Legend LXVIII – The Prisoner of Azkaban

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Beneath the coldest stones in the world, where even the breath of time tastes like frozen iron, lies Azkaban – a dungeon so ancient its walls have forgotten the count of years. No song reaches it, no prayer finds an audience there, and whoever crosses the threshold leaves behind a piece of their soul like skin on rusty nails. For Azkaban is not just a prison. It is hunger that thinks. It is memory that devours. Many are spoken of who were imprisoned there, of kings, traitors, sorcerers who scratched their names into the stone until blood flowed instead of ink. But none suffices for the legend like the one known only as the Prisoner. No one knows his name before madness stole his voice. Some claim he was once a military leader who subjugated entire kingdoms. Others call him a magician who drank eternity and was corrupted. But the swamp of truth is deep—and whoever tries to dig in it drowns faster than they search. What remains is this: He is still alive. Or something within him is. For decades, his flesh and will rotted. His body, once as strong as a warhammer, is now only sinews over bones, skin like parchment shadows. Yet something bright, cold, and unspeakable burns in his eyes—like a star that forgets it is meant to die. No guard dared to approach him too closely. Most who did died with a smile, as if he had shown them something more beautiful than life. His cell was not a room, but a cage, fashioned from black iron, as high as a tower, suspended by chains of an unknown metal. Beneath it, bones gathered like snow flurries of past winters. At some point, however—no one knows when—the cage remained open. Not because a key touched it. But because he could no longer hold it. One pale morning, the door was found wide open. No struggle, no crack, no blood. Only silence. And the prisoner, standing in the middle of the room—free, but not fleeing. His gaze was empty yet alert, like a memory that had taken on a body. Beside him crouched a creature, half dog, half nightmare, with fur like withered moss and teeth that gleamed yellow like disease in the candlelight. No one knew if it had once been his guardian or his companion, but it remained by his side like a shadow that had the right to choose. When the guards entered the hall, some laughed—out of nervousness, not courage. Others raised swords that trembled in their hands like those guilty of wrongdoing. But the prisoner did not speak. He only raised a hand slowly, as if blessing the dust. His companion's dog-like eyes narrowed like stitches. And the men who stood there froze. Not dead—bound by a gaze that choked memories to death. One fell to his knees and wept like a child calling for its mother. Then the prisoner turned, slipped through shadows as if through soft garments, and climbed the stairs, step by step, as if he had long since left behind a life that no longer belonged to him.