The Barbarian King of Everitt, locked in the deepest dungeon of Castle Mirn.
Bellamy rises and pulls on a simple tunic and breeches, foregoing his usual finery. If he's going to prowl the halls like a restless madman, he might as well dress the part. He buckles his sword belt around his waist more from habit than expectation of danger and slips from his chambers.
The corridors are empty save for the occasional guard patrol, which he avoids easily enough. He's played at being a spy in these halls as a child, knows every hidden passage and forgotten stair. Each step takes him further from safety, further from the rational world of daylight and duty, and deeper into something he doesn't want to examine too closely.
Why is he doing this? What does he hope to accomplish?
The questions follow him like shadows as he descends, but he pushes them aside. He tells himself it's simple curiosity, the need to understand his enemy. Nothing more complicated than that. Certainly nothing that has to do with the way his pulse quickens when he remembers those dark eyes, or the strange flutter in his chest when he recalls that sharp smile.
Within minutes, he's descending the narrow spiral staircase that leads to the dungeons, torch in hand, his footsteps echoing off ancient stone. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the silence, and more than once he pauses, listening for pursuit. But no one follows. No one knows where Prince Bellamy has gone in the dead of night, drawn by an impulse he can't name and doesn't want to understand.
The dungeons of Castle Mirn are old, built into the bedrock beneath the fortress proper. They smell of damp stone and rust, with an underlying mustiness that speaks of centuries of use. Most of the cells stand empty; Mirn is a peaceful kingdom, and common criminals are usually sentenced to hard labor rather than imprisonment.
But the lowest level, built upon layers and layers of fortified stone, houses a single occupied cell.
As Bellamy approaches, his torch casting dancing shadows on the walls, his pulse quickens despite himself. This is madness. He should turn around, return to his chambers, forget about the man chained in the darkness below. Nothing good can come of this midnight visit, nothing that serves the interests of Mirn or its crown prince.
But still he continues, drawn forward by something stronger than sense or duty.
Two guards stand at attention outside the massive iron door, their hands resting on their sword hilts. They look tired—it's been a long shift, and guarding a prisoner who never speaks, never moves except to eat and sleep, is wearing on everyone's nerves.
"Your Highness?" Captain Klein, a steady man Bellamy has known since childhood, looks surprised and immediately alert. "Is something wrong?"
"I am troubled by questions I'd like to ask our prisoner," Bellamy says, which is a partial truth.
Klein exchanges a glance with his companion, and Bellamy can see the reluctance in both their faces. "Sir, General Harwick left strict orders that no one is to see the prisoner without his direct authorization."
"I’m hardly the stableboy who comes to see the captive king," Bellamy says quietly, letting just enough authority creep into his voice to remind them who he is. "I'm your prince."
The reminder is gentle but absolute, carrying all the weight of his bloodline and future crown. Klein straightens and nods, but concern still creases his weathered features.
"Of course, Your Highness. But... perhaps you'd prefer to wait until morning? The prisoner hasn't been... entirely cooperative."
"What do you mean?" Bellamy asks, though he's not sure he wants to know the answer.
"He doesn't speak much, sir. Just sits there and stares. Makes the lads nervous." Klein's voice drops slightly. "Yesterday he looked at young Thomas for so long that the boy fainted dead away. Claimed he felt like the prisoner was looking straight through him, seeing things that weren't there."
Despite his nervousness, Bellamy feels his lips twitch with amusement. Poor Thomas has always been skittish, prone to jumping at shadows even in broad daylight. But the image of the infamous Barbarian King reducing a grown soldier to a swoon with nothing but a stare is both absurd and somehow thrilling.
"I think I can handle it," Bellamy says, surprised by how confident he sounds.
Klein clearly wants to argue, but protocol is protocol. He unlocks the door and swings it open with a groan of ancient hinges that echoes through the stone corridors like a threat.
"We'll be right here, sir," Klein says, his hand never leaving his sword hilt. "Any trouble at all, and we'll be through that door faster than lightning."
Bellamy nods his thanks and steps through the doorway, his torch held high. Behind him, he hears Klein and the other man take positions where they can watch the entrance without being able to see or overhear what happens inside.
The cell beyond the secondary door and bars is larger than he's expecting, surrounded by stone and lit by a single oil lamp that hangs from an iron hook. The flickering flame casts shifting shadows on the walls, creating an almost hypnotic play of light and darkness. Thick straw covers the floor, changed regularly by the look of it—someone has been taking care to ensure their prisoner doesn't live in squalor. A wooden bucket sits in one corner for necessities, and a simple cot occupies another.
Scattered near the cot are strips of linen bandages, some stained with blood, and a small clay pot that looks like healing salve. The sharp, herbal scent cuts through the mustiness of the dungeon, a reminder that their prisoner is flesh and blood, capable of being wounded. Capable of healing.
It's crude but not inhumane—better conditions than many prisoners receive, and certainly more comfortable than the battlefield where they'd found him.
The Barbarian King sits against the far wall, his back straight despite the heavy chains that bind him. Iron shackles circle his wrists and ankles, connected to a central chain that is anchored to a massive ring set deep in the stone.
Yet somehow, Ivah makes captivity look like a temporary inconvenience.
He looks up as Bellamy enters, and those dark eyes seem to catch the lamplight until they look depthless. The effect is mesmerizing, andBellamy finds himself staring, transfixed by the way the shadows play across that handsome face.
