Chained, p.7
Chained, page 7
“What do you want?” he shouted into the void, his voice echoing back at him in warped fragments. “I know who you are.”
His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he forced himself to keep speaking.
“You’re the angel,” he said, louder now, steadier. “The one who came here before.”
Silence answered him again.
His heart hammered harder. He swallowed, throat dry, then pressed on, the words spilling out before doubt could stop them.
“Are you here to finish what you started?” His voice faltered for just a moment before he forced it back into place. “To… kill me?”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then light bloomed beside him.
Not above. Not in front.
Beside him—only a few feet away.
Kreyn flinched violently, instinct taking over as he scrambled sideways, pushing himself across the stone while still seated. The chains rattled sharply as he moved, the sound echoing like an alarm in the darkness. He didn’t stop until his shoulder struck the unseen wall, cold and solid against his back.
The light stabilized, soft but unmistakable, pushing back the darkness just enough to reveal a figure he now recognized all too well.
The angel stood there.
Caelum leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, wings folded neatly behind him as if they were nothing more than a cloak. His posture was almost relaxed—too relaxed for someone who had come here with a blade and judgment. The faint glow of his presence outlined his form, casting long shadows that twisted across the stone.
Kreyn stared at him, breath shallow.
Caelum turned his head slowly in Kreyn’s direction. His gaze settled on him, unhurried, assessing. Then, to Kreyn’s shock, the angel tilted his head slightly and allowed a small smile to touch his lips.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just knowing.
“I don’t need to wait for you to wake up to kill you,” Caelum said calmly. His voice carried easily through the space, smooth and controlled. “I could do it any time I wish.”
The words landed with terrifying simplicity.
Kreyn’s pulse thundered in his ears, but anger flared beneath the fear now—hot, sudden, defiant. “Then why are you here?” he demanded. “What do you want from me?”
Caelum uncrossed his arms slowly and pushed himself away from the wall, taking a single step forward. The light shifted with him, following like a loyal shadow.
“I want answers,” Caelum said.
The smile faded.
His eyes sharpened, ancient and piercing, locking onto Kreyn with renewed intensity. The air seemed to tighten around them, pressure building subtly as his presence asserted itself.
“I need you to be honest with me,” he continued, voice low but deadly serious. “About who you are. About what you are. About what you’ve done—or what you no longer remember doing.”
Kreyn opened his mouth to speak, but Caelum raised a hand—not in warning, but in finality.
“If I detect even a single hint of deception,” Caelum said quietly, “if your words carry even the smallest trace of a lie—”
His gaze flicked briefly to where his blade rested at his side.
“I will not hesitate,” he finished, eyes returning to Kreyn’s. “I will put my blade through your heart.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Kreyn sat there, chained, cornered, staring up at a being who could end him without effort—and who was now demanding truths he didn’t even know how to access.
His throat tightened.
“I don’t know how to be honest,” he said at last, voice raw. “I don’t know anything.”
And in the faint glow between them, angel and prisoner faced each other—not as executioner and victim, but as two beings standing on opposite sides of a truth neither of them fully understood yet.
One searching for answers.
The other terrified of what those answers might be.
Kreyn swallowed hard.
The sound was loud in the silence, his throat dry, his pulse hammering so fiercely that he could feel it in his ears. He lifted his eyes toward the faint glow where Caelum stood, knowing—feeling—that every hesitation, every tremor in his voice would be weighed.
“How… how can I give you answers,” he said quietly, the words scraping out of him, “when I’m looking for them too?”
The question hung between them, fragile and exposed.
Caelum’s eyes narrowed.
Not in anger—yet—but in calculation. The faint light around him seemed to sharpen, focusing inward as his gaze dissected Kreyn piece by piece. Kreyn felt it immediately: that cold, invasive scrutiny probing beneath skin and bone, searching for inconsistencies, for the smallest fracture in truth.
“You expect me to believe that?” Caelum asked softly.
Kreyn opened his mouth to respond—
—and the world vanished.
Suddenly, violently, his feet left the ground.
An iron grip closed around his neck, crushing, absolute. The force lifted him effortlessly into the air, his chains dangling uselessly beneath him as his body jerked in shock. His breath was cut off instantly, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as panic exploded through him.
“Don’t make a fool of me,” Caelum said coldly.
Kreyn clawed at the hand around his throat, fingers digging desperately into Caelum’s wrist. His feet kicked reflexively, searching for the floor that was no longer there. The grip did not waver. It did not tighten—but it didn’t need to.
“I know you know something,” Caelum continued, voice dangerously calm. “No one is imprisoned like this for nothing.”
Kreyn shook his head frantically, vision blurring as dark spots crowded at the edges. He forced air through his constricted throat, every word a battle.
“I— I really don’t—” he gasped, hands still scrabbling uselessly. “I don’t know how—how to make you believe me—”
His chest burned. His lungs screamed.
“I don’t remember!” he choked out, desperation tearing through his voice. “I can’t remember!”
Caelum’s grip remained firm, unyielding, as Kreyn struggled on, words spilling out in broken, breathless fragments.
“My head—” Kreyn rasped, eyes wide now, raw fear and frustration mingling. “It feels like it’s exploding—like it’s being torn apart—from the inside—every time I try to remember anything.”
His hands trembled against Caelum’s arm, strength fading fast.
“It hurts—like punishment,” he gasped. “Like something inside me is being ripped open just for trying. And there’s nothing—nothing in return. No memory. No answer. Just pain.”
His voice cracked.
“I’m the same as you,” he forced out, the words desperate, naked. “If you want answers—I want them too!”
Silence fell.
Not the hollow silence of the abyss—but something sharper. Taut. Listening.
Caelum’s eyes flickered.
For the first time since grabbing Kreyn, something in his expression shifted. His grip did not loosen yet, but it stilled, as though frozen mid-decision. His gaze searched Kreyn’s face again—this time not hunting for deception, but measuring resonance.
Truth rang through Kreyn’s words.
Not just emotional truth—but structural, internal truth. The kind that could not be rehearsed. The kind that aligned too perfectly with the violent episode Caelum had witnessed earlier: the convulsions, the screaming, the way the abyss itself had reacted the moment Kreyn tried to reach inward.
Caelum’s brow furrowed.
It wasn’t random.
It never had been.
The pain had come the instant Kreyn tried to remember.
The abyss had responded.
Punished.
Contained.
The realization settled heavily into Caelum’s mind, each piece locking into place with sickening clarity. Kreyn’s words matched what Caelum had already suspected—what he had felt through his own power when he hovered his hands over Kreyn’s head.
This place was not merely a prison.
It was a safeguard.
A suppressor.
Designed to prevent memory.
Designed to stop him from knowing.
Caelum exhaled slowly.
Then—carefully—he lowered his hand.
Kreyn dropped back to the ground, stumbling as his feet struck stone. He coughed violently, dragging air into his lungs in painful, burning gulps. His hands flew to his throat instinctively as he staggered backward, chains clattering wildly with each step.
Caelum did not stop him.
Kreyn retreated several paces, back hitting the wall as he leaned against it, chest heaving, head spinning. He sucked in breath after breath, trying to force his lungs into rhythm, fingers pressing against the bruised skin of his neck.
Caelum watched him closely.
Not as an executioner now.
But as someone staring at confirmation of a terrible suspicion.
“You weren’t lying,” Caelum said quietly.
Kreyn slid down the wall slightly, still breathing hard, eyes burning with equal parts fear and fury. “I told you,” he rasped. “I told you.”
The abyss remained silent—but tense.
And between angel and prisoner, something irreversible had shifted.
Caelum now understood one undeniable truth:
Kreyn was not refusing to remember.
He was being prevented from remembering.
And whoever built this place had gone to horrifying lengths to ensure that forgetting was not a choice—but a sentence.
Caelum released a slow, measured breath.
It was not the kind of exhale meant to calm—it was the kind drawn by someone trying to keep control over something that threatened to slip. He turned away from Kreyn and began to walk, boots echoing faintly against the unseen stone as he traced a slow circle through the abyss.
He did not walk aimlessly.
His gaze moved constantly—upward into the lightless void, downward to the stone beneath his feet, across the invisible boundaries where darkness seemed thicker, heavier. He was checking. Measuring. Investigating. His aura brushed against the edges of the prison in subtle waves, probing, listening, feeling for resistance or response.
This place was wrong.
He could feel it now with certainty.
It wasn’t merely dark—it was active. Intentional. Layered with mechanisms designed not just to restrain, but to react. Caelum’s thoughts churned as he walked, replaying everything: the chains anchored to nothing visible, the pain triggered by memory, the way the abyss itself had roared when he interfered.
This prison wasn’t passive.
It was watching.
Behind him, Kreyn remained where he was, slumped against the wall. One hand stayed pressed to his throat, fingers gingerly testing the tender skin where Caelum’s grip had crushed the air from him moments earlier. Each breath still scraped faintly, uneven but improving. He watched the angel move through the darkness, eyes tracking every step, every pause.
The silence between them stretched.
Heavy.
Finally, Kreyn spoke.
“Were you…,” he began, then stopped, swallowing hard. His voice was hoarse, fragile, but steady enough now to carry across the space. “Were you the one who helped me?”
Caelum did not stop walking.
Kreyn forced himself to continue.
“When I couldn’t breathe,” he said. “And earlier—when my head felt like it was tearing itself apart. Was that… you?”
Caelum’s steps slowed—but he did not turn.
“What made you think,” he asked calmly, “that I was the one who helped you?”
The question was measured, almost detached, but Kreyn felt the weight behind it. He tightened his grip on his neck briefly, then lowered his hand, straightening as much as the chains allowed.
“Because,” Kreyn replied quietly, “you’re the only one who came here.”
His eyes stayed fixed on Caelum’s back. “There was no one else. No other voice. No other presence. Just you.”
Caelum stopped.
The abyss seemed to lean in.
Slowly, deliberately, Caelum turned to face him fully. The faint light of his aura outlined his features, casting long shadows across the stone. He tilted his head slightly, studying Kreyn with renewed intensity—eyes ancient, expression unreadable.
“You do realize,” Caelum said, voice even and unsoftened, “that when I came here, I nearly killed you.”
Kreyn stiffened.
“That has not changed,” Caelum continued. “Not even slightly.”
The words landed with quiet finality.
Kreyn swallowed hard.
The sound echoed faintly in his own ears as his pulse spiked again. He looked away for a brief moment, jaw tightening as he processed the reminder—not as a threat, but as a fact.
“I know,” he said after a moment, voice lower now. “I felt that.”
He lifted his eyes again, meeting Caelum’s gaze despite the fear crawling beneath his skin. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Caelum’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
“You could have ended me,” Kreyn went on, words careful, deliberate. “You had every chance. More than one. But instead… I woke up without the pain. I could breathe. I could think.”
His hand brushed his temple unconsciously. “Something changed.”
The abyss remained silent, but tense—like a held breath.
Caelum did not answer immediately.
For the first time, Kreyn saw something unfamiliar flicker across the angel’s face—not anger, not judgment, but something closer to reluctant acknowledgment.
“You are observant,” Caelum said at last.
Not a confirmation.
Not a denial.
But not a lie either.
Kreyn exhaled slowly, a mixture of relief and unease tightening his chest. “Then I wasn’t imagining it,” he murmured.
Caelum straightened, wings shifting slightly behind him.
“Do not misunderstand,” he said coldly. “Intervention does not equal absolution. Your survival does not imply mercy.”
Kreyn nodded once, quickly. “I know.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “But it means you care enough to ask questions.”
The word hung dangerously in the air.
Caelum’s eyes narrowed—not in fury, but in warning.
“Care,” he said, “is not a luxury afforded to my kind.”
“Then why are you still here?” Kreyn asked softly.
The question was not defiant.
It was honest.
And for a long moment, Caelum did not have an answer he was willing to speak aloud.
The abyss listened.
And between angel and prisoner, the distance between execution and understanding grew thinner—more dangerous—by the second.
Chapter 8. A Secret From Within
Caelum did not answer.
He did not acknowledge the question, nor the implication buried within it. He simply held Kreyn’s gaze for a moment longer—long enough for something unspoken to pass between them—then turned away.
Without ceremony, his wings unfurled.
The light around him shifted as he rose, slow at first, deliberate, as if ascending not out of urgency but out of restraint. His silhouette climbed upward, the faint glow of his aura thinning as it stretched higher into the abyss. In seconds, he was no longer standing within reach—only a presence retreating into the dark above.
Then even that was gone.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Kreyn remained where he was, eyes fixed on the empty space Caelum had occupied moments earlier. His chest rose and fell steadily now, his breathing finally under his control, but his thoughts were anything but calm.
He didn’t kill me.
The realization echoed louder than any sound the abyss could make.
Not before.
Not when he had the blade in hand.
Not when Kreyn was helpless, choking, convulsing, unconscious.
And not now.
If Caelum truly intended to execute him, there had been countless opportunities. Clean ones. Easy ones. Merciful ones. Yet the angel had chosen restraint every time—even when it clearly cost him something.
That meant something.
Hope—small, dangerous, and fragile—stirred in Kreyn’s chest.
This is an opening.
He shifted slightly, chains scraping softly against the stone, and leaned his head back against the wall. The darkness no longer felt quite as absolute as before—not because it had changed, but because possibility had entered it.
If Caelum were truly bound only by duty, he would not still be here.
If he were indifferent, he would not have intervened.
If he were certain, he would not be searching for answers.
And Caelum was searching.
Kreyn exhaled slowly, mind racing now—not in panic, but calculation.
If he hasn’t killed me yet… maybe he won’t.
Or at least—not until he knows the truth.
And if Caelum wanted answers, then Kreyn was no longer just a prisoner.
He was leverage.
The thought made his stomach twist—not with triumph, but with fear. This was a dangerous line to walk. Caelum was not someone who could be manipulated easily. He was disciplined. Calculating. Bound by principles Kreyn did not yet understand.
One wrong word could end everything.
But still—
If anyone can get me out of here, it’s him.
No one else came to this place. No one else spoke. No one else reacted when Kreyn screamed. If there was a door out of this abyss—literal or otherwise—Caelum was the only one who knew where it was.
Kreyn closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself.
He could not ask yet.
Not now.
He needed timing.
He needed reason.
He needed something stronger than desperation.
