* * *
The damp stone walls of the unventilated dungeon reeked of rot.
A foul stench clung to the air.
This was the path to the dirtiest, darkest prison in the Grand Duke’s castle.
Though it was daytime, not a single ray of light reached this deep, shadowy place.
Three prisoners were each being tortured in separate cells.
The torturer was skilled enough to keep them alive, inflicting just enough pain to not let them die.
The three—wasted away, spiritually broken—were barely more than husks, their remaining eyes rolling back in their heads.
Thud… Thud…
The sound of heavy footsteps made them gasp for breath.
Killian had gathered them into one room, chaining their legs to keep them confined to a small range of movement.
One was fastened to each wall.
The sudden torchlight made their ruined eyes wince.
One of them had an empty eye socket—black and cavernous.
Their other eyes struggled to perceive.
A metallic clink, and then Killian emerged, looming like a demon emerging from the shadows.
The three prisoners trembled violently.
Compared to the two who had lost their tongues, Dylan was the fortunate one.
“Dylan.”
“…Your Highness.”
“I’ll give you a chance to live.”
Wet gasps tangled in the air.
The others yanked on their chains, writhing.
Their bodies were wrecked—tongueless, half-blind.
Yet even like that, they fought to live.
Their fingers, stripped of nails and bent at odd angles, clawed at the chains.
Tears streamed down their faces as they pounded the ground.
When Killian raised a hand, the chaos subsided.
Knights entered, bearing food.
A hearty soup with chunks of fresh meat, and warm, fragrant bread.
The aroma didn’t belong in this rancid dungeon.
Only the two without tongues were given food.
“Eat. You’ll need strength.”
Hesitant at first, wary of poison, they quickly gave in to hunger.
They devoured it with their blackened hands, not even using spoons—like beasts in a cage.
Dylan clutched his growling stomach and watched.
“Do you want to steal their food?”
“…No.”
“Then I’ll ask this instead. They betrayed you. Spoke your name. Do you want them dead?”
“……”
He ground down the few remaining teeth with a grating crunch.
The wet, smacking sound of chewing didn’t just echo in the ears—it pierced the brain.
Dylan, glaring with a face full of disgust, scratched the ground with his twisted fingers.
“What exactly is your intention in asking me?”
“I’m offering you a special opportunity.”
As he lazily wiped the crumbs stuck to his lips with the back of his hand, both men turned their eyes to the same point.
Aiden was hanging a candelabrum from a hook in the ceiling.
Creeeeak, creeeak.
The candle holder swayed, shrieking eerily.
With it, Killian’s massive shadow flickered like a specter dancing on the wall.
Dylan raised his head and stared directly into Killian’s red eyes.
He’d expected to be killed immediately, and yet he was being given a chance?
He wavered, torn between taking it or not.
But Killian’s flat voice and unreadable expression gave away nothing.
Still, Dylan knew better than anyone: his body was already broken.
There was no going back.
“Why—why does it have to be that kind of disgrace? Why him? With your status, your honor, your wealth, you could easily have any foreign princess you wanted.”
“That’s an unexpected question. I thought you’d ask what the opportunity was.”
“…Are you truly planning to let me live—”
“I am. But only if you earn it. Considering you grew up close to your father in his youth, you might have a fair chance. You should have the skills for it.”
Dylan looked down at his misshapen fingers.
The ten rings he once proudly wore were gone.
All that remained were warped knuckles, stiff and calcified.
“What is this opportunity?”
They say even a cornered mouse will bite a cat.
His voice, rough and snarling, echoed with cold menace.
Killian pulled out a dagger and tossed it in front of him.
With a sharp clink, the blade—so polished it reflected even the orange candlelight—landed at Dylan’s feet.
“This.”
“Your last chance.”
Tomorrow at dawn, the door opens.
Only those who survive until then can leave this place.
If all three survive?
He would allow that as well, Killian added coolly.
Dylan hurriedly grabbed the dagger, trying to guard himself against the sharp stares that seemed to pierce him from every direction.
Killian, standing at the center, was merely an observer.
The one who dared kidnap Nael and drag him into this mess should’ve been executed on the spot.
But that would’ve been far too merciful.
They would have to answer for what they had done.
Aiden loosened the chains of the other two prisoners, excluding Dylan.
In that fraught space, where gazes clashed like blades, Killian walked away—neither hurried nor slow. The iron door shut behind him.
Though it was a cage, see-through and open to the eye, unless that door opened again, no light would reach them.
Dylan, overwhelmed by fear, had failed to consider one crucial thing:
There was still a full day to go before dawn.
“D-Don’t come near me! I’ll kill you if you do!”
“Uuuuuh…”
“Hhhrrgggh…”
“S-Stay right there!”
Like a man tossed into a pit with wild animals, Dylan remained constantly on edge.
With trembling hands, he clutched the dagger as if it were his lifeline, eyes darting everywhere.
Killian, hearing this from outside the dungeon, murmured quietly:
As he walked away from the underground prison, Dylan’s screams and mangled cries rang in the halls, tangled and chaotic.
“In the end, he’ll bring about his own end.”
The heavy iron door severed the world.
With a loud clang, it shut—no scream or moan escaped from behind it.
Nael stood waiting in front of the palace carriage.
The knights surrounding him formed a wall so dense he couldn’t see an inch ahead.
Enclosed by deep shadow, he rose slightly on his toes and craned his neck, but not even a single strand of Killian’s hair was visible.
“I’ll just wait inside the carriage, then.”
“Please wait just a moment more.”
The knight, his words awkward, adjusted his helmet.
He’d stopped himself just in time from speaking too casually, and now fidgeted with the already perfectly fine helmet.
“Baron.”
The stiff address made Nael fold his hands politely in front of him.
No one in the Grand Duke’s castle would dare harm him—but Killian’s worry still felt stifling.
The gem-studded clothes, the fur-lined hat and cloak—they were fine enough.
But he had never lived like a noble.
All this etiquette, this deference, felt like someone else’s.
* * *