Chapter 90 ‒ The Shackled Ember
Chapter 90 ‒ The Shackled Ember
Nellisa felt every clink of her shackles echo through the frozen corridors as she was dragged down into the castle’s underbelly. Each footstep of the armoured guards behind her slammed against her spine like a hammer. Her eyes, still red from weeping, stared ahead blankly, but in her mind, a single phrase beat louder than her own heartbeat: “Take our revenge… Princess Nellisa…”
The castle above had once smelled of warm hearth fires and blooming gardens. Now it reeked of scorched banners and stale blood. The cold gusts that threaded through the halls bit at her skin, but none of it stung as much as the vision of Glitheon’s shattered form, and the joyful laughter of King Wing echoing across the field.
They shoved her into a narrow stairwell spiralling down into darkness. Moss and frost crept along the walls, and water dripped steadily in some far corner, a rhythmic, torturous drip. Her cuffs scraped her wrists raw as they chained her to an iron post in a cramped cell. The iron was ice-cold, searing her skin like flame.
Hours turned into days. In the complete darkness, time lost all shape. Her body weakened, bones throbbing in their sockets. Yet, in the hushed blackness, she heard echoes — not of voices, but of books she’d once read in her father’s library. Pages rustled in her memory: stories of ancient strategists, fabled rebellions, and hidden resistances.
Food came irregularly. Sometimes it was a moldy crust of bread, other times nothing but a chipped cup of water. But one day, a faint light flickered as a soldier crept down the stairs, holding a bowl of thin soup. He knelt quickly, hands shaking.
“Your Highness… please eat,” he whispered, his eyes darting to the dark corners.
Nellisa flinched. “Why… why are you risking yourself for me?”
The soldier pressed his lips tight. “There are still many of us… loyal to His Highness. We wear King Wing’s colours so we can survive, but we do not forget. We cannot fight him openly… but we can keep you alive.”
Her voice trembled, breaking apart like cracked porcelain. “But… your wages… I heard he cut them down to nothing… You’re already struggling to feed yourselves, and yet… you come here for me?”
The soldier’s fingers curled around the edge of the bowl. “Some of us go days without eating so we can bring you a spoonful of rice or a drop of soup. We sell our last heirlooms, wear the same armour until it rusts through… because we believe in you, Your Highness. We believe… you are our last hope.”
Her hands shook violently as she accepted the bowl. She forced down the thin broth, every swallow like swallowing shards of glass. A new guilt formed inside her, heavier than her chains.
One night, another soldier appeared. His hands were scraped, his armour patched with mismatched scraps of metal. She could hear his stomach growling as he set the food down.
“Please… Your Highness, eat. We can’t lose you…”
She looked up, her hair matted and clinging to her face. “I don’t deserve this… You suffer, starve, sacrifice everything… for someone as weak as me…”
He looked at her, eyes burning with quiet conviction. “We don’t do this because you are strong. We do this so that one day… you will become strong for us.”
Her breath hitched. She clutched the soldier’s sleeve suddenly, her fingers digging into the worn fabric. “Listen to me… Tell the others — I have a plan. I don’t know how yet… but I won’t waste your sacrifices. I will rise… I will end this monster. Tell them that.”
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The soldier’s eyes widened, then softened. He gave a deep, trembling nod. “I will… Princess Nellisa.”
Days turned into weeks. Each visit came from a different soldier — young, old, battle-scarred — all sharing the same haunted eyes and hushed loyalty. The soldiers whispered about what King Wing was doing above: burning Glitheon’s portraits, melting the family crest, purging every trace of the old reign. She imagined her father’s library in flames, the pages of her beloved books curling into blackened feathers.
A new kind of pain grew in her chest — heavier than grief. A molten knot that spread, pulsing in her ribs, burning away her hesitation.
“Take our revenge… Princess Nellisa… Only you can save Shindo.”
She replayed the dying soldier’s words endlessly. She saw his bloodied hand in hers, felt his warmth vanish. In that darkness, her identity slowly shifted. She was no longer the fragile princess clutching her books in a sunlit tower. Here, there was no sun. There was only frost and silence — and her simmering rage.
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One day, high above, muffled shouts and hurried footsteps echoed. She strained to listen.
King Wing had returned from another excursion. In the grand hall, he bellowed, “Why is this castle in such a deplorable state? Where is the gleam? Where is the pride of my domain?!”
The soldiers knelt, their heads bowed low. One braver than the rest stammered, “Your Majesty… the housekeeper and the servants… they were all executed as per your previous orders. There is no one left to clean…”
King Wing’s voice boomed, cruel amusement sharpening every syllable. “So you mean to tell me that in all of Shindo, no one remains who can scrub a floor?”
A second soldier crawled forward, his voice low. “Forgive me, Your Majesty… but there may yet be one.”
King Wing’s head jerked toward him. “Speak.”
The soldier, a gorilla-ninja hybrid with a mask covering half his face, bowed even lower. “In the basement… the princess. She still lives. What could be more satisfying than turning the last heir of a failed king into a crawling servant?”
For a moment, the hall fell deathly silent. Then a peal of harsh, delighted laughter erupted.
“Hahaha! A splendid idea! You amuse me. From today, you shall be my Royal Guard — for such delicious cruelty deserves reward!”
The soldier bowed deeply. “Your Majesty honours me beyond measure.”
Torches flickered as footsteps descended. When they reached her cell, the Royal Guard yanked open the door, revealing the frail girl chained to the post.
He stepped inside, his eyes cold behind the mask. “Get up, you useless sack of bones! You think you can lie here rotting while we do all the work above? On your feet!”
Nellisa flinched as the harsh words snapped through the dark. Slowly, she tried to rise, her knees buckling. The guard leaned closer, and in a whisper so faint it was barely more than breath, he murmured, “It was a success, Your Highness.”
Nellisa felt her breath catch. A flicker of warmth crossed her face, vanishing almost instantly. “You should stop calling me that,” she whispered. “From today… call me Housekeeper Nelly.”
The guard nodded, eyes fierce with unspoken resolve.
They unchained her and led her upstairs. Her limbs were so thin she stumbled forward, her steps echoing like brittle glass shattering. As they moved through the hall, she saw soldiers avert their eyes, some trembling, some silently weeping.
King Wing lounged on the throne, his armoured fingers drumming against the armrest. When he saw her, he burst into laughter again. “Well, look at you! The once-precious princess, reduced to a ragged cleaning wench. Go on then — crawl and scrub until your bones remember their place!”
Nellisa did not reply. Her eyes dropped to the floor, her mind already working, plotting, burning.
She was given a broom and a worn rag. With each sweep of the floor, her gaze roamed: at the crumbling walls, the cracks in the ceiling, the lines of guard rotations. Every stain she scrubbed, she memorized the sounds of footsteps nearby. Every dust-choked corridor became a map in her mind.
That night, in a discarded silver tray’s reflection, she glimpsed her face. Sunken eyes, bruised skin, chapped lips. A ghost. But behind the withered shell, something glowed — an ember too stubborn to die.
She clenched her fingers around the rag so tightly her knuckles bled.
This is no longer about me… or my books… or even my father. This is about every last soldier who died calling my name. About every soul who still dares to hope in the shadows. Even if I must become a demon to save them… I will.
At dawn, she slipped into the silent courtyard, frost crackling beneath her feet. The air cut her throat raw, but she stood straight, breathing it in like a vow.
She turned her eyes toward the ice-bound sun above Shindo — the sun that had abandoned them the day her father died. In her heart, she carried the warmth they had all lost, reshaped now into a blade of vengeance.