Vincent was dragged down to the underground dungeon, his body flailing helplessly as he was thrown inside. He stumbled, his head hitting the cold, damp ground with a sickening thud, and he yelped in pain.
The guards, their faces twisted in disdain, regarded him as a genuine traitor, their eyes devoid of empathy despite him being royalty and their crown prince. Without a word, they locked the dungeon door, leaving Vincent alone in the darkness.
The dungeon was a bleak, eerie space, the only source of light a small, rectangular window high above, blocked by iron bars and set into the thick mortar brick wall. Despite this meager illumination, the darkness still seemed almost palpable, as if there was no light at all.
Vincent's forehead, where it had struck the ground, was bleeding profusely, but he couldn't muster the strength to rise or even lift his hands to stem the flow of blood.
