A Year in the Endless Prison

Tyr's breathing was slow, deliberate, and deep—each inhale bringing in the sickly, metallic scent of the Shadow Prison's air. He crouched low in the middle of a broken landscape, the bones of his latest kills scattered around him. His body, once covered in crude armor, was now bare except for jagged scars and hardened calluses.

His eyes burned with focus, the faint shimmer of the Force flickering in them as he surveyed his surroundings. The constant waves of enemies had reshaped him—body, mind, and soul.

Or what was left of his soul.

"Is there even anything left?" he muttered, his voice rough and cracked from lack of use.

There was no one to answer. There hadn't been anyone for months.

Tyr chuckled darkly to himself, his lips pulling back in a twisted grin. "Great. Talking to myself now. That's a good sign."

A wave of tension ran through the air. He froze, his Force sense flaring as shadows began to coalesce in the distance. The next wave was forming, larger and stronger than before.

"Of course," he muttered, rising to his feet. His muscles rippled as he shifted his weight, every fiber of his body primed for the fight.

This wasn't Tyr Sinclair anymore. Not fully. This was someone—or something—else.

The first of the shadow creatures charged, its blade slicing through the air with unnatural speed. Tyr dodged effortlessly, twisting his body as the creature's attack whiffed past him.

"Too slow," he said, his voice dripping with venom. He pivoted, his hand shooting forward to deliver a bone-crushing punch to the creature's chest.

The Force surged through him, amplifying his strength. The creature crumpled to the ground, its chest caved in.

Another shadow closed in, but Tyr was already moving. His foot lashed out in a spinning kick, the Force guiding his strike as it shattered the creature's head.

"Next," he growled, baring his teeth.

The enemies kept coming, faster and stronger than the last wave, but Tyr was relentless. He danced through their ranks with a precision born of constant battle, his movements fluid and deadly.

Vaapad.

He had unlocked it weeks ago—months ago? Time didn't matter anymore. The aggressive, unpredictable fighting style flowed through him like second nature, its ferocity perfectly suited to his new reality.

He couldn't remember where he'd learned it. Was it Theon's memories? His own instincts? Did it even matter?

Tyr laughed as he drove his elbow into a creature's throat, the sound raw and unhinged.

"You're just practice dummies," he snarled, grabbing another enemy and hurling it into the ground with a sickening crunch. "You're not even real."

His voice echoed in the void, and for a moment, he felt the suffocating silence pressing down on him again.

The wave ended. Tyr stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving as he wiped blood—his or theirs, it didn't matter—from his face.

He stumbled back to his makeshift shelter, collapsing against the cracked stone wall. The bones of fallen creatures surrounded him, some fashioned into crude tools, others discarded like trash.

Tyr tilted his head back, staring at the churning sky. The storm above never ceased, its colors twisting in chaotic patterns that made no sense.

"Am I still alive?" he asked the void.

No answer.

"I mean, really," he continued, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "Is this what life is now? Beating up shadow freaks for eternity while my 'creator'"—he gestured to the sky—"takes notes?"

He laughed, the sound hollow. "Maybe this is someone's idea of entertainment. Oh, look, the plucky human is losing his mind. Hilarious."

His laughter faded, replaced by a chilling stillness. He rubbed his face, his hands trembling.

The bloodlust was always there now, simmering beneath the surface. Every fight pushed him closer to the edge, and he wasn't sure he could pull back anymore.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "No. Focus. You've got this."

But the cracks were showing. He caught himself muttering to unseen enemies when there was no one there. His hands shook when he wasn't fighting. His dreams—if they could even be called that—were filled with visions of Argos, Finn, and Oliver, their faces twisted with disappointment.

He slammed his fist into the wall, the Force shattering the stone. "Enough!"

The two-hour pause between waves passed in a blur. When the shadows returned, Tyr didn't hesitate.

He lunged at the first attacker, his body a blur of motion. Vaapad carried him through the fight, each strike brutal and precise. He tore through the wave with an almost animalistic ferocity, his bloodlust driving him forward.

But even as he fought, a small part of him whispered, Is this who you are now?

When the wave ended, Tyr stood amidst the remains of his enemies, his body trembling with exhaustion.

He dropped to his knees, staring at his bloodstained hands.

"Finn," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Oliver... Argos... are you even still out there?"

His vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes, the weight of his isolation crashing down on him.

"Damn it," he muttered, wiping his face angrily. "You can't cry. You don't have time for this."

But the tears came anyway.

He stayed like that for a while, hunched over in the desolate ruins, his body battered and his mind fraying.

When he finally rose, his expression was hard again. The storm churned above, the shadows already gathering for the next wave.

Tyr clenched his fists, his Force energy surging around him.

"Bring it on," he growled.