The heavy iron dungeon door roared open, and the flickering lights of the candles from the stonewalled hallway shyly danced into the pitch dark dungeon room.
Illuminated by the flickering light was Elian, pale, dirty, and smelling like a week's rotten fish.
"Get up, boy. The Duke demands your presence," the tall guard growled.
Elian didn't move. He couldn't. The only thing he could do was to shut his eyes tightly as even the gentlest of lights now looked blaring from three months of cold and darkness, and the voice of the tall guard echoed so loud in his ears he thought his head was about to implode.
The only time he heard any sounds was when the guards marched along the hallway, slipping in the stale cold food through the thin space under the door.
Now, everything was too much to face.
"Do you not hear me, boy? Get up!" The tall guard roared, marched into the dungeon cell and hauled Elian up from the collar of his worn white shirt... which was now a very dirty brown.
Elian groaned as the collar choked him around the throat and threatening to seize the only thing he still took freely: air.
The tall guard did not care about the choking sounds from Elian, he harshly dragged Elian across the rough, cold floor and slammed him against the wall in the hallway.
"Ugh!" Elian grunted, shutting his eyes as the world seemed to go in loops from the impact of that hit.
"You should have been burned with your wretched father. Now, move!" The tall guard barked and shoved Elian forward.
Elian's weak limb was of no use, he tumbled and fell hard, feeling an instant sting at the side of his forehead as it collided with the floor; blood soon trickled down his face, running over his eyes and obscuring his already blurry vision.
He gritted his teeth, rage threatening to blind him.
'You should have been burned with your wretched father,' the words echoed in his swirling mind, fuelling his need for revenge.
He lifted his head, bracing his hands on the floor as he forced himself up with his trembling hands.
This was good. Coming out of the dungeon was good.
If he wanted his revenge, he needed to survive, and to survive, he needed to be strong, and the strength that was unmatched and unexpected was the strength of a wallflower.
He was going to be just that: a wallflower.
The Duke of Valenford was no small man, if he was going against him, he needed to be strong, if not in strength, then in mind.
With a dry, throaty groan, he lifted himself off the floor and up on his shaky feet.
"Forward," the tall guard ordered, not giving Elian a chance to really find his footing.
No words. He moved.
Elian refused to see any of them see him break. They might have broken his body, but they would never break his will. Never.
As he approached the tall, guarded, heavy exit doors of the dungeon, his throat stung from a suppressed cry as he held himself back from launching himself at one of the guards.
A skirmish would do him no good with the condition, and it would be foolish of him to start a petty fight when he had a better fight ahead.
With clenched hands and gritted teeth, he walked past the tightly locked dungeon door on his left. In there held his aged mother, locked up alongside him on the day they had watched his innocent father burned to death.
'Don't worry, Mother. I shall avenge father,' he promised with rage boiling within.
The guard at the door unlocked the heavy iron doors as they saw the tall guard walking toward them with Elian.
As Elian stepped out of the door, he felt something slimy stuck with force behind his leg. One of the guards had spat on him.
"Rot with your father's corpse, traitor," the guard cursed, eliciting a mocking laughter from the other guards.
Elian didn't pause, he didn't have to.
He knew all this was a distraction from his main purpose: his revenge on the Duke.
He simply lifted his leg just enough to wipe the spit from the back of his torn trousers, his expression unchanged.
Ahead were stairs that led to guard quarters, he was getting closer to his enemy.
"Faster!" The tall guard shoved Elian up the stairs, "Do not keep his grace waiting." He bit out.
Elian balled his fists, that blinding rage threatening to fold him in half.
He moved with purpose now, ignoring his protesting bones and muscles. Sweat broke out from his skin, his dirty brown hair sticking to his forehead as he huffed his way up the remaining stairs.
Soon, they walked through the guards' quarters and out into the large, circular hall.
This was the grand hall where the Duke would host whatever ceremony he wanted.
Elian had never been there before. For a moment, he was blinded by the moonlight streaming in through the tall cathedral windows around the hall. The candle chandeliers hanging along the towering walls cast soft golden light across the polished black marble floors.
"Left," the tall guard commanded.
Elian felt the tall guard's hand moving to grab him and subtly moved his hand away, walking faster to the left hallway.
Heavy candles hung from the smooth walls the air suddenly started to smell of old books and expensive oil.
"Stop," the tall guard gripped Elian's shoulder as they reached a heavy oak door.
"His grace will see you now," the tall guard said and quietly pushed the door open, stepping away the moment the light from the room seeped through the ajar door.
Elian drew a shaky breath in, his hands trembling with anger as he slowly moved.
This was it, he was finally meeting the royal murderer. The one he was going to kill in the end.
He raised his hand and pushed the door in, with determination coursing through his veins, and he stepped inside the room.
The moment he walked in, he was swallowed by the scent of aged books and ink. In the air was that hint of expensive leather and faint cologne, a mixture both sharp and intoxicating, the kind that spoke of wealth, control, and quiet danger.
The study was adequate in size, and the table sat close to the window. Through a hurricane shade, a candle burned gently, illuminating the abandoned writing quill that was half-laid on a paper, the moonlight subtly filtering in through the clear glass window panes.
But no one was there.
The Duke was nowhere to be found.
Elian's pulse was racing. He was scared.
He felt a foreboding in the quiet study.
Has he been lured to be killed?
"Closer, Young Morel," A deep, low voice called smoothly from the corner.
Elain's heart almost stopped beating, his limbs trembling from the unexpected voice.
There, in a darker corner he had failed to notice stood the Duke of Valenford, Lucien Valemount.
Lucien stood in his study, midnight-blue doublet perfectly fitted, both hands gloved in fine leather. Candlelight gleamed off the subtle silver embroidery and polished boots. A dark velvet-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, completing the commanding presence of a man who made even the boldest servant hesitate.
Elian gulped, his hands fisting beside him, his first instinct was run over to Lucien and ram his head into the wall.
But that would be early treason.
"Your grace," he murmured with a hoarse, dry throat, bowing his head.
He hadn't seen the Duke's face clearly, and honestly, he didn't want to.
He wished he could just kill the Duke there and then and make a run for it with his mother, but he knew there were guards around these walls, and he would never make it to the dungeons to collect his mother.
His wallflower method was about to be put to good use.
"Closer, Young Morel," Lucien called smoothly.
His voice was smoother than silk, more dangerous than deep waters.
Elian gulped and slowly lifted his tired legs.
The reluctance was clear in his stance.
He walked past the mahogany desk and took two steps into the shadowed part of the study.
"Your grace," Elian murmured, head still bowed.
The faint warmth of sandalwood and smoke suddenly surrounded Elian as he heard the slow footsteps approach him.
It was unsettling in the best way.
"What can you do?" Lucien asked, stopping a foot's space away from Elian.
The Duke's gaze dragged over him, lingering too long. His jaw tightened — as if defiance offended him.
Especially not from someone whom he could command his death faster than the blink of an eye.
Elain shifted his weight between his tired legs, his fingers digging into his palms as he sensed the undeserving look from the Duke.
"I... I do not understand, your grace," Elain answered, voice lowered to show submission... false submission.
He swallowed the gasp that threatened to escape his lips as he suddenly felt those long, strong, gloved fingers under his chin, tilting his face upward.
"One last time, young Morel. Why did he do it?" Lucien's voice was lowered to a dangerously timbre as he stared into Elian's defiant eyes.
His forest green eyes collided with ocean blue eyes, and as they stood in the dimly-lit study.
In the silence between them, something shifted — not mercy, not forgiveness.
Something far more dangerous.