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Reacting quickly, Ceara pulled me into the nearest room — the prisoner’s cell.
The air in the cell was stifling.
But the harsh overhead light revealed the intricacies of the prisoner’s personal space — drawings, tokens, and a bed that had seen better days.
The space felt invasive, an unwelcome glimpse into the man’s life.
He growled, infuriated by our intrusion. “This is my space!”
“Quiet,” Ceara whispered, pressing his ear against the cold door.
The muffled sounds of guards running past and barking orders filled the tense silence.
I could feel the prisoner’s hot breath on my neck, and I recoiled, pressing closer to Ceara.
Minutes felt like hours, but finally, the distant echo of boots faded.
Ceara nodded, signaling it was safe.
We quickly exited, not sparing a glance at the prisoner who was still seething in the corner.
Navigating the maze-like prison, we once again found ourselves pursued by guards.
Their shouts and the heavy stomping of their boots were an ever-present reminder of the danger snapping at our heels.
In a desperate bid, Ceara pulled me toward the fighting pits section of the prison.
The familiar roar of the crowds filled my ears, and the scent of blood and sweat was almost overpowering.
We darted through the maze of tunnels beneath the fighting pits, using the sounds of battles above to mask our movements.
The muffled cheers, the clang of weapons, and the grunts of fighters resonated around us, each noise a distraction, a shield against our pursuers.
Every turn, every corner, and every shadow held potential threats.
But with Ceara leading the way, I felt a glimmer of hope that we might just make it out together.
* * *
The sounds of the prison intensified around me.
The raw, rhythmic chant of fighters in the pit combined with the raucous cheers of onlookers.
The thick musk of anticipation and excitement clung to the air, permeating every breath I took.
Amid the chaos, I could feel the insistent tug of Ceara’s hand, leading me through the darkened tunnels, the vibrations of footsteps indicating the guards were hot on our heels.
Every step was fraught with urgency, each shadow presenting a possible hideaway.
My mind raced as rapidly as my heart.
It felt like we were moments away from capture when a familiar gravelly voice pierced through the turmoil.
“You still got that ticket, young one?”
My head snapped in the direction of the voice, and there, bathed in the dim light from above, was the old alien with deep-set, knowing eyes.
The sight of him anchored me to the memory of our previous encounter, the feel of the paper ticket, the hint of mystery that accompanied his advice.
