As they ride north into the gathering darkness, Ivah allows himself to imagine the moment when he sees Bellamy again—alive, safe, free from whatever hell he's been enduring. The thought sustains himthrough the long night ahead and the longer battle that awaits them in the mountains.
King Kent wanted to play games with royal prisoners? He wanted to use the threat of violence against innocents to achieve his political goals?
He's about to learn that some people aren't pawns to be moved around a board.
Some people are kings in their own right.
And this particular king is very, very angry.
Chapter 14
The shackles bite into Bellamy's wrists with every slight movement, the iron cuffs suspended from chains that keep his arms stretched above his head in a position designed to cause maximum discomfort. His shoulders scream in protest after what feels like hours in this position, muscles cramping and burning as they strain to support his weight. His legs shake with the effort of staying upright, calves aching from the constant tension.
The dungeon itself is a testament to King Kent's cruelty—damp stone walls that weep with moisture, a single torch providing flickering light that creates dancing shadows, and the pervasive smell of fear and suffering that speaks of countless prisoners who've occupied this space before him. Straw scattered across the floor does little to combat the cold that seeps up from the stones, and somewhere in the darkness he can hear the scurrying of rats.
But he endures, because showing weakness now would only make things worse. Because somewhere beyond these walls, people who love him are probably searching, probably planning, probably refusing to accept that he's lost forever.
"Tell me about Mirn's grain stores," Captain Rothwell demands again, his scarred face inches from Bellamy's. The man's breath reeks of stale ale and rotting teeth, and his small eyes gleam with the particular cruelty of someone who enjoys his work far too much. "How much surplus does your kingdom keep in reserve? What are the locations of the primary storage facilities?"
Bellamy lets his head loll forward slightly, as if the questioning is wearing him down. "I wouldn't know," he gasps, letting exhaustion creep into his voice. "I'm not involved in those decisions."
"You're the prince!"
"I'm the spare," Bellamy corrects, maintaining the lie that's kept him alive for the past six days. It's a performance built on his knowledge of other kingdoms where multiple heirs compete for influence, where younger sons are often relegated to ceremonial roles while their siblings handle the real business of governance. "My older brother handles the important matters. I just attend ceremonies and smile at foreign dignitaries."
The deception has worked so far, making him seem like a disappointment, a second son kept around for appearances while his supposedly more capable sibling handles the real work of running the kingdom. It's a careful balance—he needs to seem valuable enough as a hostage to keep alive, but not so knowledgeable that they'll torture him for information he doesn't actually possess.
Rothwell's expression shifts from frustration to disgust, his scarred features twisting with disappointment. "Useless royal brat. What about military formations? Troop movements? Supply lines?"
"They don't tell me about that either." Bellamy lets his head sag, as if the admission embarrasses him. "My brother says I don't have the mind for strategy. Mother agrees with him."
Better to be seen as a worthless hostage than a valuable source of intelligence.
"Sweet gods," Rothwell mutters, stepping back with obvious frustration. "King Kent's going to skin me alive when he hears this."
The captain moves to unlock the shackles, his movements sharp with irritation. When Bellamy's arms drop, the sudden relief is so intense he nearly collapses, his shoulders burning as circulation returns to his hands. He bites back a groan of pain as feeling floods back into his fingers, pins and needles racing up his arms.
"Sit," Rothwell orders, shoving a wooden stool toward him. "And don't even think about trying anything clever. Guards are posted outside, and they have orders to break your legs if you cause trouble."
Bellamy sinks onto the stool gratefully, rubbing his raw wrists where the iron had chafed the skin bloody. For the first time in days, he's not suspended in agony, and the simple act of sitting feels like luxury. He flexes his fingers carefully, working feeling back into the joints while trying not to show too much relief.
The brief respite gives him a chance to assess his condition more thoroughly. He's lost weight during his captivity, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced than before. His clothes are filthy and torn, stained with sweat and dirt and things he doesn't want to identify. But he's largely uninjured—bruises and scrapes from the initial capture, the raw wounds on his wrists from the shackles, but nothing that won't heal.
They've been careful with him, he realizes. Uncomfortable enough to break his spirit, but not damaged enough to reduce his value as a bargaining chip.
The thought should be comforting, but it only makes him more nervous about what might come next.
His fears prove justified when the dungeon door opens with a groan of ancient hinges, and King Kent himself strides into the cell. He's a man in his fifties, gone soft around the middle from too much richfood and too little exercise, but there's still danger in his pale blue eyes and thin-lipped smile. His expensive clothes—velvet doublet and silk hose—seem absurd in the dank dungeon, but they speak to his vanity and his need to project wealth even here.
"Well?" Kent asks Rothwell without preamble, his voice carrying the casual authority of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
"He's useless, Your Majesty. Second son, knows nothing about running a kingdom. They don't trust him with important information." Rothwell's disgust is evident in every word. "Claims his brother handles all the real decisions while he just plays at being royal."
Kent's cold gaze moves to Bellamy, studying him with uncomfortable intensity. There's something in the way he looks, something that makes Bellamy's skin crawl with instinctive revulsion. It's the look of a man who sees people as objects to be used rather than individuals deserving of respect.
"Is that so?" Kent approaches slowly, like a cat stalking wounded prey, his soft leather boots making no sound on the stone floor. "Just a useless spare?"
Bellamy keeps his expression neutral, though his heart rate quickens with each step the king takes closer. "I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. Not much use to anyone, really."
