Realm Lord
Chapter 109: Death in the Cell

Chapter 109: Death in the Cell

The skeleton within the rusted cell lay contorted in a position that suggested its final moments had been anything but peaceful. Bones yellowed with age rested atop a thin layer of dust and decayed fabric—the last remnants of whatever clothing had adorned the unfortunate soul in life. Unlike the fresh carnage that painted the dungeon’s main chamber, this was ancient death, a grim historical footnote in the castle’s bloody ledger.

Arthur pressed his face closer to the bars, narrowing his eyes as he studied the remains. His shadow arm, still a disconcerting sight even to himself, gripped one of the rusted bars as he leaned forward.

"First actual remains we’ve found," he murmured, voice barely audible.

Aziel grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes scanning the confined space.

The skeleton offered no answers to their unspoken questions. No convenient diary clutched in bony fingers, no dramatic last message scratched into the stone walls. Just silent testimony to the castle’s long history. After several minutes of fruitless observation, Arthur reluctantly pulled back from the cell, the initial intrigue fading into resignation.

"Not much we can learn from old bones," he concluded with a sigh. "Come on, let’s check the rest."

Their continued exploration of the dungeon yielded nothing of significance—more empty cells, more rusted implements whose purposes were best left unimagined, more evidence of a structure designed specifically to contain and likely torture those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned within its walls. The architecture itself seemed to radiate malevolence, as if the very stones had absorbed centuries of suffering and now exuded it like a noxious perfume.

Eventually, fatigue asserted itself with undeniable force. They found a relatively clean section of wall in the main chamber, positioned where they could keep Lara and Kay in their peripheral vision while maintaining a respectful distance from their grief. The stone was unforgiving against their battered bodies as they slid down to seated positions, backs pressed against the cold surface.

"Think we’ll ever get out of this place?" Aziel asked, the question emerging somewhere between genuine inquiry and gallows humor.

Arthur’s laugh was a dry, brittle thing. "Define ’out.’ And define ’we.’" The words carried more bitterness than he’d intended.

Conversation meandered between them for a while—considerations about the sheepmen, speculations about the castle, the royal family and where they might be, deliberately avoiding discussion of the two corpses that weighed on their collective conscience. Eventually, even these safe topics lost momentum, sentences growing shorter and pauses lengthening until silence claimed dominion over their corner of the dungeon.

Exhaustion hovered heavy, its leaden weight pressing down on Arthur’s eyelids despite his best efforts to remain vigilant. The rhythmic sound of Aziel’s breathing beside him—initially measured, then gradually deepening—provided an unexpectedly soothing backdrop. Arthur fought against the encroaching darkness of sleep, wary of what dreams might await him in unconsciousness.

Jonas’s headless body lingered on the edges of his thoughts, a specter promising to transform into full-blown nightmares the moment he surrendered to slumber. The guilt of survival when others had fallen hung heavy around his neck, an invisible noose tightening with each passing hour. And yet, his body’s demands could not be denied indefinitely.

When sleep finally claimed him, dragging him under with the implacable force of an ocean undertow, he was surprised to find... nothing. No blood-soaked corridors to navigate, no accusing eyes of the fallen staring from severed heads, no monstrous sheepmen pursuing him through labyrinthine hallways. Just blessed emptiness, a temporary reprieve from the horrors of consciousness.

The dreamless void shattered at the intrusion of a single word, pushing through layers of unconsciousness like a drill through ice.

"Hey."

The voice was soft yet insistent, drained of its usual vibrancy but unmistakably familiar. Arthur fought against the pull of continued sleep, his eyelids feeling as though they’d been weighted with lead as he struggled to lift them. The world resolved itself slowly, blurred shapes solidifying into recognizable forms as he blinked away the haze of deep slumber.

Lara stood before him, a ghost of her former self. The blood that had soaked her clothing had dried to a rusty brown, cracking along the creases of her clothes with each subtle movement. Her hair hung in matted clumps, tangled beyond salvation and stiff with dried gore. But it was her eyes that truly revealed the depth of her transformation—once bright and determined, they now resembled clouded glass, the color leached from her irises leaving behind only dull gray circles. The skin surrounding them remained puffy and irritated, testament to tears long since exhausted.

Arthur jerked upright, sleep evaporating instantly as surprise flooded his system. He’d expected—had mentally prepared for—finding Lara in the same posture of mourning upon waking, still clutching Jake’s lifeless form. Her presence before him, vertical and functional despite her haunted appearance, caught him entirely off-guard.

A quick glance to his right confirmed Aziel had been similarly startled from slumber, slack with momentary confusion.

Lara’s gaze drifted downward, and she nudged her head in a minimal gesture toward the space where Arthur’s arm should have been. "You got the arm?"

Arthur’s brow furrowed as he followed her gaze, suddenly registering the absence of his shadow appendage. In its place was the familiar bloody stump, partially scabbed over but still grotesque in its truncation. The shadow construct that had served as a replacement had apparently dissolved during his unconscious state, returning him to his true, damaged form.

"What?" he responded automatically, mind still processing the transition from sleep to this surreal interaction.

Lara repeated the subtle head movement toward his injury, a gesture so economical it barely qualified as communication. It occurred to Arthur that she was operating on the absolute minimum energy required for function, each word and movement precisely rationed.

Understanding dawned belatedly. He nodded, reaching into his realm storage with his remaining hand to retrieve the severed limb. The arm emerged looking much as it had when he’d stored it—covered in dried blood and grime, but remarkably preserved considering the trauma it had endured. Arthur extended it toward her wordlessly, uncertain what comfort she might derive from this macabre task but unwilling to question anything that might pull her from the depths of her grief.

Lara took the limb with clinical detachment, positioning it against the ragged stump with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. Her eyes closed in concentration, brows drawing together slightly as she began to heal.

Arthur watched in fascination as nerve endings reconnected. Blood vessels sealed themselves with wet, slithering sensations that would have turned his stomach had he not been so mesmerized by the process. Muscle fibers stretched and knitted together, tendons reattached, and skin sealed over the joint with barely a visible seam to mark where separation had occurred.

The entire process took less than a minute, yet felt simultaneously instantaneous and eternal. When Lara finally withdrew her hands, Arthur found himself in possession of a perfectly functional arm once again. He lifted it experimentally, rotating the wrist and flexing fingers that responded with fluid precision.

"Amazing," he breathed, genuinely awed. There remained something profoundly moving about the restoration of what had been so violently taken.

Without acknowledging his gratitude, Lara shifted her attention to Aziel, cataloging his injuries before setting to work healing the worst of them. Her movements remained economical, her expression unchanging as she mended torn flesh and reset dislocated joints. This version of Lara operated like an automaton programmed for a singular purpose—healing bodies while her own spirit remained fractured beyond repair.

When both men had been restored to physical wholeness, Lara stood motionless before them, seemingly adrift without a clear directive. The awkward silence stretched taut between them, none quite knowing how to bridge the chasm.

It was Kay who finally broke the impasse, moving to Lara’s side. His hammer remained slung across his back, the weapon’s massive head rising above his shoulder like a metal moon. Though his eyes still carried the shadow of recent loss, his voice emerged steady and determined.

"It’s story time, fellas," he announced without preamble. "Beginning to end. Let’s go."

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