The Duke who walked out of Hell

Chapter Four

“I told you to work, didn’t I? Why are you still lazing about? Get on now!” the warder barked, striking Damian.

“Damian turned back and noticed the stranger he was talking to had left. A jolt of panic shot through him, his chest tightening as fear clawed at his thoughts. His heart pounded, and for a moment, his legs felt like lead.

“The guy was here… just now. Was he imagining it?” Damian muttered to himself, a shiver running down his spine. His pulse quickened, and a flicker of doubt gnawed at him.

"He must have left when he saw the warder coming." He thought to himself, that was the only explanation for what had just happened.

The warder stroke him again without hesitation and pain shot through his back, but he bent lower, forcing himself to continue tilling the ground. His hands ached, dirt pressed into his palms, but his mind refused to stay with the work. It was elsewhere—on the stranger, on the plan, on what might happen tonight.

Who was that guy? Damian thought, a shiver running down his spine. Can I really trust him? Every instinct screamed caution, but the cage he had been trapped in for three long years felt suffocating. I can’t stay here… not another day.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of grime across his face, and looked around the yard.

The guards moved with mechanical precision, shouting at the prisoners, their boots stamping into the soil.

Some prisoners had gone silent, resigned to the monotony and brutality. Others had broken—like the ones he had heard screaming late at night, their cries echoing through the stone walls like ghosts. Damian swallowed hard, forcing his hands back to the soil, though his mind refused to focus.

Soon, the day ended, and it was time for dinner. Damian barely touched his food, his appetite gone, the gruel tasteless in his mouth. He slid it across to his cellmate, trying to focus on something other than the pounding of his heart.

“Here, Jaden,” he muttered.

Jaden’s face brightened. “Thank you,” he said, eating hungrily. Damian’s stomach twisted with guilt and longing, but there was no time to linger. He watched the way Jaden chewed, his movements almost desperate, and Damian felt a pang of envy. How long had it been since he had eaten without the gnawing knot of anxiety in his stomach? How long since he had felt safe, even for a moment?

Once Jaden was absorbed in his meal, Damian slipped away, careful to avoid the guards’ gaze. Every step sent his pulse racing; every sound of boots on the stone yard made him flinch.

One misstep and it could all be over. He moved with the caution of a man who had spent years learning how to survive the smallest miscalculation.

He approached the far end of the yard—the place the stranger had told him to meet. The shadows seemed to shift with every step, curling around the corners of the yard.

Damian’s senses sharpened; he noticed the smell of wet soil, the metallic tang of sweat and blood lingering in the air, the distant barking of dogs, and the faint clatter of chains in another cell. His chest tightened with anticipation, each breath shallow, controlled, as though inhaling too deeply might betray him.

Then he saw it—the headlights of a car cutting across the darkness. Panic surged. He ducked behind a crate, flattening himself as the light swept past. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline making his hands shake.

He could feel his pulse in his temples, the tremor in his legs, the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Every nerve was screaming at him: move, stay hidden, do not let them see you.

A man stepped out. Damian tensed, unsure who it was, his mind spinning through worst-case scenarios.

Who would be coming to the cell this late at night? he wondered, a mix of curiosity and unease twisting in his chest. He turned slightly, eyes fixed on the newcomer, every nerve alert, his pulse quickening as he watched, trying to anticipate what was about to unfold.

Then a familiar voice cut through the night.

“How is he?”

Damian froze. His stomach lurched, a cold dread curling in his gut. It can’t be… Martins. What was he doing here, and at this hour? Panic and disbelief clawed at him, his mind racing with every cruel possibility.

“Yes,” the warder replied. “He’s good.”

The next words made Damian’s blood run cold.

“Keep him here for as long as possible. Make sure he doesn’t leave, alright?” Martins said.

Damian’s chest tightened as fury, disbelief, and fear collided inside him. Martins. His boss. His tormentor. And now he understood. All this—the imprisonment without trial, the endless labor, the humiliation—it had been calculated. Everything had been designed to break him, keep him here for as long as possible. His fingers dug into the rough wood of the crate, nails scraping the splintered edges as anger and revulsion surged.

Martins got into his car and drove off, the roar of the engine fading into the night. Damian’s chest heaved, a mix of relief and lingering dread tightening in his stomach. The warder returned to the dining area, shouting at the other prisoners as if nothing had happened, unaware of the storm churning in Damian’s mind.

He exhaled slowly, letting the anger simmer just beneath the surface. He rose carefully from his hiding spot, heart hammering, every sense on high alert. Shadows loomed around him, every rustle of the wind or distant shout of a guard making him flinch. A rat scuttled across the yard, making his stomach twist, but he ignored it.

Damian paused for a moment, listening. Footsteps. Distant laughter. The clang of a chain. He pictured the stranger who had promised him freedom, imagining the meeting, rehearsing the words he might say, the movement he might make. His body ached from the day’s work, every muscle screaming, but his mind sharpened with determination. This was no longer about survival—it was about reclaiming control, about striking back.

All of this… it ends tonight, he thought, a flicker of determination igniting inside his chest. He moved forward, every step slow, measured, and deliberate, toward the prisoner who had promised to help him. His shadow stretched long across the ground, mingling with the darkness, as if the night itself were conspiring with him.