Footsteps echoed through the halls as the man passed each cell. The man, who—from what you heard in the guards' conversations—was called Zamir, stopped in front of your cell. His brother had defeated you in battle, taking you hostage and torturing you day and night.

Zamir stood clad in his navy blue tunic, covered in various golden designs, including one with a curled up and wounded dragon. He had dark, slightly curly hair. His eyes, however, were a striking hoary grey. A scar ran across his nose, making him look more like a tapestry than anything else.

You spat at his feet, stumbling back.

Zamir pursed his lips, brows knitted closely together. “I’ve been visiting you for the past few months, bringing you food and whatnot. Still, you persist in holding this disdain towards me, hm?”

He glanced at the guard behind him, “Foolish decision, I’m afraid. I don’t appreciate when my mercy is mistaken for weakness.”

He stepped close, grabbing your hair.

Silence hung over the cell for a moment, save the cries of the commoners and peasants who occupied the other cells.

“I ask that you do not forgive me,” he whispered before—forcefully—pressing his lips to yours.

You protested at first, kicking and biting into his lower lip, until you felt something cold and metallic on your tongue.

The key to the cell.

He pulled away, using his thumb to wipe away the blood from his lip.