A Steward's POV
The dungeon felt colder than usual tonight, the dry air sharp as it cut through my lungs. My pulse quickened with every muffled groan from the prisoner, chained to the chair in front of me, but it's not out of sympathy. No, he deserves this—and worse—for what he's done.
King Philip stood over him, his face a mask of cold fury. The iron rod in his hand still glows faintly from the heat of the forge, its dull orange light casting a ghastly glow over the blood-smeared floor. This man, this wretch, sold the king's daughter. The princess, Lilith Cardigan. His rage is not just vengeance—it's personal, primal.
