It's a strange thing seeing a grown man cry. It's rare enough to see them shedding tears at all, but to witness someone's entire body shaking with each sob is an entirely different experience. It can change you fundamentally, especially when that person is someone you look up to as a mentor, in a place notorious for housing hardened criminals. As I lay quietly, watching Tom's back tremble with each muffled cry, I considered the bizarre situation we found ourselves in. If someone had described this scene to me a year ago, I would've laughed at the impossibility of it. The role reversal alone was disorienting: Tom, the veteran prisoner, weeping in uncontrollable fear, and me, the young newcomer, completely at ease in comparison.

Throughout that endless night, I remained wide awake, silently watching as Tom released the pent-up terror and anguish. I did my best to remain utterly still, allowing him the small mercy of pretending I wasn't there. In that moment, I didn't know what else to do. Acknowledging his vulnerability felt too dangerous. Not physically dangerous—I knew Tom wasn't likely to harm me even if he wanted to—but emotionally volatile enough that any attempt at consolation might do more harm than good. Besides, what comfort could I offer him anyway? What solution did I have, other than my plan to escape? And therein lay the problem. Tom had fallen apart after a single encounter with Sebastian. If Sebastian pressed him for information, Tom would likely spill everything without hesitation. Giving Tom even the smallest hint of my intentions was too big a risk. I couldn't afford to tell him anything until the very last moment.

When morning finally came, it was a relief to rise from my position. Tom had quieted a couple of hours before dawn, though even in sleep he occasionally sniffled. Every move I made felt precarious, as though the slightest disturbance might wake him and trigger a fresh round of sobs. So, I spent those long hours holding perfectly still, counting down the minutes until daylight and as soon as the first rays of sun broke through, I practically jumped to my feet to begin my meditation, finally feeling free of oppressive silence.

Moving through the motions, I felt the curious gazes of other prisoners watching me. It was decidedly too many and I was starting to think that they may also be making the same mistake as Billy in thinking that what I was doing was a dance. Which it wasn't. Yes there were moves that had me stepping and moving my arms but it was a meditation. As I came to the end I was deeply regretting not finding a less conspicuous way to access my magic. Breaking a finger to activate my mana was easy enough to hide, but the subsequent movements seemed to attract far too much attention.

"What's that you're doing?" a voice suddenly called from the top of the stairs.

Glancing up, I saw two men in heavy armour that indicated they were Wallowhackers staring down at me with interest.

"A morning meditation," I replied neutrally, feeling the fresh surge of energy running through my limbs.

"Looked like you were dancing," the soldier said, smirking.

"I wasn't dancing," I responded, a bit more defensively than I intended. I quickly tempered my tone. "It's a meditation routine. Helps calm the nerves."

"It's morning," he snorted. "What could you possibly need calming down from already?" The amusement was clear in his voice, and he elbowed his friend, whose grin widened instantly. "I reckon this one's embarrassed about his dancing."

"I would be too, if I danced that badly," his companion jeered. "He barely even moved from that one spot."

Their laughter echoed down the stairway, and my face flushed with embarrassment. The first guard shook his head as he turned away, beckoning us to follow. "Come on, Dancer. It's time to get to work."

I grimaced, desperately hoping that nickname wouldn't catch on. Out of the corner of my eye, even Tom seemed to be covering a small smile, though his face was still blotchy from last night's breakdown.

With a resigned sigh, I asked him, "Shall we go get breakfast?"

He nodded silently, still avoiding my gaze.

Breakfast turned out to be some kind of grey sludge masquerading as porridge. It was so thick and congealed that I couldn't help but wonder if someone had mistakenly used the mortar instead of oats. Clearly, I wasn't the only one having doubts as from across the mess hall came the sudden, loud shatter of a bowl smashing against the stone floor.

I turned sharply to see a man in battered leather armor standing, face flushed with anger, clearly one of the conscripted fighters. His companions cheered him on with a chorus of 'oohs' and jeers, riling him further.

"Every damn day we eat the same shit!" he bellowed, chest heaving as his anger boiled over. "We're about to risk our lives, and you lot can't even serve us a decent fucking meal!"

More cheers erupted from the tables of conscripts around him, encouraging his outburst. When I looked around, I noticed Tom rapidly getting up and shuffling towards the exit. At first, I didn't understand his urgency. We'd seen plenty of kick offs in the canteen before, and even a few times where the kitchen staff had come out themselves to sort out the boisterous complainers themselves, but when I paused to assess the room, a cold realization set in. None of the Wallowhackers were joining in on the ruckus. There were a few smiles and nudges but they didn't look like they were about the same thing. It was more like they were smiling in anticipation of something. Seeing Tom had the right idea, I fast walked my way over to him as the penny finally dropped. If the predators are acting timid, then there's something bigger in the area.

A hush fell over the Wallowhackers as a door opened to the kitchen revealing a monstrous man in a food covered kitchen apron, flanked by two barely smaller understudies. Every Wallowhacker in sight suddenly turned to their breakfast, smiles eradicated as they enthusiastically shovelled the so-called porridge into their mouths. If I didn't know better, I would have said that they were genuinely enjoying the grey sludge they were eating. But I did know better, and so seeing their reaction made me hurry my pace to get towards Tom and the door to the outside.

"Who insults my cooking?!" The giant roared, taking a step forward. His head darted about side to side as though he was a dragon seeking out prey. The Wallowhackers closest to him vigorously shook their heads in denial of any participation. "Who insults my effort?! My sweat, my tears?!"

A conscript seated at the edge of a table was lazily toying with his half eaten food as he watched the approaching man, a small smile on his face as he observed the proceedings. Clearly enjoying the show, he made the mistake of thinking he was secure because it wasn't him who had been ranting and raving about the quality of the food. Even when the chef turned his head and laid eyes on him with a face like thunder, the conscript kept his amused smirk. The sight froze me in place, gobsmacked at the sheer lack of foresight from the conscript who had now placed himself in striking distance of something that was top of the food chain. The fool even lacked the wherewithal to keep the danger in his sights and instead made the strange decision to turn towards one of his friends. He didn't get the chance to turn back around.

In the blink of an eye, the chef lunged, seizing the conscript's skull in one massive hand. With brutal force, he smashed it down through the bowl of porridge, shattering it into pieces before driving the man's face into the solid wooden table beneath in a frightening display of strength and violence.

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"Is my food not good enough?! Not tasty enough?!" he screamed, spittle flying with every furious word. Each shouted question was punctuated by another savage blow of the conscript's now-limp head into the splintered wood.

A man to the side tried to vacate his seat to escape the mess but found himself kicked back into it by one of the chef's helpers.

"You still have food to eat," the assistant growled, his voice dripping with menace, eyes blazing with a ferocity so intense it could kill.

The chef's brutal rage subsided momentarily as he released the lifeless man's head, now nothing but a grotesque smear of blood and brain matter. Slowly turning toward the conscript who had tried to leave, the chef's voice dropped to a disturbingly calm tone.

"Are you not going to eat that?"

The terrified man quickly moved his spoon toward his bowl, but hesitated at the last moment, visibly trembling.

"It's… it's got something in it," he wheezed, damaged from the kick to the chest he had just received. Cautiously, he tilted the bowl to show the chef.

"Allow me," the chef replied, almost gently, plunging his bloodied fingers into the porridge to retrieve the mysterious object. He casually tossed gore-covered lump aside and placed a firm, almost friendly hand on the back of the trembling conscript's neck. "There you are. Now you can enjoy your meal."

The conscript hesitated again, staring in disbelief at the bloody streaks now contaminating his porridge.

"But… but now there's blood in it," he muttered, clearly confused and terrified.

His words reignited the chef's fury in an instant. With terrifying strength, the giant yanked the man from his seat and hurled him onto the cold stone floor.

"Is nothing I do good enough?!" he bellowed, raining vicious kicks down upon the helpless conscript, the sickening crunches loud like drum beats in the stilled mess hall. By my count, the first stomp likely killed the conscript outright, yet it took three more before the chef's bloodlust waned and he moved on, his eyes searching around for his next victim.

By this point, the rest of the conscripts had finally wised up. Apparently, seeing two of their number brutally killed was enough to clue them into the danger at hand. I might have laughed at their delayed reaction, had I not been guilty myself of the same rookie mistake—letting the violent spectacle distract me from escaping. Luckily, I was positioned toward the back, so I carefully inched closer to the exit, making sure not to attract any unwanted attention and become the next meat bag.

The hulking chef, flanked by his intimidating assistants, strolled between the tables, carefully inspecting each man to ensure they were sufficiently 'enjoying' his so-called 'meal.' For a brief moment, it seemed as though the danger might pass. An uneasy silence settled over the room, the only sounds coming from spoons scraping bowls, each man trying desperately to look satisfied. Shoulders tensed, heads bowed low, every conscript and Wallowhacker alike became intensely focused on the porridge before them, quietly praying they would escape notice. That fragile peace shattered the moment the chef's heavy footsteps stopped abruptly near a patch of spilled porridge on the floor, the broken bowl still scattered around it like evidence of a crime. A collective intake of breath filled the mess hall as the chef froze, his massive body rigid with fury. Every eye watched, dread pooling in the pit of every stomach, as he reached down and scooped up the abandoned porridge in one giant fist.

"WHO DID THIS?!" he thundered, veins bulging in his neck, his voice rattling through the stone hall. He lifted the clump of porridge high for all to see, his voice boomed. "WHO SQUANDERED MY BOUNTIFUL FEAST?"

The culprit had apparently vanished, either hidden by his companions or lost within the crowd. The chef's head swiveled frantically, eyes blazing as he searched in vain. Frustration and anger building, he suddenly turned his gaze to the nearest unfortunate conscript who froze like prey before a predator. Without hesitation, the chef lifted him effortlessly into the air, like a bundle of logs, and hurled him into the opposite table of Wallowhackers, scattering bowls, spoons, and men alike. Though not a soul complained.

As if that was a predetermined cue, the chef's two assistants sprang into action, unleashing pent-up rage onto anyone within reach. Punches, kicks, elbows, even savage headbutts landed indiscriminately. The mess hall erupted into chaos, men shouting and pleading, struggling futilely to escape their tormentors. The chef then found himself next to a particularly small, trembling conscript cowering beneath his table. In one swift motion, he snatched him up by his collar, dangling him in mid-air like a child's doll.

"It wasn't me!" the small man squealed, his voice shrill with terror. "Please! It was him. That one over there!" He desperately pointed at the original offender, who was now doing his best to disappear into his seat. "I swear I'd never waste your food—I love your food!"

The flattery and panicked begging appeared to have the desired effect. The chef scowled but dropped the small man unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor. The painful grunt he released upon landing confirmed the drop hurt, but at least he remained alive. A lucky escape given the chef's temperament.

"Who?" the chef growled, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

From his spot on the floor, the trembling man raised a hand, pointing directly at the original complainer. Every eye in the room followed the accusing finger to the terrified culprit, whose expression shifted instantly from panic to outright dread. Desperate, the accused conscript grabbed frantically at his neighbor's bowl as if he could hide the absence of his own. But his neighbor fiercely yanked it back, determined not to share in his fate. In an absurd moment of self-preservation, the neighbor lifted the bowl and poured the thick sludge straight into his mouth, gagging slightly but steadfastly maintaining his innocence. Now isolated and abandoned, the complainer shook his head frantically, pleading silently with anyone who might listen. The assistants paused their assaults, slowly turning to stalk their way through the crowd toward him, faces fixed in sinister glares.

The chef, not one for subtlety, simply stepped up onto the nearest table. Dishes shattered beneath his heavy boots as he strode purposefully across it, his enormous frame towering ominously above his prey. The conscript desperately raised his hands in a final act of surrender, eyes wide and pleading.

"No! Wait—I didn't mean—!" he screamed, but the chef had already reached him, the time for begging had long passed.

"You would throw away what I gave you?" the chef whispered, his voice oddly mournful. He shook his head slowly, as though genuinely wounded by the betrayal. "After all my hard work…you would treat me this way?"

With terrifying ease, he seized the conscript by the collar of his leather armour and lifted him clear off his feet. The man's legs dangled helplessly, his eyes bulging in terror as the chef pulled him closer until their faces were mere inches apart. For a brief, bizarre second, I was struck by the absurdity of the scene, it was almost like two lovers about to embrace. But then the chef's face twisted suddenly into a grotesque mask of pure rage.

"I put everything I am into feeding you, and this is how you show gratitude?" He pulled the man closer so their noses almost touched. For a moment, I thought they were going to kiss. And then the chef's face twisted in rage, his massive hands shot upwards, gripping the conscript's throat with bone-crushing force.

"You horrible, ungrateful, EVIL MAN!" the chef bellowed, his voice booming with fury as he throttled the helpless conscript. He lifted the struggling victim even higher into the air, displaying his dying body as a gruesome warning to everyone in the mess hall.

The entire room watched, frozen, as the man's face turned a grotesque shade of red. Veins bulged and ruptured, spilling crimson tears down his cheeks. The man's limbs thrashed uselessly, fingers clawing at the chef's hands in futile desperation. Soon his eyes glazed over, the fight drained from his body, and with a sickening crack his neck gave way, his head flopping unnaturally to one side. Only then did the chef release his grip, letting the limp, lifeless body drop to the stone floor with a dull thud. But his assistants were not yet satisfied. Like vultures descending on fresh carrion, they rushed forward and savagely pummeled the corpse. Boots stomped and fists pounded, reducing the remains to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp that stained the stones around it crimson.

After another chilling scan of the mess hall, daring anyone else to make a complaint, the chef gave a satisfied grunt. Without another word, he and his assistants slowly turned and retreated back into the kitchen, the heavy wooden doors swinging shut behind them. The room released a collective breath, a palpable relief filling the tense silence. Men stared at one another, wide-eyed and trembling. No one dared speak, no one dared move. The message had been delivered loud and clear.

I shuddered violently as I took those final steps out of the mess hall. Though violence had become all too familiar to me, this had been different. This had been something darker, more visceral. The sheer ruthless brutality of those three cooks would haunt me for a long, long time.

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