Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 123: Pain Redefines Silence

Chapter 123: Pain Redefines Silence

The tent was still.

Not the kind of stillness that came with peace, but the kind that settled after violence—thick, unmoving, and heavy with the weight of things that had already happened and could not be undone. The air hung low, pressed down by the scent of iron and sweat, by the quiet groan of canvas shifting in the wind, by the blood that had soaked into the dirt and refused to dry.

Six chairs stood in a crooked line, each one holding a body that had been pushed past its limit and left to remember what it felt like to be whole. Ropes bit into wrists and ankles, skin peeled back in places where resistance had once lived. No one spoke. No one moved. Even breathing felt like a betrayal.

Maverick’s head hung so low it looked detached from thought, his jaw slack, his temple smeared with blood that had dried in jagged streaks. Kenneth’s chest rose in shallow bursts, each one a quiet argument between broken ribs and the need to stay alive. Milo twitched once, then didn’t again. Johnny stared forward, eyes unfocused, mouth slightly open, as if waiting for a sound that never came. Shylo sat upright, but his stillness wasn’t strength—it was survival, a refusal to give pain the satisfaction of movement.

And Amari...

Amari was free.

But freedom, here, meant something different.

He lay near the edge of the tent, limbs twisted in ways that defied anatomy, body curled like a question no one wanted to answer. The ropes that had held him were gone—torn, discarded, forgotten—but the damage remained, etched into bone and muscle like a map of defiance.

His arms were broken. His legs were worse. Fingers refused to respond. Jaw clenched so tight it felt fused. And yet, his eyes stayed open—watching, calculating, enduring.

Regeneration crawled through him like a reluctant tide, slow and cruel, stitching torn flesh with the patience of something that didn’t care how much it hurt. It wasn’t healing. It was punishment that pretended to be mercy.

The blood beneath him was warm. Familiar. His own, mostly. But it didn’t matter. Pain had stopped being personal hours ago.

A breeze slipped through a tear in the canvas, brushing against his cheek like a memory he hadn’t earned. He turned his head—slowly, carefully—toward the others. Maverick didn’t stir. Kenneth coughed once, then fell silent. Milo groaned softly, a sound swallowed by the weight of the room.

Shylo blinked.

Just once.

Their eyes met.

It didn’t last.

But it was enough.

Footsteps.

Measured. Heavy. Indifferent.

The flap opened. A guard stepped in, dragging the scent of torch smoke and cold air behind him. His gaze swept across the room, pausing on Amari’s twisted form. He frowned. Kneeling, he inspected one arm, then the leg—both visibly out of place.

"Damn," he muttered. "Didn’t know bones bent that way."

He prodded once. Amari didn’t flinch. Just breathed.

Stillness had become armor.

"Poor bastard," the guard said, rising to his feet. He turned, exited the tent, and let the canvas fall closed behind him.

No alarm. No urgency.

Just misinterpretation.

And silence.

Amari exhaled.

Every rib protested.

His palm scraped against the dirt floor, slow and deliberate, a crawl made of grit and refusal. He wasn’t trying to flee. He couldn’t. Not yet. He moved because stillness felt too close to surrender.

Inch by inch, he dragged himself forward, blood trailing behind him like a signature written in pain. His shoulder ground against the floor. His chest scraped across stone. One arm gave out. The other screamed. His legs were memory now—useless, forgotten.

But he moved.

Because movement meant something.

Because pain was still his.

He stopped midway between Shylo and Kenneth, breath coming in jagged stutters, vision blurred at the edges. The regeneration pulsed once beneath his ribs—slow, steady, cruel.

Shylo blinked again.

Then turned his eyes toward Amari.

No words.

Just two broken boys in a room that had forgotten how to be kind.

Outside, the wind stirred.

Inside, blood remained warm.

And Amari, broken and crawling, felt something shift—not in his body, but in the silence

...

The pain didn’t stop—but it changed.

One leg twitched. Then straightened. Then settled.

Amari gritted his teeth as bone slid back into place with a slow groan, tendons knitting themselves like frayed rope pulled too tight. The other limbs remained broken—silent in their defiance—but his right leg had returned to him, whole enough to move, wounded enough to scream.

He lifted his head.

The world tilted.

Blood smeared his vision in red arcs, and the torchlight overhead flickered like a promise too fragile to trust. The chairs were still occupied—his people bound, bruised, breathing through exhaustion and quiet despair. The silence hadn’t lifted, but something beneath it had shifted. A pulse. A whisper. The first note of change.

His eyes scanned the floor.

There. Just beneath Milo’s slumped hand.

Steel.

A dagger.

Old. Scarred. Handle wrapped in cloth that had once been white.

Amari dragged himself forward, one leg kicking weakly against the dirt, fingers clawing for the blade. Every inch was agony. But agony was the language he knew best.

He reached it.

Held it in blood-slick hands.

Then moved toward Kenneth first.

The rope fought him.

Tight knots. Stiff fiber soaked in sweat and time.

Amari worked without grace, without speed—just quiet determination and a dagger pulled from ruin. He carved through bindings slowly, breathing through the sting in his spine. Kenneth groaned when his wrists fell free, body slumping forward, then catching himself.

"What—" Kenneth rasped, voice cracked.

"No time," Amari whispered. "Help the others."

Kenneth nodded, too tired to ask more.

They moved chair by chair, cutting ropes in silence, lifting heads that barely remembered names, shaking limbs that hadn’t stood in hours. Maverick blinked as his arms fell. Johnny shivered when blood rushed back to his fingers. Shylo stood last—quiet, steady, untouched by panic.

Then came movement.

Not fast.

Not fluid.

But stealth with the weight of purpose.

They slipped through the flap like shadows made of bruises, staying close to the wall, ducking past torchlight that stretched too far. Every few steps, someone stumbled—Milo catching his breath against Amari’s shoulder, Maverick dragging Johnny when his legs gave out again.

Once, a soldier turned.

Once, someone shouted in the distance.

Once, torchlight danced too close to Kenneth’s back.

But no one was caught.

Close calls layered beneath silence.

Luck pressed against tired skin.

And when the wind turned cold, they were gone.

The forest welcomed them like a wound.

Trees leaned inward. Branches clawed at sleeves. Roots rose from dirt like warnings.

Kenneth carried Amari on his back, boots striking earth in rhythm with breath. Amari didn’t speak. Just watched the world blur—green, black, silver. Moonlight flickered through leaves. Blood still trickled down his elbow.

Behind them, Shylo led.