The snow fell all night.
I stood still before the frosted window, eyes on the dim veil cloaking the earth in white. In my hand, I held the single rusted key—old, chipped at the edges, its ridges jagged with time.
He had thrown it to the ground at my feet like a piece of scrap, that bastard servant with mud in his mouth and pride on his shoulder.
I hadn't picked it up right away. I let it sit there while my knuckles turned pale, my sword humming against my hip as though urging me to act. The man had a bundle—seven keys, I counted.
But he threw just one. And I knew what it was: the key to the door that kept him locked down there like some beast.
How dare he mock my sword. My name.
I clenched the key now, feeling its sharpness bite into my palm. My reflection in the window was pale—half-shadowed and unreadable, just as I intended.
Dawn broke slowly, coating the stone manor in snow and silence. I dressed myself as I always did—no gowns, no glitter, just the black-silver suit tailored for a blade-bearer.
A countess now, yes, but nobility meant little if your sword wasn't sharp and your spine wasn't steel.
Zoe and Jade followed, quiet as always, two shadows behind my steps.
The dining hall was cold but orderly. The Duke sat already, as punctual as the ticking silence between us. The moment I stepped in, the servants hurried, setting out silver dishes and warm breads. I sat across from him.
He looked at me—eyes narrowed, reading. "You look vexed. Has something troubled your rest?"
I met his stare and watched his flinch, even if brief. He waved his hand, dismissing all the servants, until only he and I remained in the snow-dimmed hall.
His voice dropped low. "Did you visit him yesterday?"
I gave a slow nod. "Yes." I straightened my spine, restraining the burn still lodged in my chest. "He's being treated like a hound. If that."
The Duke leaned back slightly. There was no sympathy in his eyes. "You seem surprised."
The Duke sighed deeply and leaned back into his chair.
"He should not be allowed such air," he muttered bitterly. "He is no longer of this kingdom—he is a ghost in its dungeons."
"But a ghost commanded to breathe again, by the very voice you serve," I replied coolly, sipping my now-cooling tea. "So long as Crown Prince Darmire's seal binds us, I shall see this through."
Roxail—His Highness, abandoned though he may be—wasn't someone I admired. I rivaled him once. Perhaps I still do. But hatred should never be an excuse for mockery. Not in my house.
"The guards insult him. The servants ignore him. And one dared mock me to my face."
The Duke frowned. "They're not trained to show grace to a fallen prince. Most assume he's here to rot. Nothing more."
"Not under my watch," I said. I dropped my fork after barely two bites of bread. "I'm going back down."
"You intend to let him out?"
"He's not a ghost. He's a man," I said. "And I was ordered to raise him back to his feet, not watch him crawl. Darmire entrusted that task to both of us."
The Duke sighed, raking his fingers through greying hair. "I hold command over these lands," he muttered. "But what you do with the cursed prince is… entirely in your hands now."
He rose without another word and left through the side passage toward the manor's office. I leave the dining hall as well.
I turned to Zoe and Jade.
"Prepare a room. Heat the bath. Send for fresh linens and a meal fit for a dying man."
They nodded and vanished like shadows on order.
As I stepped into the corridor leading to the basement, my boots echoing faintly over the stone floor, I paused—because fate enjoys irony. There he was again. The same man from before, the one who guided me last night with courteous silence.
He stopped, bowed respectfully. "My lady."
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Arthur," he replied, lifting his head.
I nodded once. "Bring me the man who attends the prisoner."
He left without question. Loyal, clean, and quiet. I liked him already.
The stairway to the basement greeted me like a descending tomb. I followed the chill, deeper into the dark. Past the hallways, past the silence that grew thicker the farther I walked. When I finally reached the end of it, the iron door stood shut.
Locked, naturally.
Only he had opened it last time—that foul-mouthed mutt. Jake. Of course.
I drew my sword. The blade whispered as it left its sheath. I bent down, slid its edge into the lock. One twist. Then another. Click. The door opened.
I stood, smiled. "How fragile men's gates are," I murmured.
The air grew colder the deeper I went. My boots tapped alone, echoing in a rhythm only silence could hear. Then I saw it—those iron bars.
Behind them sat the same man I saw last night, posture unchanged: one leg sprawled, one bent, one hand resting on his knee, the other draped. Still. Watching.
I raised my ringed hand and tapped the bars with a little smirk. "Knock, knock. Anybody home?"
Chains moved.
"What do you want," came his voice, dry with sleep or sarcasm. Maybe both.
I leaned closer, palms on my knees. "How have you been, my wild beast?"
No response came.
Same as always.
Footsteps approached behind me.
Arthur returned—flanked by two men. I turned and saw him bow.
"To my left," Arthur said, "is the man who cleans this wing. To the right…" he hesitated, "Jake, one who is in-charge of meals."
Jake kept his eyes low, no longer loud. Now silent. A man who realized too late what he'd stepped into.
I smiled. "Ah.."
I pulled my sword again, its blade still wet with old blood. "Arthur, Bind him."
Jake snarled and resisted, but Arthur moved like a soldier trained for worse. In seconds, Jake was forced to his knees, sweating, trembling. He begged.
"My lady, please—mercy— Forgive me."
"Pathetic." I murmured.
With a swift motion, red painted the floor. The head rolled just like the key he had thrown.
I turned to the old cleaner. "Sweep this trash away, if you please."
He nodded quickly, too afraid to speak.
Then I turned back to the cell. "Arthur, the door."
Arthur reached for the keys on Jake's body. But before he could unlock it, I lifted my hand.
"I'll do it."
He bowed, stepped aside, and offered a torch. I stepped in. Roxail didn't raise his face. But I saw his fists tense.
"Your Highness," I said, kneeling. "Raise your head."
He didn't. I touched his wrist instead, found the first chain. Unlocked. Then the other. Then moved to his ankles.
As I worked, I noticed the final shackle—around his neck.
I reached for the last key. Moved to lift his chin.
Still he refused to look. So I turned his face gently, forcing him to see me. Then I lifted the key between us.
"What is this?" I asked.
No answer.
Our eyes met across the jagged piece of metal.
Then—snap.
"Oops," I whispered. "It broke. Now what, my wild beast?"
I drew my sword again. Lifted it to his throat. Slowly dragged it toward the lock on his neck. My voice low and sharp.
"Honestly, I want to rip your head off. Right here. Right now. But where's the thrill in slaying a wounded creature?"
CLANG.
The shackle shattered. A thin line of blood trailed across his throat.
I rose, letting the playful air melt from my face.
"Stand up," I said coldly.
He didn't move.
I didn't repeat.
Arthur stepped in and lifted him gently. Roxail stood—weak, but standing. And when I turned, I saw it. His eyes.
Locked on me. Burning. Alive.
I smirked. Then exited the cell.
We climbed the stairs in silence. My sword dragged behind, scraping the stone floor with a hiss. The light grew stronger. The door opened.
The manor was waiting.
Roxail squinted, the sudden cold air burning his eyes. He faltered slightly. But I kept walking until I reached the center of the hall.
Then, I spoke.
"Gather, All of you!"
Servants halted. Some ran. Some froze. All obeyed.
Footsteps echoed behind me—his, Arthur's, and the trail of blood that marked our path. Above, the Duke stood watching from the stairwell, arms folded. Beside him, the steward clutched the rail.
When all eyes were on me, I raised my voice.
"This man is under my protection," I announced. "He is mine. You will neither mock nor ignore him. Disobey, and I will make you regret it."
Servants froze. Whispers caught in throats. But no one dared question. They bowed, and scattered back to their tasks.
No one dared speak.
No one will.
Just then, Zoe and Jade appeared, curtsying. "The room is prepared, my lady," said Jade.
"The bath is warm," added Zoe. "The meal is ready."
"Good," I said. "Lead the way."
And behind me, His Highness — My wild beast followed.
Not crawling anymore.
But walking.
Barely.
And in my hands, I would decide whether he'll rise or fall.
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