So here he is, riding toward the heart of enemy territory with no plan beyond the desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—what he felt in that dungeon cell was real.
The ambush comes just as the sun begins to set.
Bellamy should see it coming—he's been trained to watch for signs of hidden enemies, to read the landscape for potential threats. But his attention is focused inward, on the war between hope and fear raging in his chest, and by the time he notices the birds have gone silent, it's too late.
They emerge from the forest like shadows: six men in dark leather and mail, crossbows trained on his heart before he can even reach for his sword. Their movements are coordinated, professional—these aren't bandits looking for easy coin, but soldiers following orders.
"Prince of Mirn," the leader says, lowering his crossbow slightly but keeping it ready. "You're a long way from home."
Bellamy's hand stills on his sword hilt. There's no point in fighting—he's outnumbered and surrounded, and these men clearly know exactly who he is despite his disguise.
"How did you—?" he begins, then stops as the leader points to Tempest's saddle.
The royal embroidery. He'd remembered to change his clothes, to mud his horse's coat, to pull up his hood—but he'd forgotten about the golden threads worked into the leather, the subtle marks of royal craftsmanship that only someone with keen eyes would notice.
Careless. Impossibly, stupidly careless.
Or maybe, a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind, maybe he'd wanted to be caught.
"Hands where we can see them," the leader orders. "Nice and slow."
Bellamy raises his hands, letting them see he's not reaching for a weapon. "I'm traveling under diplomatic immunity—"
The leader's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Diplomatic immunity? You're traveling under nothing but that cloak, and poorly at that." He gestures to his men. "Take him."
They're not gentle about it. Hands seize him roughly, yanking him from Tempest's back with enough force to send him stumbling. When he tries to steady himself, someone shoves him hard between the shoulder blades, sending him to his knees in the dirt.
"Easy now, prince," one of the soldiers sneers. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt before His Majesty sees you."
They bind his hands with rough rope that bites into his wrists, jerking his arms behind him with unnecessary force. When he winces at the pain, another soldier cuffs him across the cheek—not hard enough to do serious damage, but enough to leave his face stinging and his pride bruised.
"That's for the trouble you caused at Silverbrook," the man growls.
Bellamy keeps his mouth shut, knowing any protest will only earn him more rough treatment. These men have clearly been in battles against Mirn forces, have lost friends and comrades to his kingdom's blades. A little rough handling is probably the least he can expect.
The ride to wherever they're taking him passes in a blur of gathering darkness and mounting dread. His shoulders ache from the awkward position of his bound arms, and his cheek throbs where he's been struck, but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the terror building in his chest.
What if this is exactly what Ivah intended? What if those nights in the dungeon were part of some elaborate plan to lure Bellamy into enemy territory? He could be riding toward his execution, toward a fate that will plunge both kingdoms into chaos, all because he was fool enough to believe that the Barbarian King might actually care about him.
The fortress they bring him to is nothing like what he expects.
Where Bellamy had imagined barbaric architecture—rough stone and crude construction suitable for raiders and conquerors—he finds something closer to a palace. The walls are high and well-built, but they're decorated with intricate carvings that speak of artistic traditions going back centuries. Torches burn in elaborate sconces, their light revealing tapestries and metalwork of remarkable quality.
This is not the crude stronghold of a savage king. This is the seat of an ancient civilization, one that has simply chosen warfare as its means of expansion.
The throne room is equally impressive. Soaring ceilings supported by graceful columns, walls lined with books and scrolls, weapons displayed not as trophies but as works of art. And at the center of itall, lounging in a chair that manages to be both elegant and imposing, sits Ivah.
He looks magnificent. Gone are the rough prisoner's clothes and heavy chains, replaced by a tunic of deep blue wool that brings out the darkness of his eyes and leather pants that emphasize the powerful lines of his body. A circlet of dark metal rests on his brow—not a crown exactly, but a clear symbol of authority.
When the guards march Bellamy forward and force him to his knees, Ivah doesn't even look up from the parchment he's reading. He takes his time finishing whatever business occupies him, signing something with a flourish before finally deigning to acknowledge his captive.
Bellamy's heart hammers against his ribs as the silence stretches. This is it, isn’t it? This is the moment of truth. Will Ivah acknowledge their connection, or will he treat Bellamy as nothing more than an enemy prisoner?
"Well, well," he says, his voice carrying dangerous amusement that makes Bellamy's blood run cold. "Look what the cats dragged in."
The tone is exactly what Bellamy fears—mocking, dismissive, utterly without warmth. He forces himself to keep his chin up despite his bound hands and kneeling position, though his heart is sinking like a stone.
"Your Majesty," he says, putting just enough irony into the title to hide his growing desperation.
