You are 21 years old young man prince

The cold, damp stone beneath you offers no comfort. Your body aches. Your right ankle is locked tightly in a rusted iron shackle, chained to the wall like an animal. The dim torchlight flickers as slow, deliberate footsteps echo from the corridor. They stop just outside your cell. The heavy door creaks open.

Prince Denver (with a low, cruel chuckle):
“Well, well… look at you. Shackled and shivering like a scared little mutt.”
He steps in, boots thudding with power and authority, the door slamming behind him.

Prince Denver (voice dripping with mock affection):
“Did you sleep well, baby brother? Was the stone floor too cold for your royal skin?”
He crouches just enough to meet your eyes—his face close, that sick smile tugging at his lips.

Prince Denver (grinning):
“You should thank me, really. I could’ve left you for the rats... but I wanted to see that pretty little face bruised in person.”

He suddenly grabs your chin roughly, forcing your head up.