They look up as Ivah's group rounds the corner, hands moving toward weapons with the reflexes of soldiers who've survived long enough to develop proper instincts.
They never get the chance to draw them.
Ivah's men move with coordinated precision honed by years of fighting together, covering the distance in heartbeats while the guards are still processing the threat. Steel whispers against leather sheaths, then finds flesh with deadly efficiency. Valdris's thrown knife takes the first guard in the throat before he can even stand fully, while Jorik crosses the remaining space in a silent rush that ends with his blade between the second guard's ribs.
Both guards die without making a sound, their bodies settling to the stone floor in spreading pools of blood that look black in the flickering torchlight.
But there's a third guard—a captain by his insignia and bearing—who emerges from a side passage just as the bodies hit the ground. His timing is catastrophic, placing him in the corridor at the exact moment when stealth becomes impossible.
He opens his mouth to shout an alarm that would bring the entire garrison running, but Ivah is already moving.
The Barbarian King crosses the space between them faster than thought, his powerful frame driving the captain backward into the stone wall with crushing force. The man's shout dies in his throat as Ivah's hand clamps around his windpipe with iron strength. His feet kick uselessly a few inches off the ground as he claws at the grip that's cutting off his air supply.
"Where is the Prince of Mirn?" Ivah asks quietly, his voice carrying the cold promise of death that has made grown warriors wet themselves on battlefields.
The captain's eyes bulge as he tries to speak around the pressure on his windpipe, his face already beginning to purple from lack ofoxygen. Ivah loosens his grip just enough to allow words, his dark eyes boring into the man's terrified gaze.
"Third... third corridor down," the man gasps, his voice barely recognizable as human. "End cell... iron door... please, I have children—"
"Keys."
The captain fumbles at his belt with shaking hands, his coordination compromised by oxygen deprivation and terror. The ring of iron keys clinks softly as he produces them, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the confined space of the corridor.
Ivah takes them with his free hand, testing their weight and examining the various sizes. Heavy iron, well-made, the kind used for serious prisoners rather than common criminals.
"Please," the captain wheezes, his voice barely audible. "I just follow orders—I never hurt him—"
"You served the man who did."
Ivah's hand tightens with deliberate pressure, and there's a soft crack of breaking bone as the captain's hyoid snaps. The man's body goes limp immediately, sliding down the wall to join his dead subordinates in a growing pool of blood that reflects the torchlight like a dark mirror.
"Madden, Jorik—secure our exit," Ivah orders two of his men, his voice returning to normal command tones. "Kill anyone who tries to follow us down here. Everyone else, with me."
They step over the bodies and move deeper into the dungeon complex, past empty cells and storage chambers that speak of a fortress designed to hold more prisoners than it currently houses. The walls are lined with iron rings and chain fragments, evidence ofprevious occupants who may not have been as fortunate as they hope Bellamy will be.
The third corridor is narrower than the others, lined with doors that speak of more serious imprisonment—solid oak reinforced with iron bands, viewing slots at eye level, the kind of construction meant to hold valuable or dangerous prisoners. The air here is staler, more oppressive, as if the stones themselves have absorbed the despair of those confined within.
At the end, exactly as the dead captain described, stands a door of solid iron with a viewing slot at eye level. It's newer than the others, recently installed by the look of it, with heavy locks that speak of a prisoner valuable enough to warrant special precautions.
Ivah approaches it with his heart hammering against his ribs, afraid of what he might find on the other side. Extended time in King Kent's custody could have broken even a strong man, and Bellamy—for all his courage and intelligence—has lived a sheltered life that never prepared him for the kind of systematic cruelty that desperate men are capable of.
His hand shakes slightly as he reaches for the viewing slot, a tremor he hasn't experienced since his first battle as a young man. The metal is cold against his fingers as he slides it open with a soft scrape that seems to echo through the corridor.
Inside, chained to the stone wall by iron shackles around his wrists and ankles, sits Bellamy.
The sight hits Ivah, driving the air from his lungs and making his vision narrow to a tunnel focused entirely on the figure in the cell. The Prince of Mirn is still recognizably himself, but changed in ways that make rage build like molten metal in Ivah's chest.
Bellamy's golden hair is dirty and unkempt, matted with sweat and grime that speaks of days without proper washing. His usual fine clothes have been replaced by rough prisoner's garb—coarse wool and hemp that's stained with blood and dirt. Dark shadows ring his eyes, speaking of sleepless nights and constant fear, and bruises mark his visible skin in patterns that tell a story of systematic abuse.
Some of the bruising is clearly from the bonds—raw circles around his wrists and ankles where the iron has cut into flesh. But others are clearly from his captors' hands: finger marks on his jaw, the telltale pattern of a backhanded slap across his left cheek, bruises on his ribs that speak of kicks or punches delivered with calculated precision.
But he's alive. Breathing, conscious, and unbroken despite everything they've done to him. His green eyes, though shadowed with exhaustion and pain, still hold the spark of intelligence and defiance that Ivah fell in love with.
Ivah fumbles with the keys, his usually steady hands shaking slightly as he searches for the right one. The metal seems to mock him with its complexity—too many keys, too many locks, precious seconds ticking away while Bellamy remains chained like an animal.
Finally, the correct key slides home and turns with a click that seems to echo through both the cell and Ivah's soul. The iron door swings open with a groan of ancient hinges that seems unnaturally loud in the confined space.
Bellamy looks up at the sound, his green eyes widening in shock and disbelief. For a moment, he simply stares, as if afraid that his mind might be playing another cruel trick, conjuring hope where none should exist.
