A prison that is more like a grave than a room is actually ideal.
The room is dark. The kind of darkness that devours hope.
It reeks of damp stone, rusted metal, and something far worse—blood. The silence isn't really silence, either. The only sound to break the silence is the faint trickle of water coming from an invisible source.
A small, barred window near the ceiling lets in a weak, dim light that is just enough to show the outline of a figure lying on the chilly, hard ground.
Blood. There is too much blood. As if seeking to break free from the limits of his shattered body, it creeps outward in black, gleaming pools under him.
He doesn't move, save for the jerky rise and fall of their chest, which makes each breath seem like it's being forced out of him.
The sound of boots clicking purposefully on the hardened floor breaks the stench of quiet, resonating like a countdown to disaster.
The body on the floor twitches, the faint light striking the blood-matted eyebrows as the eyelids barely open. His entire body stiffens, as though the sound alone validates his instincts.
This is it.
Either he will be sent to hell or he will be left here to rot, fester, and endure a pain that is worse than death itself.
A few feet distant, the steps come to an end. Except for the slight wheeze of their breath, the room is quiet once more.
A wet, rattling cough is released by the figure on the floor, followed by a gruff whisper. "So... what's it gonna be?" A sardonic grin hardly shows up on his chapped lips. "Hell below or hell above? Or do you want to force me to choose one over the other?" Rage flickers weakly beneath the fatigue. His half-lidded eyes sparkle slightly in the dim light.
The dark-clad figure tilts his head, his figure barely recognizable against the window's lighting. Although he speaks in a calm, controlled tone, there is anguish in his voice. "Begging would be a waste of both our time," he says, stepping closer until his polished shoes come into view. "Hell isn't a place for choices."
He stops and squats down a little to look into the wounded figure's eyes. More vicious than entertained, the tiniest sneer tugs at his lips. "And you... well, you're already there."
It's a feeble, scratchy laugh, mixed with cruel irony, from the person lying on the floor. A stubborn gaze is forced through the pain as he lift his head up somewhat, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. "Maybe," he rasp, "but at least I'll be in hell on my own terms. Can you say the same, or are you just another puppet of someone else's game?"
The man's fist strikes the figure's face without a second's delay, causing a terrible crack that shoots blood into the air. The head is brutally snapped back by the force, leaving the bleeding body on the ground, struggling to breathe.
He snatches the figure by the collar and pulls him up with a furious jerk, not caring if his hands are bloody. The body briefly becomes limp and dangles, unable to fight.
"Still talking, huh?" The anger drips from the man's deep voice. "You think you get to have anything left? After all the shit you've done?" He slams the figure back against the cold stone wall, the impact rattling the person's skull.
Blood drips from the figure's mouth as he breathe in short breaths, but still able to eject a tight laugh. "You're just like the rest of them. All the power in the world, but still nothing to show for it."
The man clenches his fists, pressing at the collar as if they were going to strangle the words. Disgust is inscribed in every line of his twisted face. "You talk too much for someone in your position."
The figure laughs again, weakly this time, a cough of blood following it. "Because it's the last time... you'll hear me talk... so enjoy it."
The man's hand shakes, not from fear, but from the boiling fury inside him. That's it. He's finished. It all adds up, the burden of it all bearing down on him, every insult, every shouted disapproval from the king, every time he's been reduced to nothing in this nasty, sick game of dominance.
The king holds power, and as much as he despises it, he knows there's nothing he can do about it.
But this—this person in front of him, the traitor who helped the enemy kingdom—this is his chance to feel power again.
This scoundrel who has aided the enemy for personal benefit, this criminal, this piece of filth who has no right to share the same air as the devoted? He can stop now.
He raises his arm, ready to strike. Now he has nothing to hold him back. He could put a stop to this. Before he leave, he may make the traitor feel every bit of the pain.
The words, however, struck him like a chilly wind and stop him in his tracks. His ears ring with the traitor's final words.
"You think killing me will change anything?"
Everything stops for a second. Something other than terror is visible in the bloodied eyes.
"Make any changes? Do you believe that this has to do with change?" The man's breath is sharp and hot as he spits out the words. His free hand trembles in the air, itching to strike again. "This is about holding you responsible for every life you helped end and every drop of blood you cost us! Don't you believe you're smart? Betraying us—helping them. Were you promised gold? Strength? Or, you flinching hound, was it only cowardice?"
The traitor's laugh is hollow, cracked, and drenched in bitterness. Blood seeps from the corner of his mouth, yet he smirks as if the pain fuels him. "Oh? Are you suddenly concerned about treachery? That's rich. When your father deceived my family, where was your honorable rage? What? At that time, where were you?"
"Did you cry justice then? When we lost everything, including our names, our lands, and our very existence, did you care?" The traitor spits blood to the side, smirking through the pain. "You can end me now, but it doesn't erase the truth, does it? You are exactly like him. Bloodied-handed hypocrite with a weak pretext for revenge. So go on. Do it. Prove you're just as much of a bastard as the one who made you." The traitor's eyes lock onto the man's with a fierce intensity despite his battered state.
His father. His father, always.
Richard Yivannov. A name that hung over him like a chain of iron. He attempted to put as much distance between himself and that man as he could, but it was impossible. He would never be able to erase the stain left by his father.
He despises the man in front of him. Above him, he despises the king. More than anyone, he despises himself.
The words of the traitor hurt because they are not false. They are bleeding facts he never wanted to confront, a rotten wound ripped open. Before he knows it, he pulls the traitor closer, his teeth bared, as he feels the wrath rise up. The bastard's grin is still there, challenging him to attack in order to confirm his claim.
"Hey, hey, hey… let's not lose our head here," a voice drawls lazily.
The speaker seems to have seen this exact scene several times and finds it more boring than upsetting, as evidenced by the tone of careless indifference.
A dark figure rests easily against the wet stone wall, arms folded, their easy stance oozing with derision. "We understand that you're angry. However, perhaps, just, don't murder him yet."
Although their sharp, angular features make their relationship obvious, the figure appears somewhat younger than the man he is speaking to. Their piercing golden eyes, which are frighteningly similar to the king's, are a clear indication of their roots. It's like staring into two versions of the same face—one young yet very sly, the other hardened with age and rage.
The younger man pushes off the wall with an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through his effortlessly styled hair. He strolls closer, his golden eyes flicking to the traitor on the ground with mild disgust. "Honestly, brother, this is getting tedious. Beating the life out of a dog who's already got one foot in the grave? It's almost embarrassing to watch. Let him rot in his misery—seems punishment enough, don't you think?"
He smirks, tilting his head toward the traitor as if inspecting a piece of ruined furniture. "Besides, if you kill him, who's going to be left to amuse us? It's not every day you find someone stupid enough to betray their kingdom and look this pathetic while doing it."
The traitor glares but doesn't dare speak, and the younger man lets out a low chuckle. "See? Even he knows I'm right. Now, stop playing executioner and let's go. You're starting to look desperate, and it's really ruining the family image."
The words "family image" sting like an old wound. Nothing about their family is worth protecting, no image left to preserve. Their reputation is a patchwork of blood, betrayal, and broken trust. Killing the traitor here, in this miserable prison cell, wouldn't change a damn thing.
But he can't kill him. Not because of a change of heart or some sudden mercy. No, that would be too kind. It's because there are still answers in this man, who is pitiful and bleeding on the ground. He still needs to learn things that could change the course of events and restore his remaining dignity as the crown prince of a failing country.
Or he might be deceiving himself. Maybe this visit has nothing to do with answers. Maybe he needed someone to bear the stress of his failure, which is why he came here. Someone unable to defending themselves. Someone who is weaker than he is at the moment.
At last, his fingers released go of the collar, allowing the traitor to fall back to the ground. He inhales steadily and slowly, but the anger still exists. He murmurs, "You're lucky," in a low, furious voice, but he's not sure if he's saying it to himself or the traitor.