"Your dinner, Your Highness," and with a laugh, the young overseer closed the dungeon door.
Khaal was again left alone with the darkness. His new abode had become a cramped stone sack. The local cells were designed so that an adult could neither lie down nor stand with a straight back. So it could be said that Khaal was lucky—thanks to a child's height, he fit in here quite "comfortably."
During the month spent here, he had already understood: in the neural network's database, there was no information on how to heal the damage done to him. Primus had destroyed the basis of his development.
The damn commander had burned all the meridians in his body and destroyed all the node-points. The prince—though what kind of prince was he now—Khaal could still feel the energy in the air, but couldn't use it.
And besides this...
Khaal, knocking with wooden stumps that now replaced his legs, crawled to the bucket of dirty water. Nearby lay a moldy loaf of bread.
Through a small grated opening at the very ceiling, a ray of light broke through.
Khaal raised himself above the bucket and looked at the reflection.
Before, he thought he was lucky with genetics and parents. He was growing into a handsome, stately young man. But now...
Looking back at him was a face covered with scabs and sores. His right eyelid was swollen and almost completely closed his eye. His head was almost bald, and his trembling hands smelled of something rotten and musky.
Khaal greedily drank almost half the bucket—he hadn't been fed for almost three days. So the bread too was devoured, despite its smell or taste.
Leaning his back against the cold masonry, Khaal looked toward the grate. In the ray of light, shiny dust particles swirled.
The wind was blowing.
Now it no longer called him anywhere...
"Duke Velen, Count Vaslia, Primus, Governor, Viscount..."
Somewhere out there, in the world, trumpeters were blowing brass, hymns were being sung, alarm bells were ringing—the coronation of Lidus's new ruler was in full swing. But there were no enthusiastic exclamations from the people.
"Duke Velen, Count Vaslia, Primus, Governor, Viscount..."
Probably, in small settlements and villages, and even in not very large cities, on this day there were funeral processions. The people mourned the dead king and queen and cast angry glances toward the capital.
"Duke Velen, Count Vaslia, Primus, Governor, Viscount..."
But none of them dared to take up arms and raise a rebellion. There were no such fools who would despise the imperial soldiers marching on the country's roads. Their power was far beyond the imagination of simple villagers.
For them, even practitioners of Bodily Rivers were already great heroes. What can be said about the imperials.
"Duke Velen, Count Vaslia, Primus, Governor, Viscount..."
And yet hope was warm in hearts.
There were rumors.
Few believed them, but still in the quiet of night, in the darkness, hiding from foreign eyes and ears, people told a fairy tale. A fairy tale about a prince named Khaal. They said that with a sword strike, the prince killed ten warriors. That he wounded Primus himself and the Governor and escaped from the palace.
"Duke Velen, Count Vaslia, Primus, Governor, Viscount..."
They said that somewhere in the distant mountains, the prince was training—conquering the most cruel and fierce beasts. That he lived in seclusion, gaining strength that would make mountains tremble and the sky itself weep.
People wanted to believe that under the already beginning oppression of Primus and the empire, they would not suffer for more than nine springs. For that's how long Prince Khaal had left until he was sixteen. The age when he could make legitimate claims to the throne.
Peasants and merchants, warriors and craftsmen, scholars and ordinary townspeople believed that the hour would come—the bell would ring in the destroyed royal castle. And when this sound flew over all the fields and forests of the kingdom, an army would gather and overthrow Primus.
They wanted to believe in this made-up fairy tale. Wanted it more than anything in the world.
But no one knew that the prince had not seen the sky for a month. For a month, he had not breathed fresh air.
That he would no longer fight either beasts or people.
They did not know that the prince's legs had been severed below the knee. They did not know that Khaal had been deprived of all opportunities and strength for development.
But even now, sitting in the dungeon as a disfigured cripple, he had no thought of giving up.
Even if it took ten years—he would find a way to get out of here.
Even if he had to sell his soul to the devil—he would get medicine.
And even if he had to cut the throat of every imperial warrior and every traitor in the kingdom—he would bring peace and justice to his family.
At this moment, his blue eyes burned with the same unbending, almost tangible light.
And that's why Khaal mumbled to himself:
"Duke Velen, Count Vaslia, Primus, Governor, Viscount..."
He repeated dozens of names of traitors and all those whom his vengeance would one day reach—of this he had no doubt. And even if the sky itself stood in his way—he would go to war against it too.
His name was Khaal. They could take away his home. Take away his power. Destroy his sword. Cut off his legs. But no one would ever break his will and his determination.
And on this very day, in a cave hidden by a waterfall forgotten by people, an ancient dragon awoke. Chained, deprived of the ability to move, he suddenly felt something approaching him from the west.
Something guided by fate and doom.
The dragon thought he was hallucinating, that it was just the remnants of his thousand-year dream. Such had happened to him ten, twenty, fifty thousand years ago. But over the countless centuries that he was locked in this dungeon, no one ever came to him.
No one would come this time either.
And only in the reflection of falling water did he for a moment see two fierce blue eyes.
==
"And how much do you want for him?"
Khaal woke up not from the voice he heard, but because this voice was new to him. For the past year, he had heard only the guard's mockery. He brought him moldy bread and a bucket of stale water.
Once a month, when it stank so much that it was unpleasant even for him—a chamber pot as well. Then he generously bestowed painful kicks and pokes on Khaal.
It wasn't befitting for a soldier to carry out excrement for the "not-quite-prince." That's what he called him.
"Five gold."
"Five gold?! You must be crazy, Lithium."
Khaal's overseer really had a funny name—Lithium. But, alas, no one except the prisoner himself could appreciate the humor. In this world, there was no periodic table of elements. And if there was, it would surely contain some others.
"Listen, I've only known you since yesterday evening."
"You bought a ticket to our freak show yourself, no one forced you."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"It has to do with the fact that if you hadn't insulted the owner, no one would have put you in such an awkward position."
Freak show? Anyone else in Khaal's place would have been frightened by this, but he only smelled the scent of freedom.
"I owe the owner two gold coins for the broken tent." It seems the soldier had gotten drunk and caused trouble.
He had lately been drinking a lot and complaining to Khaal about life. Said his wife had left him and gone to a stronger practitioner. That one had broken through to the formation level and managed to achieve a high rank in King Primus's army.
In principle, Khaal was only glad for his tormentor's misfortune.
"So look—you give me five coins, I give two to your boss, and he pays you a bonus for bringing in a freak. And it will surely be more than five gold. We both profit!"
Someone was fidgeting behind the door, shifting heavily from foot to foot.
"This smells of fraud. And you know the new laws—they'll cut off my hand for this, and your head."
"No one will notice this freak's disappearance. No one except me has come here for a year."
"Who is he, anyway?"
Khaal just pursed his lips. So now he was worth five gold coins. Before, just his right shoe was worth a hundred times more. But he didn't care about that, the main thing was to get out of here.
"The son of a disgraced petty nobleman," the soldier lied easily. How brazen had he become to sell the prince? "He's long since kicked the bucket, and everyone's forgotten about this one."
Or he was just very stupid.
"Five coins, you say?"
"Five."
The stranger fidgeted a bit more.
"Let me see the goods first."
"By all means," the soldier agreed easily. "Just try not to breathe. The smell there is something else."
Echoes of footsteps spread down the corridor, a key turned in the heavy lock, and Khaal squinted from the bright light. Before, the soldier always entered without a torch, but now he had brought two oil lamps.
For Khaal, who had spent a year in darkness, it was like having two noon suns rolled into the dungeon.
"What a stench," frowned a tall, thin man in a patched doublet.
He looked rather inconspicuous, and the scars on his face and burns on his arms hinted at a turbulent youth.
"Demons," he exhaled, bringing the lamp to Khaal's face. The prince almost howled in pain. "You didn't lie, Lithium. He's quite the freak. The crowd will be delighted."
The soldier just snorted.
"Do we have a deal?" he asked.
The stranger fidgeted a bit and slapped the outstretched palm.
"Deal. Five gold."
"Good. Just wait."
The soldier went out the door and returned with a heavy black cover.
"Here, we'll cover him," he said, throwing it over Khaal's shoulders. "He stinks so badly that all the guards will come running. And he hasn't seen light for a long time. Or do you need a blind freak?"
"No, we have enough blind ones. The owner will find another use for this one."
Khaal was raised to his "feet," and staggering, he trudged toward the exit. Each of his steps made a metallic sound and responded with fiery pain in his thighs. But Khaal endured. He just silently mumbled names to himself, adding another one—Lithium.
So, after a year, he left not only the dungeon but also the palace and the capital, leaving behind the place that had become his home.
He rode in a cart, listening to his new "overseer." They were hurrying to join the traveling freak show where he had been sold.
Khaal hardly listened to the boasting man. He just checked the strength of the collar with the magical slave seal and watched the receding lights of the city.
Surprisingly, this was the first time he had ventured into the "big world." Before, he had imagined the beginning of his adventures quite differently.
What awaited him now?
Slavery and the fate of being amusement for townspeople?
Khaal just smiled predatorily.