Chapter 1: Snow
1217-08-01
SIlver.
The bars that restrained me … silver—the same silver as the uniforms I had grown used to seeing, the same silver as the emblem of Maranona. A nation of strong, prideful people. A nation with its hands wrapped tightly around my neck.
I sat in the faintly lit cell, the meager light barely cutting through the darkness. The air was thick with dampness, carrying the earthy stench of decay and rot. A cracked, uneven stone floor stretched beneath me, its cold surface leaching warmth from my body. The walls, etched with countless scratches and faint, faded markings, seemed to close in with every breath. In the corner, a rusted bucket reeked of neglect, while the faint scurrying of mice echoed through the silence, their tiny claws tapping like whispers of escape I would never have.
The dim light spilled over my cellmate, E, illuminating his gaunt features. His sunken eyes, dull and lifeless, seemed to barely cling to the world around him. His skin was worn, a map of scars and lines that told the story of battles fought and losses endured. He sat slumped against the wall, a man eroded by time and hardship, looking more like a husk of a person than someone truly alive.
"E," I called out, my voice laced with concern. "E, you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, his tone rough, as if even speaking was a labor too great. He didn't bother to look at me, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
E was a man who had seen too much. He never spoke of what brought him here, but you could see it in his posture, in the weariness of his movements. He had witnessed countless faces come and go, heard every story of failure and regret. Yet, one thing remained constant:
"Anyone who comes near there," he would say in that same voice, "never comes back."
Our cells were at the very bottom of the prison, a pit reserved for the worst of the worst. Those who passed through this place were bound for Eleanor —the frozen land to the north, home to the world's most formidable prisons. Allied with Maranona, Eleanor had become the final destination for Maranona's most vile and unwanted.
This cell was not just a cage; it was a purgatory. A waypoint between suffering and oblivion. It smelled of age and iron choking the breath from your lungs.
Months of imprisonment had left me hollow—ignorant of what I had done, ignorant of what I believed. The only certainty in my mind was her. I was here because... she betrayed me.
I leaned against the hard edge of my bed frame, staring at the lifeless stone wall in front of me. There wasn't even a mat beneath me, only uneven ground. Yet I didn't have back problems.
E stirred in the corner of the cell, shifting his weight with a low groan. I glanced over. "Finally awake, J4?" he muttered without looking at me.
I frowned. "You've been calling me that for months. Not my name, just a letter. Why?"
E didn't answer immediately, running a hand through his wiry hair. "Because names don't matter here. Only the order you came in."
"And J4 means what?"
His face darkened, his eyes distant. " 136 people. All of them went to Eleanor." He leaned back against the wall. "And none of them ever came back."
I remembered when I first met him. He'd been hunched over in the corner then, too, but with less fear and more exhaustion. The guards had dumped me in this cell, and E had barely spared me a glance. "Another one," he'd grumbled.
Now, I stared at him. "How long do people usually stay?"
"Depends," E replied. "Some a week. Some a year. But it's always temporary. It is just... the waiting room."
"For Eleanor and who was before me ?" I asked.
"A woman with brown hair and gray tired eyes."
He nodded. "And the guards will come for you any day now."
I always wondered what made E different—why he was the one who always stayed.
But before either of us could say more, the sound of pounding echoed through the halls—footsteps, heavy and deliberate, growing louder with each second. E's face drained of color, and he scrambled to the far corner of the cell, pressing himself against the wall.
He began to shake, his whole body trembling violently. "Another one gone, another one taken to Ela... Nor," he whimpered, his voice cracking.
The guards turned the corner, their polished silver plate armor glinting in the flickering torchlight. They bore the emblem of Maranona, and their uniforms of white and blue made them look more like statues than men. But one guard stood out. His helmet bore a plume of striking blue feathers, a mark of his rank. The elephant crest on his chest only confirmed it.
He barked orders to his soldiers, his voice low but authoritative, and approached the cell. The key turned in the lock with a sharp click. Only one black eye could be seen through the helmet
The door opened, and E flinched away.
"Please... don't..." I pleaded.
The soldiers grabbed me, pulling me to my feet. A red rag was shoved over my eyes, blinding me, before they pulled me into the cold, unforgiving halls.
The darkness pressed against my mind, amplifying every sound. The cries of prisoners echoed in the distance.
"He's a dead man,"
"Don't envy him," another voice added.
"Next stop, Eleanor," someone called mockingly.
Occasionally, my shoulder would brush the rough wall, and I could hear the rattling of chains as other prisoners shifted or reached out from their cells.
The voices faded the farther we went, leaving only the sound of the guards' footsteps and my own breathing. My heart pounded in my chest.
I heard the sound of a massive door opening, followed by the crisp bite of autumn air. It struck me like a blade, sharp and cutting after months of confinement. The air of the prison had always been stagnant and lifeless; this was something else entirely—a reminder of a world I hadn't touched in what felt like an eternity.
They walked me farther and farther, my sense of direction long gone beneath the blindfold. The rough cobblestones beneath my feet eventually gave way to something softer—a thrumming vibration that seemed alive. Voices rose around me, jeering and mocking.
"Dead man walking!" someone yelled.
Then it began.
The first impact was sharp—a rotten tomato splattering against my chest. Then another. Something heavier this time—a potato—struck my arm. I flinched instinctively, raising my hands to shield myself. That's when I realized I wasn't bound.
For the first time in months, my arms were free.
A louder thud echoed as a tomato burst against my face, the juice trickling down my face. When a potato landed, I grabbed it, gripping it tightly.
Finally, after months I was outside.
But outside didn't feel like freedom. Not here. Not on the path to Eleanor, the prison everyone whispered about, the place worse than death.
What makes Eleanor so bad?
The stories were inconsistent. Some said it was the endless snow, the biting cold that never relented. Others said it was the silence—the kind that made you forget the sound of your own voice. But all the stories agreed on one thing: no one ever leaves Eleanor.
The cobblestones beneath my feet shifted again, this time to wooden planks. The creaks and groans of wood joined the shuffling of the guards, and the air grew saltier, heavier. A guard grabbed my arm, passing me off to another without a word.
The next steps were unsteady, the ground beneath me rocking gently. We were on a boat.
The scent of brine mixed with something fouler—fish. I could hear it before I saw it: the slap of wet bodies against wood, the faint buzz of flies. The guards marched me across the deck, the planks trembling beneath my feet with every step.
Without warning, I was shoved forward. My feet scrambled for purchase on the shifting boards, and then—bang.
The sound of a heavy door slamming shut reverberated. I yanked the blindfold off. Piles of fish lined one side of the room, their dead eyes gleaming in the dim light.
In my hand, the potato I'd grabbed earlier had grown warm from my grip. I tightened my fingers around it .
I turned toward the only other figure in the room: a woman snuggled into the other corner. She had brown unkempt hair, wearing a gold bracelet in a similar brown leather garb. In her arms, she cradled a baby wrapped in a similar white rag.
"Hey," I said, my voice tired. "How old's the baby?"
She hesitated, pulling the child closer as though shielding it from me. Finally, she answered, "Almost 32 months."
"That's... just over two and a half years."
She didn't respond, her gaze darting away from mine.
"What's your name?" I asked.
Her face tensed with shame, and she shook her head, refusing to answer. She didn't ask for mine, either.
"Alright then, I'll call you Gold," I said, as she tucked her bracelet into her baby's wrappings.
Hours passed. The boat swayed and rocked, the motion relentless as we drifted farther north. I watched through a small window as islands passed in the distance, their shores growing sparser, more desolate. Eventually, massive glaciers came into view.
The potato was still in my hand, its skin bruised.
The woman sat quietly, rocking the baby as the temperature dropped. My thin leather garb offered no protection against the cold and yet i noticed her shivering completely covering her baby
"Take it, Gold," I said, tossing my leather garb to her, leaving myself in nothing but shorts. Shorts adorned with a logo—a symbol I had grown to despise.
She offered a faint smile before accepting it.
"I've gotten used to the cold," I muttered, hugging my knees to my chest and clinging to the potato for warmth.
"Come … here," she said softly, her voice low and inviting.
I hesitated, then shuffled over. She draped both garbs over us like a blanket and, without a word, fell asleep beside me.
The boat's pace slowed, the rocking gentler now, and then it stopped altogether.
"Get up," a guard barked. We complied and the door unlocked.
I felt the boat shift beneath me as I was yanked to my feet and pushed forward. My first step off the boat was a free fall. I landed with a thud, cold rushing through my body as I sank into the snow. The blindfold slipped off as I hit the ground.
I pushed myself up, brushing the icy powder from my arms, and turned just in time to see the woman land on top of me, her weight knocking me back into the snow.
"Don't die too soon!" a guard laughed from the boat as another threw 3 bags and the garbs at us.
As I struggled to my feet, the boat began to pull away, its hull creaking as it disappeared into the horizon. I opened the bags to find the same dead fish from before.
The cold was unbearable, cutting through every layer of skin. My breath came in shallow, visible puffs as I looked around. The only thing in sight was snow and ice—endless fields of white under a dull, gray sky. At the edge of the dock, a small village of decaying wooden structures huddled together, their roofs weighed down by layers of frost.
This is Eleanor.
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