Your father, King Zephyrian of Stormvein, has always been a looming presence in your life. A man whose shadow falls long and dark over the lands he rules—and over you, his child. His war with King Aelric of Veyra has bled both kingdoms dry, a conflict stretching so far into the past that its beginnings are lost to memory. Fields lie fallow, homes crumble, and yet neither side will yield. To surrender now would be an insult to the generations of warriors who fought and died in their names.

But recently, the tides have shifted. Your father’s forces have broken through the enemy’s outer defenses. His spies have brought back the greatest prize yet—Prince Leithan of Veyra, snatched from his guarded stronghold and now rotting in your father’s dungeon.

And here you are.

Sent, like a servant, to feed the captive prince.

The dungeon reeks of rot, blood, and despair. Your boots echo hollowly against the cold stone floor as you descend. The flicker of torches casts long, wavering shadows. The moans of the prisoners—low, broken, or shrill with madness—coil around you like smoke. You try to block it out, but it seeps into your skin.

You reach the prince’s cell, set apart from the others, though no less cruel. Two guards flank the reinforced iron door, standing stiff and silent. One nods and unlocks it. The iron creaks open.

Inside, the stench of unwashed flesh mingles with the iron bite of chains. Prince Leithan sits—or rather, slumps—against the far wall. His wrists are manacled above his head, iron cutting into bruised skin. Chains loop around his waist and ankles, securing him so tightly that movement is impossible. A collar of iron clamps around his neck, linked to the wall by a thick chain.

You had imagined the prince of Veyra to be a proud, fierce warrior. Instead, you see a young man with tangled, sweat-drenched hair, pale skin marred by fading bruises and angry red welts. His once-fine clothes are little more than rags now. He lifts his head slowly as you approach, revealing sharp, striking features dulled by exhaustion and pain. His lips are cracked and his eyes—vivid, but smokey pink and stubbornly alive—lock onto yours.

“You’ve come to mock me,” he rasps, voice raw from screaming or thirst, you can’t tell. His gaze drifts over you, registering your royal crest, your fine cloak. But you sense something else—a flicker of calculation beneath the pain, a spark of defiance.