closer and sat down close enough to touch. He was weary, but not enough; he was expecting solace in the mouth of a volcano. Arawn shook his head and looked away. It wouldn't be his fault. It wouldn't.

"So how long have you been here?" Corwal asked after a moment. His eyes were still following everyone's movements, but he had relaxed a bit.

Arawn considered ignoring him, but he'd seen people like that before. They needed voices and even the most pointless conversations helped them calm down, feel human again. Such a thing as kindness didn't exist in the Gutter, but Arawn found it hard to refuse the man such a simple service. After all, the other wouldn't last long. No one did in the Gutter.

"Time is of little matter here," he answered in the end while staring at his bone-like arms. They were grimy from living in the cell, but their paleness could not be hidden. "I can't tell apart days, let alone months or years. But I did grow up here, if that helps."

"Grow up?" There was surprise in the young man's voice. He stared at Arawn as if he was looking at a ghost. "No one grows up in prison."

Memories flashed through Arawn's mind—a gla.s.s cage, darkness, searing pain, and blood. He remembered waking up drenched in crimson. He looked at his hands, the skin so pale and thin it was almost see-through.

"Monsters do," a gruff voice said from the other side, and Arawn raised his head.

As always, it was Cayote. The once general hated him like the plague. If not for the fact that Arawn had almost killed him once without even trying, the other would have certainly not allowed him to have lived this long.

Yet which one of the ten would have? It was unfair to judge one guy when all of them dreamed of crus.h.i.+ng his neck or smas.h.i.+ng his face inside out.

Corwal glanced at Cayote, tensing. "And you're one to talk?"

The middle-aged man cackled. "Compared to him I'm a saint, and I sent my whole battalion on a suicide mission."

"What did he do?" There was weariness in the young man's voice once again, but he didn't move.

A part of Arawn wished to warn him that it would be safer farther away, but an even larger part of him was too stunned to act. No one had dared to stay beside him for years. And it wasn't like a few meters were going to change anything. If the power within him went out of control, no one in the cell would leave alive.

Feist glanced over and grinned. His scar-twisted face scared most criminals, but he'd spent the most time in the Gutter, and so was the most familiar to Arawn. His smile was like an old friend.

"n.o.body knows, but there are rumors. You must've heard of the death cell."

"Yeah?"

"You're sitting in it," Feist said, his grin spreading even wider, revealing missing teeth. "He's wiped out at least three batches of criminals in here."

Like an amateur he was, the young man allowed disbelief to show on his face. He shook his head in disagreement. "No way. If he was as vicious as you say, I wouldn't be sitting here safe."

This time the whole group chortled. It took them a whole minute to calm down.

Cayote was the first one to do it and pointed at the walls. "Look 'round! Can't you see the slash marks? The strange pits?"

There was no need for Arawn to even raise his head. As the person who'd spent most of his life in this cell, he knew better than anyone about its every nook and cranny. Every scar he'd left on its walls.

"Is that the best you've got?" the young man asked. There was dismissal in his voice. "I'm not leaving his side just because of some folktales."

"I'm not—"

"Shut it," Feist growled, and Cayote instantly closed his trap. "Let him die if he wants. Who gives a f.u.c.k."

The other man didn't seem convinced. Arawn saw him grasp a stone fragment in his hand, but Cayote wasn't brave enough to openly defy Feist. As much as he wanted a plaything, he valued his life more.

Once the excitement died down, the other men separated into pairs or groups of three and began playing with the couple stones they'd found on the ground. It wasn't much, but it was the best entertainment in the cell, and one in which Arawn was invited.

"Are those rumors really why they fear you?" Corwal asked, sliding up to him.

His closeness unnerved Arawn, but he suppressed his anxiety. If the other didn't try to attack him, his power wouldn't go awry and they would all remain alive.

He nodded when he remembered the question.

The young man tilted his head, watching him. His brows furrowed, and he posed another question. "Why? Aren't they all still alive and unharmed?"

"For now." Arawn didn't wish to talk about it, but the young man didn't seem like he was going to let it go. "Feist was once a guard above. His crime was allowing the other prisoners starve me."

"You mean he was sent to the Gutter over a prisoner?"

A faint smile graced Arawn's lips. "THE prisoner. All those in my cell lost their lives." He turned and touched a deep gash on the wall behind himself. He had only a faint recollection of the events, but it was more than enough.

"How does it work then? Your magic, I mean. Why can you use it even in an onyx cell?" the young man asked. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about what he'd just been told.

It almost seemed like he refused to accept anything that didn't fit with what he wanted to hear. Such obstinacy amazed Arawn.

He thought for a moment before shrugging. "How do you use magic normally? It's just there."

Corwal gave him a dark look. "Just there? Are you playing with me? If it was just there, why would there be so many academies, so many private tutors?"

There were? Deep underground, Arawn had never had the chance to learn about that. For him, magic was always closer than he liked. It was like a burning inferno within him, always on the verge of erupting.

"I guess that's why you're here. People usually don't like freaks of nature like that."

Feist swiveled his head around, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng with murderous intent, but Arawn didn't bat an eye. He had a feeling that it was an insult, but it didn't really matter. Why should he be angry at the truth? He was an aberration, a mistake.

The young man s.h.i.+fted about, finding a more comfortable place to rest against the wall. He closed his eyes, and Arawn thought he was finally too exhausted to speak anymore, but Corwal had one more thing to tell him.

"I need a rest, and then we can leave tomorrow. I'm taking you out of this h.e.l.lhole."

His words had a finality to them that left Arawn dumbfounded. He stared at the person beside him with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open.

'Who said I want to go!'