The steady *plink… plink… plink* of water droplets echoed through the gloom, each one striking the empty iron bowl like a hammer on an anvil. The relentless rhythm dragged Yiva from the depths of unconsciousness.
She blinked slowly, her head heavy and throbbing. The room was bare stone, lit only by a single flickering candle on a cluttered desk strewn with books and parchment. Water seeped from the cracked ceiling, feeding the maddening sound that had woken her.
"Where… am I?" Yiva whispered, her voice raw and weak.
She tried to stand, but cold iron bit into her wrists. Thick, unforgiving chains anchored her to the wall.
"What—?"
She yanked hard, straining until her muscles burned and her breath came in ragged gasps. Finally, exhaustion won. She slumped back against the stone, heart pounding.
"I don't remember what happened," she murmured. "I have to think…"
Her gaze darted around the dim chamber. It didn't look like a proper dungeon cell — more like a forgotten storeroom or private chamber. A flicker of hope rose.
"Maybe there's a key somewhere. This isn't a real prison. They must keep one close."
Her eyes locked on the desk. She stretched her body as far as the chains allowed, keeping her torso low so her wrists remained only inches from the anchor point. Her legs extended desperately, toes straining.
After several agonizing attempts, her foot brushed something. Relief flashed across her face.
She kicked harder. The object clattered to the floor with a metallic ring. Pens scattered. An ink bottle shattered, black liquid pooling across the stones.
Her brief spark of triumph died the instant the heavy wooden door creaked open.
"Good evening," came a soft, cultured voice that slithered through the room like silk over a blade.
Dorian stepped inside, his silhouette framed by faint torchlight from the corridor.
"Who are you?" Yiva demanded, voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. "What do you want with me?"
"I'm not going to hurt you, my lady," Dorian replied smoothly, closing the door behind him. "I'm not the sort who takes pleasure in harming young women."
"Then what *do* you want?" Desperation edged her words. "My father is a wealthy man. He's probably searching for me right now. Let me go, and I promise you'll be well rewarded."
Dorian's lips curved into a faint smile. "Sweyn Forkbeard, you mean?"
Yiva's eyes widened in disbelief.
"I know a great deal about you, Princess Yiva Forkbeard," he continued, stepping closer with deliberate calm. "You were taken by the Drought and his devilish companion, were you not?"
"Stay back!" she snapped.
Dorian chuckled lightly. "Relax. I'm merely taking a seat." He pulled out the chair at the desk and lowered himself into it, facing her. "Be grateful you're still breathing. You'll remain alive… for now. At least until you're no longer useful to us."
He picked up a fresh quill, dipped it in what remained of the ink, and began writing as though she were nothing more than furniture.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Yiva's desperation boiled over.
"If you return me to my father, I'll speak well of you," she begged. "You'll be richly rewarded — I swear it."
"Rewarded?" Dorian didn't look up from his page. "There is nothing your father could give me that would quench my undying thirst."
*Somebody help me,* Yiva thought, panic rising. *I can't do this alone. I'm useless—*
The thought fractured as a memory surged unbidden.
"You're not useless," Dot had said firmly, turning his face slightly away. "You've proven that so many times. You're one of the strongest people I know."
The memory faded, but it left steel in Yiva's spine. Determination hardened her features.
She surged to her feet, chains rattling violently.
"Hey! Freak!" she shouted, stomping her feet so the iron links clashed loudly. "You think locking me up in your chambers will give you what you want? Too bad!"
She sneered, voice dripping with contempt. "Go hire a whore if you need satisfaction, you perverted freak!"
The words struck home. Dorian's quill scratched wrong, spilling fresh ink across the parchment. His face darkened. In an instant, he was on his feet, crossing the room in two strides. His hand shot out, closing around her throat.
"I've had enough of you scoundrels," he snarled, squeezing until stars burst behind Yiva's eyes. "Idiots claiming thrones when they can't even shave themselves properly. Fools abandoning their castles while others tend to their bedding."
Yiva kicked wildly, nails clawing at his wrist, but his grip only tightened.
"What did you say?" he hissed as she gasped and coughed.
"Keep that loud mouth shut," Dorian growled, "or I'll shut it for you permanently."
He released her abruptly. Yiva collapsed against the wall, coughing and gasping for air as he returned calmly to his desk.
Somewhere in Thornhold
Dot walked in silence, dressed in the borrowed uniform of the Kingsguard. Sylric strode beside him, both following the guard named Richard.
"Hey, Dot. Keep up," Sylric muttered, glancing back.
Dot straightened his expression and matched their pace.
Earlier – Throne Room
"What?" Dot had said, staring at Astrid in disbelief. "You told me you were Boldr's daughter."
Astrid kept her gaze fixed on the floor.
"My sister behaves like a nutjob sometimes," Ivar cut in with a laugh, giving her a firm smack on the back. "I don't know why she claims to be the beast's daughter out of admiration. Eh, sister?"
He grinned. "She pretends not to know me, and it breaks my heart."
"Astrid," Dot pressed, ignoring the mockery, "where's Yiva?"
Astrid opened her mouth, but Ivar's stern glare from behind her made her freeze.
"I… I don't know," she whispered.
"That's not right," Dot growled, stepping forward.
Instantly, knights drew their weapons. Richard moved swiftly between them.
"Let's go," the Kingsguard said firmly, guiding Dot away.
"Richard of the kingsgaurd was it?, happy doing Boldr's bidding, are you?" Ivar called after them. "When I become king, you'll wish you'd never defied me like this."
Sylric dragged Dot out as Richard followed.
Inside the throne room, the heavy doors thudded shut. Astrid barely had time to draw breath before Ivar's hand cracked across her face. His sharp rings split her skin.
"Brat," he spat.
She crumpled to the floor as the last of the light from the corridor vanished.
Present – Thornhold Streets
"Hey! Hey! Twenty percent off!" a desperate merchant called from his half-ruined stall, trying to lure customers through the crowded streets.
Garon moved through the throng with purpose, navigating the unfamiliar sprawl of the great kingdom. He paused briefly to press a few coins into the hand of a young beggar girl. She beamed up at him.
"Thank you, mister!" she cried, then darted back to her mother.
Garon continued until he reached a modest tavern. Only four patrons lingered inside.
"Ale," he said, voice low and stern.
The owner slid a mug across the counter. Garon drained it in one long pull.
Shouts erupted from the street outside — angry voices rising about a demon.
His eyes sharpened. He slammed the empty mug down and rushed out.
"Hey! You haven't paid!" the bartender yelled.
Garon tossed a coin over his shoulder without breaking stride. The man caught it cleanly.
Outside, a furious crowd had gathered, but Kingsguard knights held them back. Dot, Sylric, and Richard walked in formation toward the Kingsguard tower.
Garon pushed to the front. "What's all the ruckus about?"
A man jabbed a finger toward the procession. "That's the son of the devil who burned our stalls!"
Garon's gaze locked on Dot. Recognition hit like a thunderclap.
Flashback
"You've disrespected my father the king. Father, let's have his head—and his son over there."Garon said
Dot's voice had cut through the air, cold as winter steel. "We're not related."
Back in the present, Garon's jaw tightened. His hand clenched into a fist.
"It's him," he muttered.
Dot continued walking in grim silence toward the Kingsguard tower. The townsfolk hurled garbage, insults, and spit. He didn't flinch. He simply kept his eyes down and pressed forward.
Sylric glanced back, pity flickering across his face. *Poor kid.*
Without warning, a barrel lid sailed through the air and smashed into Dot's face, splintering on impact.
Dot spun — only to hear the deadly whistle of a blade cutting the air. He dodged at the last instant. The sword sheared off a lock of his hair; the wind of its passage kicked up dust that swirled around them.
The blade came again, fast and relentless. Dot twisted and weaved, but the edge still caught his arm, drawing a hot line of blood.
Panting, he planted his feet. "Who are you? Come out!"
The dust settled. Dot found himself staring into a pair of cold, menacing eyes.
Garon stood before him, Skógrimr gripped firmly in one hand, the other free. His hood shadowed most of his face, but the visible portion was hard and unsmiling — every inch the dangerous warrior.
In a voice like grinding ice, Garon spoke:
"Where's my sister?"
Dot blinked. "Sister? Wha— It's you."
Recognition dawned fully on his face.
To be continued..