Argyle watched the flame trapped within his lantern flicker—Screaming to escape. It begged for freedom, to spread and set fire to everything surrounding it—Just as nature intended for it to do.

He leaned forward, near slipping off the near-rotting wooden chair as he tapped his feet. It was one of the few precious things he could consider to have cared for him over the past years—Like a dear friend, it had supported him through the hardest of times. When the boredom seeped in and took hold of him, when he needed just the slightest bit of mental stimulation to keep him sane, it had been there.

Likely ridiculous to those with their freedom, of course...

However Argyle did not.

Argyle pushed himself up to stand, looking over his notes atop his desk. They were sprawling—Never ending and disorganized. He tried to perform his work well during the beginning—He did, there was no doubt about it. However, time permits erosion; His sanity was in short supply, and he needed to reserve enough to perform his true purpose.

Argyle shuffled over to the bars of his cell, facing out towards the Grand Chamber housing the Subject. It was situated high up—Very high up, in fact. It was built around twenty stories from the Lower Tier’s ground level, and around five from the Upper’s. It was high enough for the Fog to not interfere with his work or seep into his cell, at the very least—That's all that mattered.

He looked back towards his desk and his work, then over at the thin hay pile and ragged blanket in the corner that he used as bedding.

It was time, He couldn’t stay here any longer—There was a world outside this cell, this very chamber, that needed his aid...

And if he didn’t answer the call, may the world never forget and curse him for all eternity for not acting.

***

“Argyle!” shouted one of Deramores guards, tapping on the bars of the cell with his cutlass.

Argyle sat at his desk, facing away from the guard and the door to his cell.

“Hey! Come on, man... I need your help!”

“What is it now, Garth?” said Argyle placing his arm on the back of the chair as he spun his head around.

“You know how The King’s tax is coming up soon? I was wondering if you could help me out again. I ain’t got any better with the numbers, you see...”

Argyle chuckled.

“I can teach you again if you’d like, it gives me something to occupy myself with.”

“Are you sure?” asked Garth. “The King won’t appreciate you slacking off from working on your work.”

“Let me worry about that, you do want to learn mathematics, don’t you?”

Garth hesitated for a moment before nodding.

“It’s an incredibly useful skill to have, you know. Soon enough, people will be coming to you for lessons—You won’t even need me anymore.”

Garth pulled out a chain of keys from his belt and used it to unlock the cell. With a high-pitched creak, the door swung open—Blowing dust across the damp stone flooring as it smashed against the side of the brickwork.

“Thanks Argyle. I appreciate the help, I really do.”

Argyle turned around and put his back towards the door to his cell once again, taking note of every step Garth took towards him out of the corner of his eye.

“I can get you some better food from the pantry in the guardhouse next time I see you if you’d like—”

Argyle spun around and stabbed Garth in the neck with the wooden shiv he had hidden down his sleeve. Garth stared into Argyle’s eyes—pleading for a reprieve, yet Argyle simply stared back. Blood dripped down Argyle’s hand and added yet another stain on his dress shirt—which, long ago, was a pristine white.

Garth slumped onto his knees, the color draining from his face as fast as the blood from his neck. Argyle pushed him onto his side and stabbed him in the temple, freeing him from his suffering.

A regrettable act, but a necessary one.

Argyle slammed the door shut; Even with the narrow window near the top of the door, anyone passing by—if there would be anyone else at this time—couldn’t see the body on the ground.

Argyle began unbuckling Garth’s armor, frantically tearing at the straps to free his chest plate from his body. He placed his hand atop the piece as he pulled at the straps; The narrow strips of thick blackened metal—interlocking and meeting in the middle—came from the spine and ran up all the way to the top near the wearer's neck.

Argyle swung the chest piece open, the hinges crying in pain as the front of the chest piece opened up to expose Garth’s under shirt—as well as his pendant; A coat of arms split into three, with a symbol representing each of the different Gods—The Sword, the Shield, and the Soul, the portrayal shown as a human skull.

Argyle hadn’t known Garth was a man of faith...

“As stupid in life as you were in death,” said Argyle as he yanked Garth out of the chest piece and threw his corpse to the side. He jumped up to his feet—chest piece in hand—and placed it atop his shoulders. It was loose, and Argyle was sure to rattle around inside, but it would fool anyone not paying enough attention.

Argyle grabbed his spare blanket—the one he had requested as a replacement and chose not to use in fear of it being ruined—and through it over his head, acting as a cloak.

He pulled Garth by the arm and placed him onto the hay pile, positioning him as Argyle himself had finally fallen asleep before turning towards the door—towards freedom.

“Tunnel, Scholar's Workshop, get to Ad Centrum...” said Argyle to himself, chanting it over and over in a hushed tone—convincing himself he could actually do it, after everything he’s been through.

Arygle swung the door open, stepping out and peering over the railing at the Subject below. The Fog clouded it from sight, however, there could be no doubt in anybody’s mind that it was still down there...

For the Fog still remained.

***