I forced my eyes open. One worked. The other was swollen shut, crusted with blood that had dried while I was out. While whatever had happened happened and left me here.
Darkness pressed in from all sides. Not complete. Flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in sickly green. Made shadows dance and twist like living things with teeth.
The Strongroom.
That's what the sign had said on the wall. Before Marcel had knocked me unconscious. Before everything went dark and I woke up in chains like an animal waiting for slaughter.
Cold industrial space. High ceiling disappearing into shadow. Rusted chains hanging like dead vines from anchor points older than the monarchy. Water dripping from pipes that probably hadn't been touched since the war. Stone walls thick enough to swallow screams.
And me. Hanging like meat in a freezer. Shirtless. Barefoot. Blood painting patterns down my chest and arms that looked almost artistic in the bad light.
I tried to move. Failed. The chains held firm. Anchor bolts driven into stone older than the monarchy itself, into foundations that had survived revolutions and bombings and centuries of London trying to tear itself apart.
Appropriate. Poetic, even.
The prince bound in his mother's emergency vault. Tortured in a place meant to save him.
Marcel would appreciate the irony.
“Ah. You're awake.”
His voice slithered through darkness. Cultured. Calm. Like we were having tea instead of this. Like this was just another state function and I was late arriving.
I turned my head. Sent lightning through my neck. Saw him standing by a table I hadn't noticed. Metal. Surgical. Covered with tools that caught light like promises of worse things coming.
“You're tougher than your mother,” he continued, moving closer. Blade glinting in his hand. Small. Surgical. Meant for precision, not mercy. “She screamed sooner.”
The words hit like fists. But I swallowed the rage. Forced my voice to work through a throat that felt like I'd swallowed broken glass.
“You talk too much.”
Blood bubbled between my lips. I spat. Watched it hit the floor. Dark. Too dark. The kind of dark that meant internal bleeding, organ damage, things that would kill me slow if someone didn't find me soon.
How long had I been bleeding?
Marcel circled me. Lecturer in a museum. Professor examining aspecimen he'd created himself. The knife traced patterns in the air. Never touching. Not yet. Building anticipation like this was foreplay.
“All I ever wanted was the crown,” he said. Voice soft. Almost wistful. Like he was confessing something beautiful instead of monstrous. “And your father, your sainted father, was too weak to see what needed to be done.”
“You murdered her.” The words scraped. Raw. Each one costing me. “You murdered a Queen.”
He stopped in front of me. Eye level. Close enough I could smell his cologne. Expensive. The kind that costs more than most people make in a month. The kind that probably smelled the same eighteen years ago when he'd ordered my mother killed.
“No.” His smile was gentle. Patient. Like he was explaining mathematics to a child. “I killed sentiment. I killed hesitation. I did what had to be done so the kingdom could survive.”
Then he drove the knife into my side.
Shallow. Precise. Cruel.
The scream ripped out before I could stop it. High. Broken. Echoing off stone walls that had heard screams before. That would hear them again. That were built to swallow sound and give nothing back.
“And look how strong it made you,” Marcel whispered, pulling the blade free. Blood followed. Hot. Wet. Too much. “Look what you became because I took her from you.”
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pain filled everything. White. Blinding. Absolute. The kind of pain that made you forget your name, your purpose, everything except the single burning need to make it stop.
“Eighteen years,” he continued. Still calm. Still conversational. Like he was discussing the weather instead of carving me apart. “Eighteen years you've been hunting. Building yourself into a weapon. All because of me.”
He wiped the blade on my skin. Cleaned my own blood off with my own flesh. The intimacy of it made my stomach heave.
