(Royal Dungeon of Zahava)
"Hoot! Hoot!"
An owl screeched at the peak of its voice, its wings fluttering noisily. Its fiery eyes remained fixed on its helpless prey. The midnight silence was so still that it felt as if the entire kingdom was asleep—except for the farthest corner of the palace territory.
"AHHHA! I—I will tell you everything! Don't—Ahhh!"
The broken voice trembled with pain, gasping for breath. "Please… let me go! I will answer all your questions."
The dim, yellowish glow of the dungeon cell was too feeble to light up the vast chamber completely. Yet, deep within, in a small, grimy cell, a commotion stirred, piercing through the dead of night.
Two guards stood outside the cell, motionless and alert.
In the farthest corner, a shadowed figure curled up like an earthworm. Nearly naked, he shivered in the cold, his body smeared with dried blood and dust. He sobbed breathlessly, his voice barely above a whisper as he pleaded for mercy.
"Let me go! PLEASE! I was only following orders!"
A grave voice responded, sharp and merciless.
"Not until you give me a name. Who ordered you to attack Princess Aralia? Where are your other accomplices?"
"I—I can't say… if I do, they will kill me. I can't—"
"Do you think I will let you live?"
The deep, taunting voice of Dior echoed through the cell. He didn't wait for an answer. His golden baton struck with brutal precision, hammering the prisoner's joints. The man collapsed, his screams slicing through the dungeon air. Blood poured from his wounds, his once-sturdy frame now a mass of broken bones.
"Your Highness, please calm down."
A knight hurriedly stepped forward, his voice laced with urgency. "If you continue, he will die. We'll lose our only lead, Your Highness."
Dior stood under the dim golden light, his baton slick with blood. His face, hardened with rage, was nothing short of terrifying.
"What a stubborn bastard!" Dior growled, stepping back with visible reluctance. His sharp gaze flickered toward the only other guard inside the cell. His voice turned grave.
"What do you think, Killan? Who was behind this attack?"
Killan Dante-
The young knight had caught Dior's attention after winning the annual knightship competition. Within a month, he was recruited into the prince's elite chivalry force, and for the past three months, he had served Dior unwaveringly. Surprisingly, Dior had come to trust him blindly.
Killan hesitated, then spoke carefully.
"The attackers were well-trained outsiders. They must have been hired from a primitive tribe beyond the kingdom's borders. The way they disappeared after the attack…" His eyes darkened with certainty. "I suspect a royal—"
Dior's breath burned in his throat. Before Killan could finish, he snatched the dagger from Killan's belt and lunged forward.
In one swift motion, Dior seized the prisoner's hand and chopped one of his fingers suddenly.
A bone-chilling scream erupted from the cell, echoing through the dungeon. Blood gushed onto the cold stone floor.
Dior's voice was low and lethal.
"Say the name. Now. Or you will suffer the most excruciating death in history."
"I—I—"
The prisoner stammered, choking on his sobs. His body trembled violently, drained of strength. The dagger's icy blade pressed against his next finger. A pair of cold, ruthless sapphire eyes bore into him. Dior wasn't looking better than a hungry, savage wolf.
That helpless man couldn't hold out any longer. His lips parted in terror.
"Q—Queen Elina… it was her… we were ordered to—"
"Which tribe?"
"Red Sparrow… P-please—Aghh!"
He never got to finish.
The dagger plunged straight into his heart. His body stiffened, blood rolling down from the corner of his lips. Within seconds, he lay still.
Dior threw the bloodied dagger with a clatter. His towering form loomed over the lifeless corpse, his face twisted in unrelenting fury.
As he turned to leave, he ordered coldly to Killan, "Find the Red Sparrow tribe. Kill them all. I don't want to hear that name ever again."
Killan, who had grown accustomed to Dior's unpredictable wrath, nodded without hesitation. Signaling the guards to clean up the cell, he replied, "As you command, Your Highness. I will ride to their village and wipe them out right now."
Dior's pace was swift, his voice sharp as a blade. "Don't spare their wives or children. Erase them from existence. No one must know they ever lived."
Killan didn't falter. Without a flicker of doubt or hesitation, he simply nodded with utmost obedience.
As they walked out from the suffocating dungeon, the midnight wind greeted them. It cooled Dior's burning rage, if only slightly.
After a long sigh, he finally spoke—his voice lower, troubled.
"Killan, I'm counting on you. If word gets out… the whole kingdom will be in flames. No one must ever know that my mother was behind this."
Killan remained silent for a moment. Then, with a quiet face, he passed Dior a handkerchief.
"Your words are my command, Your Highness. I will ensure no one finds out."
Dior's expression flickered with conflict. A hint of guilt.
Blood still dripped from his hand. Staring at the starlit sky, he let out another deep sigh.
Killan stepped forward, carefully wiping the blood from Dior's fingers, avoiding skin contact.
Dior murmured, still gazing at the sky.
"Why does she always cause trouble for me? If only I could get rid of her… my life would be so much easier."
Killan glanced at him, studying his face—handsome, yet lined with exhaustion. Vulnerable. Helpless. Desperately lonely.
'That same look…'
He had seen it before. On Princess Aralia's face.
A bitter thought crept into his mind.
Are all royals this lonely? Are they all hiding despair behind their golden façade of perfection?
He felt pity for Dior.
Unconsciously, his grip tightened around Dior's wrist. His voice was resolute as he asked, still holding his hand, "Tell me what I must do, Your Highness. I will obey your every command."