Chapter 3: The First Move
The faint glow of a lantern flickered at the end of the dungeon corridor, casting long, distorted shadows. I sat against the cold wall, my chains rattling with each shift of my weight. My mind, however, was far from still.
Three days wasn't much time to prove my innocence, but it wasn't nothing either. A genius knows that victory isn't about having all the time or resources—it's about using what you have better than anyone else. And what I had right now was the attention of the Crown Prince and, likely, the suspicion of anyone who had something to hide.
Step one: create leverage.
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The opportunity came sooner than I expected.
The iron bars of my cell screeched as they slid open, the sound grating against my nerves. A guard entered, a large man with a face as hard as the stone walls around us. He was holding a tray with a hunk of bread and a small cup of water.
"Your breakfast," he grunted, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.
I didn't touch it. Instead, I studied him.
His uniform was standard for a palace guard—well-kept, though the insignia on his chestplate had a faint scratch, as if it had been struck in combat recently. His gait was confident, but there was a slight stiffness in his left leg. An injury, perhaps? One that hadn't healed properly.
More importantly, he seemed irritated. Not at me specifically, but in general.
"Rough morning?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.
The guard frowned. "You're not here to talk. Eat your damn food."
"Sure, sure," I said, holding up my hands as much as the chains would allow. "But, you know, you look like a guy who's had his share of bad days. Maybe I can help."
His frown deepened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Time to gamble.
"I've been stuck in this cell for hours with nothing to do but think," I said, leaning forward slightly. "And one thing I've been thinking about is why someone like you would be assigned to guard a high-profile prisoner. Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't strike me as the kind of guy the palace would normally trust with something this important."
The guard stiffened. Bingo.
"I'm just saying," I continued, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "it must've been frustrating to get stuck with this job. And if I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with that scratch on your chestplate. Maybe you upset someone higher up? Stepped on the wrong toes?"
He glared at me, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—unease, perhaps.
"Shut up," he said. "You don't know anything about me."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe not. But I do know this: you're not the first person to get punished for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And if that's what's happening to you... well, let's just say I'm good at making problems disappear. If you're willing to listen."
He hesitated. For a moment, I thought he might leave without another word. But then he knelt down, his expression a mix of anger and curiosity.
"What are you playing at, Erenhart?" he asked.
"I'm not playing at anything," I said. "I'm offering you a deal. Help me, and I'll help you."
The guard snorted. "Help you escape so you can get me executed for treason? No thanks."
"Not escape," I said quickly. "Not yet, anyway. I just need information. A list of who's visited the dungeons in the last twenty-four hours. In return, I can give you something that might improve your standing with whoever you've pissed off."
He eyed me suspiciously. "And what's that?"
"Leverage," I said simply.
The guard didn't respond immediately, but I could see the gears turning in his mind. He didn't trust me—of course he didn't. But he also had nothing to lose by hearing me out.
"I'll think about it," he said finally, standing up and turning toward the door.
"That's all I ask," I said.
---
Hours passed after that exchange, but I wasn't idle. The dungeon was silent, save for the occasional drip of water or distant footsteps. In that silence, I reviewed everything I knew about the game's political landscape.
The Valcrest family was key. As the most powerful noble house, their influence was second only to the royal family's. Aria's death would have thrown them into disarray, especially since Damien Valcrest was known for his hot-headed, emotional nature.
If I could reach Damien, I might be able to redirect his anger away from me and toward whoever was really responsible for Aria's death. But that would require evidence—something tangible to prove my innocence.
On the other hand, Prince Alaric was more logical and far less trusting. He'd need a reason to believe that sparing me was in his best interest. And for that, I'd need to demonstrate my value.
Two targets, two different strategies.
---
That night, the guard returned.
"I checked the visitor log," he said, his voice low. "No one unusual came down here since you were brought in. Just the usual rounds."
I frowned. That didn't line up with what I'd expected. If someone was framing me, they'd need to ensure I stayed in the dungeon until my execution. Which meant they'd have to monitor me—or interfere if I made any progress.
"Who's in charge of the rounds?" I asked.
"Captain Harlow," the guard said.
Captain Harlow. I remembered him from the game—an ambitious knight with a reputation for bending the rules if it suited him. He wasn't corrupt, exactly, but he wasn't above taking bribes or favors from the nobility.
"Good," I said. "Now here's what I need you to do..."
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By the time the guard left, I had the beginnings of a plan. It wasn't perfect, and it relied on several risky assumptions, but it was a start.
The next move would be to draw someone important into the dungeon—someone I could manipulate into giving me the resources I needed.
The bait was set.
All I needed now was for someone to take it.
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