Finn swallowed against the painful dryness in his throat. He kept his expression neutral.
“Enjoying your new accommodations?” The guard smirked, his voice thick with mockery. “Quite a step down from the knights’ quarters, eh?”
Finn said nothing. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.
He reached for the bread, ignoring the tremor in his fingers.
The guard chuckled, watching. “Look at you now. The mighty Sir Finnian, brought low. Was it worth it? Betraying your king for what?” Then, with a wicked grin, he added, “They say you claimed the princess for yourself before throwing away your honor.”
Finn’s stomach twisted. Bile burned his throat. “What?” His voice came hoarse, cracking from disuse.
The guard’s smirk widened. “Oh? Touched a nerve, have I?”
Finn clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait.
The guard laughed. “Well, enjoy your meal. It might be your last if you don’t start talking soon.”
He kicked the empty cup, sending it clattering against the far wall. Then, with one final smug glance, he turned and strode out, the clang of the cell door slamming shut behind him.
Silence returned.
Finn stared at the scraps before him, his stomach twisting. Hunger and revulsion warred inside him, but weakness would not serve him here. He forced himself to swallow every dry, tasteless crumb. When the last of the moisture clung to the tin cup, he licked it clean.
Shame burned in his mind, even as his body savored the meager relief.
Then came more footsteps. Not just one set. Several.
The sound echoed through the dungeon like the toll of a funeral bell. Something’s different. Finn tensed, instincts kicking in despite his exhaustion.
The cell door groaned open, iron grinding against stone. Finn’s breath caught.
King Darius stood in the doorway. Flanked by a pair of Kings Guard, the monarch stepped inside, surveying the tiny cell with thinly veiled distaste. His nose wrinkled at the filth in the corners, but when his gaze landed on Finn, his mouth curved into something almost amused.
“Ah, Sir Finnian,” Darius drawled, stepping forward. “I trust you’re finding your accommodations…motivating.”
Finn pushed himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, but he stood.
He would not kneel before this man. Never again.
He met Darius’s gaze. “Your Majesty. To what do I owe the honor?”
Darius tilted his head, amusement gleaming in his dark eyes. “Come now, Sir Finnian. Surely you know why I’m here.” His tone was light, almost jovial. “I’ve given you ample time to reconsider your position,” Darius continued, studying him like a piece of bruised fruit. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
Finn held his ground. “You sound desperate, Your Majesty.” He lifted his chin. Defiant. Unbroken.
Darius stilled.
For a moment, just a breath, his mask slipped—his expression tightening, something ugly flashing behind his eyes.
His smile returned, stretched too thin. Forced. “You speak of treason,” he said, but the words lacked the lazy amusement from before. His voice was colder now, brittle with barely restrained fury.
He stepped forward, faster this time, closing the space between them with a suddenness that sent Finn’s instincts flaring. “Listen to me very carefully, Finnian,” he murmured, low and lethal. “I am offering you one last chance.”
A pause. A beat where all the warmth in his expression drained away.
“Tell me where Gwenna is. Tell me about the dragon. And all will be forgiven.” He spread his arms wide—too wide, too performative, a show of control that rang hollow. “You can return to your life. You will be restored. Your name will be cleared.” He tilted his head, his smile widening like a fissure in glass. “Isn’t that what you want?”
For one agonizing moment, Finn let himself imagine it. The cool sheets of his quarters. His polished armor awaiting him. Sunwrath at his hip. The ease of slipping back into a life where his only duty was to serve, to belong.
