Drak didn't know where he was. Trapped within dark walls, he couldn't even sense the passing of time. The one thing he knew, which reassured him just a little bit - was that he wasn't alone.
Other prisoners like him were locked in their own cells, staring blankly at the walls day in and day out. Food and water came regularly. At times, some prisoners would protest, banging their heads against the iron bars, shouting at the top of their lungs, and flapping their shackles with a violent desperation.
But Drak had witnessed the consequences - punched and beaten by the guards mercilessly. They would be doused with a mysterious poison next that didn't kill them but instead controlled their hysteria. They would lose their strength and will to resist. Watching the futility of putting up any protest, Drak refrained from creating a similar scene.
But he was deathly afraid. He was clueless as to why they were brought here.
I don't have any money with me. Robbing me is pointless, he thought. Is this some kind of slavery? Slavery is illegal though. But then again, just because something is illegal doesn't mean it didn't exist.
He found himself worrying more about his father than himself. His father had a temper and knowing him well, he would tear through the village or possibly travel the whole way to Casca just to search for his son. He was the kind of demon to protest in the middle of a street. He closed his eyes, his body trembling with a nauseating chill.
I shouldn't have fought with him before. If I'm going to die here, I don't want a fight between us to be our last memory, his cheeks ached with the harsh realization.
It was that demon in Mordokk, wasn't it? I fell for his offer. Father would kill me for being this stupid if he ever found out.
He opened his eyes slowly.
How do I escape from here?
Was a thought that had breached his mind countless times, yet an answer evaded him every single time.
Only once were they allowed to leave their cells and that was for a bathroom break. Though he observed some prisoners taken out at regular intervals, likely for slave work. But never for too long and their movements were heavily monitored and restricted. The guards would always escort them. Only one break was allowed per day, which was a very harsh boundary to be set, but none could do much about it.
Despite the horrifying situation he had stumbled into, he would have good dreams at times. A dream where he would overpower the guards and escape. But he knew it was a fruitless dream. He lacked the strength to fight them, nor did he know the layout of this place to find a way out.
He bit his lip hard. He didn't know what was to come in the future. The only thing left to do now was to pray.
—
The Ministry of Knowledge and Education was the entity responsible for recording the past archives of the Demon Realm, in addition to overseeing the realm's education policies. It had been Malphas's ministry - now dead. The Ministry was temporarily handled by some senior officials at present, but the minister's vacant position needed to be filled soon.
It was one of the reasons behind Zerath's visit today. His father had placed the responsibility onto him for choosing a suitable candidate for the position. The Order of the Council would chip in about their thoughts, but the final decision rested with Nefarion. Zerath already had someone in mind - and was now walking straight towards him.
"Sir Olmozir."
The elderly demon turned. His grey robe perfectly matched the tone of his salt-and-pepper hair. His sharp gaze was a warning to stay to keep one's distance. Though age graced him quite naturally, his physical strength wasn't to be underestimated. His expression held scrutiny rather than a pleasant welcoming smile for Zerath.
"Rise for the Crown Prince, Zerath."
"It's been a long time."
"It'd always be a long time between us, my lord. The royal palace would never forget the sins of the past, neither would it let us forget it," his tongue was as lethal as his eyes.
Zerath answered with a smile. "I think nobody should forget what happened in the past. We should feel proud that Lord Valas had the courage to stand tall for his love and ideals."
"Those kinds of words bring death, my lord, not admiration."
"You remind me of my Master."
"I don't think it's in my lord's best interests to keep talking to me, lest somebody would start a mindless rebellion."
"Fenrik dropped by recently."
"That idiot son of mine has nothing better to do. Feel free to throw him out of the palace if he's a nuisance."
"He wants Silas to train him."
Olmozir's eyes narrowed.
"That brat better stay away from any kind of a weapon. Weapons are true beauty. They shouldn't be in my son's hands."
"Silas has been shutting the door in his face so far."
"That door must always remain shut. May I return to my work now?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
Olmozir grimaced. "What's there to talk with me? Reminisce the crimes of the past?"
"Would you consider taking responsibility for a ministry?"
It took Olmozir a moment to piece the puzzle.
"I believe you don't lack a queue of far more respectable demons to take Sir Malphas's position."
"You'll also become an Order."
"That's actually more repulsive."
He smiled. "But I like you."
"I don't like the royal family."
"Ouch."
"Is this some kind of reparation? Make us feel inclusive now? Everyone hates my family already. My family hates everybody else already. A minister's position is not going to help much, not that we're begging for it," he said, impassive.
"Could you please think about it? Just once?"
He stared at him acutely. "Five hundred years of humiliation and disgrace towards my family - did the royal family think for even once that maybe, just maybe, we should've stopped this chain of unjust hatred when Lord Valas had already been executed for his crimes?"
Zerath had nothing to respond.
"You're five hundred years too late, my lord."
He was about to leave when Zerath called out again. "I've another thing to ask."
He smiled. "Quite a lot of things for the royal prince to discuss with someone like me today. It must be my lucky day."
Zerath coughed.
"How far back do the records in this ministry go?"
"How far back are we talking about?"
"The era of war, specifically towards the latter half of it."
Olmozir stared. "...Why do you want to know about that time?"
"I'd like to learn more about our revered Varkhail. As you know," he tapped at his sword, "Father claims this sword belonged to him, which he had discovered near the Aetherios."
"Isn't that just a myth?" Olmozir smiled. "With all due respect to His Majesty, I don't think that's our revered Varkhail's sword."
"I suspect the same," he smiled back, "though I don't have the heart to rectify him. But I thought this is a good chance to know more about him. He served valiantly during the war and saved many lives. I'd love to read more about him and possibly find some hint about this sword's origins while I'm at it."
"That's a lofty aspiration."
"One can dream," he smiled again.
Part of Zerath's intent was to indeed learn about Varkhail's valor. But the larger purpose was the 'refugees' he had supposedly rescued. He expected there would be some anecdotes, memoirs or lores connected to the Varkhail from those slaves he had freed.
Olmozir led him to the vast library that the Ministry housed. It was the largest in the Realm, holding all kinds of archives, literature and repository for scholars and history enthusiasts. An entire section was dedicated to the Varkhail, serving as education material in schools, teaching children about their revered hero.
"As you can see, my lord, this is all we have. Mostly all myths and fiction. Many wrote exaggerated accounts of meeting Varkhail at the time. You know how reverence makes one feel."
"Esthar om ven, Sir Olmozir. This is enough for me. Don't mind if I spend some time here."
"Nobody has ever cared what we mind or don't mind either way."
With his hands clasped behind his back, Olmozir turned and left, his lips barely moving as he walked.
"Why is my lord suddenly so interested in Varkhail? Is he truly here for his sword's origins or…something else?"