It is not the most intellectual of species that survives;
it is not the strongest that survives;
but the species that is able best to adapt and adjust to the changing environment in which it finds itself"
-Paraphrased By Leon C. Megginson from Darwin's Origin.
***
The whine of damp, tight-wound ropes echoed through the heightless chamber.
The walls were of a dark stone, frugal in hues, tinted blue. Stone bricks stacked upon one another—steafast as they held the weight of brutal salvation.
A platform, circular, crept upwards through the cylindrical chamber. Its edges were framed with ageless metal which should have rusted centuries ago; the center was a weave of unrotting wood. Four hooks grasped onto the loop-ends of the eternal ropes.
The air was damp with the scent of dried, steel-cold blood.
Four stood near the center. There were once five… at least, they had thought so.
But in the beginning, there had always been three. Only three.
Three.
A young, lean-toned man held a crimson blade in his dominant right. His crimson eyes no longer glowed with ferocity—a hollow shell of what it once was left behind in its place. Insanity had eroded his spirit; his resolve; his will. He looked upon the blood stained planks with a solemn emptiness.
Yet, his heart beat with the sweetness of mercy—of salvation.
A young woman stood beside him—not too far, not too close. Her arms were folded, palms wet with crimson. Her gaze was killing. Ruffled hazel hair swept across her darkened face and cascaded downwards.
Opposite the two, sitting on the floor, was another, similar looking man. He was Etrean, just like them. Slit eyes wavered as the pain throughout his body stubbornly subsided. His green hair was messied—getting caught in the gaps within his lusterless metal carapace.
Its emerald green was his only memento of the surface.
Then, another young man, different from the others tilted his head back to face the upwards abyss. His markings glowed with a golden radiance—his bruised skin reflected the blues around him. Hands on his knees, he caught his breath.
This was all his fault.
He had been blindsided by an immeasurable dream—one which was impossible to reach.
Here, he would face the punishment for the crime, or perhaps he had already been facing the punishment all along, ever since he descended down here, below.
Below, into the depths.
The four had become five once they met the man who wielded the spirit of crimson. They did not descend together—and they did not descend in the same manner.
It didn't matter now, though.
Today—this moment—they would finally bask in the glory of mercy.
Here, they would face their final trial.
They were escaping.