Madark faced Hanish, his eyes began to swell up as he refused to look into the dark cell. He was nudged forward. Madark swallowed what remaining pride he had left, “please..,” Madark begged, sounding like a whimpering dog, whiny and pathetic, “don't do this to me.”

Hanish's eyes widened in amazement. He cocked his head back and laughed cruelly, “oh my! How absurd! A Madrigal begging?” His voice oozed contempt and ridicule. “The days of yore are far removed from this one. It's truly remarkable.” Hanish paused, “in. Now.”

Madark thought about his sister. He thought Aris and how he should have surrendered him to his fate when Avaric Keda's forces attacked. He then thought of his own fate. I'm going to die here. The devils below only needed a few more scraps of whatever remained of his mind. His breath turned from ragged to panicked as he looked around for an escape. His feet and hands were bound and a long spiraled stairway lie below and above. A cornered animal will behave erratically. Madark jerked free from his captor's grasp, taking one clumsy step up the stairs and was then struck hard on the back of his head. The blow made Madark stumble and then slowly fall backwards. His captors did not catch him. He fell backwards, his spine and other bones absorbing the initial few stone steps. He then tumbled down the stairway, end-over-end seeing flashes of blue hues and bodily nails beginning to penetrate the surface. He bounced from step to step. He slowed his momentum and leapt to his feet, his head was throbbing, blood and hair obscured his vision. He tripped, tumbling further down the stairway. He could hear echos of laughter from above as he rolled, eventually colliding hard with a heavy door at the base of the stairwell.

Madark lied motionless, every muscle and bone in his body felt battered. He heard the footsteps approach through dulled senses, the voices and laughter were muffled, his ears clogged with blood and other foreign debris. Unable to hear, see or say anything, he felt a slow, delicate incision from beneath him. A smooth cut along his abdomen. Rage then fueled him. He was all too familiar with that feeling. Madark screamed, swinging violently around him, swiping and hitting Hanish's ankle as he thrashed about on the floor. Suddenly, a dozen stiff booted blows landed on Madark, each subsequent blow angering him more than the last. He screamed a scream fueled by pain and murderous rage. He was going to kill everyone! But, as quickly as the thought emerged the his world went dark.

Madark woke on the floor of the cell, his fine black hair now heavily matted with dirt and blood. Madark stood, every bone and muscle sending pulses of pain throughout his body. He saw a bed before in the dimly lit cell, scrambling to climb atop. The ground beneath is bed began to glow, beads of blood-stained sweat began to fall onto the stained linens.

“Help me!” Madark pleaded. Madark continued to call out for help until his voice went hoarse. He crouched down on the bed, spasms of pain radiated from his lower back, where Avaric Keda had once pierced him with his dagger. Madark felt a sudden sensation, a delicate cut along his upper back, where it rested against the stone wall. He flinched forward, daring not to look behind him. He sat starring at the door. She will come. She must.

Madark stood upon his bed, his bound hands trying to find purchase on the windowsill above. But there was no light in his cell, the windowsill opened into a large cavernous room where the Shrine Guard housed their members. The cells were often empty. The ancient room had modern uses, their original intent were now lost to history. They were converted into prisons during the times of unrest, when the Tiers of Shrine fought for control of the Fulcrum.

Madark stomped his feet on the frame of the bed and screamed a violent scream. Yet, his screams now were quiet, his throat had been dry for days. The water and food left by the Guard stat untouched on the opposite side of the room. Madark dared not step foot on the cold floor of his cell.

“Shut up.” A guard's voice. His voice was equally exhausted from the last few days of having to scream profanities at Madark in an attempt to silence him.

Harlon stood atop the spiraling stairs that led into the depths of the Fulcrum's prison. He stared down at Medina with an outstretched grin that spread nearly ear-to-ear.

Medina sensed his eyes and paced her steps, focusing her mind on remaining calm, to show as little emotion as possible. As she approached the top of the stairs, she then raised her head to see the Shrine Guard commander's smug, punchable face.

“He has been quite the nuisance, Commander Madrigal, screaming incessantly of devils in the night. The guards toss and turn in restless sleep due to his outbursts of madness. And the smell is horrific-”

“Yes,” Medina said interrupting Hanish as she continued to walk, “I sympathize with your plight.”

Harlon stammered, “my-my lady, do you not wish to set your brother free from this unfortunate predicament?”

Medina stopped, perhaps her ploy worked, she turned, “and have that nuisance be my burden?” She sighed, “at what... compensation?”

“My lady, Madrigal! The Guard ensures all of Shrine's inhabitants behave in conformity with the agreed upon rules and stipulations set out during the Reine Accords. Your brother struck the Antecedent! He threatened to maim and murder within the tower, the tower which resides within your jurisdiction.”

Medina gave a blank stare.

Harlon continued, “a lowly sum of a thousand gold, or the equivalent in grams of osseous matter will satiate the Guard's justice.”

“One thousand gold? A ludicrous sum! After he's been beaten, tortured and held for four days without my knowing?” Medina resisted the urge to scoff aloud.

“Beaten, perhaps, but he was not tortured! His wounds are of his own design.”

She turned and continued to walk away from Harlon, down the marbled steps of the Fulcrum.
“Five-hundred gold! The Guard's warlock is here to facilitate the transaction and Madark will be freed immediately, lest he languish here... and the rumors of his madness breech these walls.”

Medina stopped again, turning back up the stairs. This time, Harlon's face wore a more conciliatory and hesitant expression. The First cannot be held hostage to the Guard, even at the cost of sacrificing her own brother. “How disgusting. That the corruption from the Guard flows from the shit in its bowels to its throat. You wish to extort the First?”

“Extort?” Harlon proclaimed in anger, “there is no extortion happen-”

“You're no better than a common slaver, your words wreaking of shit, ransoming the deranged to line your coffers? Disgusting.”

Harlon grit his teeth, turning sharply and walking away.

“Free him now,” Medina shouted, then resumed her normal cadence of speech “and the First will remember the generosity and leniency of the Guard.”

Harlon was now the one to stop. He whispered in hushed tones to a nearby guard and then turned his head to Medina, “it is done. Do not forget the Guard's generosity this day.”

As Medina walked out of the Fulcrum, down into the belly of Shrine, she thought about the true cost of having Madark released.