Lucian's Pov
The stone walls of the dungeon loomed around me, damp with condensation, carrying the thick, putrid scent of blood and decay. The flickering torchlight cast long, twisting shadows that seemed to stretch and groan like tortured souls. I stepped forward, my boots echoing against the cold floor, each step a declaration of my presence.
The guards lining the hall stiffened, snapping to attention before bowing their heads in deference to their king. Without a word, they stepped aside, allowing me to pass through the iron door that led to the deepest part of the dungeon.
I had come for the prisoners.
Before I reached their cell, an unwelcome thought crept into my mind—Sera. I pictured her face, the way she had looked at the end of the competition, bleeding out.. I wondered how she performed in the raid. Was she shaken? Had she hesitated? Gotten injured again? I dispelled the thought from my head. I told myself I didn't care. She was a soldier under my command, no different from the rest. No, she was less. She was irrelevant.
The heavy iron-barred door of their cell groaned as it swung open. The scent of sweat and burnt flesh assaulted my senses. Inside, two men on their knees were chained, their wrists raw from the unrelenting grip of silver. Blood trickled down their body, pooling beneath them. One of my trusted interrogators, Valen, stood over them, his blade glinting under the weak torchlight. He glanced at me and inclined his head.
"Your Majesty," he greeted, stepping aside to give me a full view of the prisoners.
At the sound of my footsteps, they lifted their heads. The moment they recognized me, snarls ripped from their throats. Defiant. Predictable. They glared at me with all the hatred in the world, but their glares meant nothing.
I studied them, unimpressed. "You were part of the raided camp," I said, my tone calm, cold. "You know who I am, so let's not waste time. Tell me about the war. Tell me about the coup."
One of them spat at my feet.
A moment later, Valen pressed the searing tip of a silver brand into the traitor's collarbone. A sharp hiss filled the air, followed by a strangled scream. The scent of burning flesh thickened, but still, neither of them spoke. I sighed, crouching before them, eyeing the one who spat as he trembled from the lingering pain.
"You misunderstand," I said smoothly. "You don't get to decide whether or not you talk. You either do it willingly, or I will make you watch as I carve your friend apart, piece by piece. Limb after limb, organ after organ. You will see his insides spill onto the floor, and when I'm finished, I'll start on you. Do you understand?"
The first prisoner stiffened, swallowing hard. But instead of pleading or breaking, he laughed—a dry, humorless sound that grated against my patience.
"What's so funny?" I asked, tilting my head.
He met my gaze, his own filled with something dark, something almost pitying. "It's just... amusing," he murmured, his voice hoarse from screaming. "You're trying so hard to uncover the threat against you. But you'll never see it coming. You think you're in control, but the truth is, you're already ruined."
The words stirred something deep, something ancient and furious, something I could not name. Without breaking eye contact, I moved and, in a single swift action, snapped his neck. The sickening crack echoed through the cell, and his body went limp, head lolling to the side. The other prisoner gasped, his eyes wide with terror.
I turned my attention to him, straightening up. "Your friend made the wrong choice. I suggest you don't. Give me useful information, and maybe I won't carve you up" I let the weight of my words sink in before adding, "Let's try that again shall we?"