Chapter 132: Dungeon
Roman descended the cold, stone steps of the royal palace, the air growing damp and heavy as he approached the dungeon. This had become a grim routine for him, a daily pilgrimage to confront the crown prince, the very source of so much suffering.
As he walked, the guards deliberately averted their eyes, a mix of fear and respect playing across their faces. They knew the story of the crown prince’s downfall and how is the reason why their kingdom is currently in flames.
At the end, he arrived at a cell that seemed to echo with the cries of despair. The door was a rusted barrier between him and the remnants of a once-proud royal. He pulled the key from his pocket, the metal cold against his palm, and slid it into the lock. The sound of the mechanism clicking open echoed ominously in the silence, a prelude to the confrontation that awaited him.
As he stepped inside, the figure huddled in the corner of the dimly lit cell flinched at his presence. The crown prince, once a figure of arrogance and entitlement, now resembled a broken man. His blonde hair lay matted and filthy, a stark contrast to the polished elegance it once held. Roman took in the sight of him—skin stretched taut over bones, the gauntness of his frame a testament to the years of neglect and torment. Scars crisscrossed his exposed skin, each one a reminder of the consequences of his past choices, and Roman felt a flicker of detachment as he regarded the pitiful creature before him.
"Your Highness," Roman intoned, his voice steady but devoid of warmth. The prince looked up, and in that moment, a flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes. Relief washed over his features, as if he found comfort in the familiarity of Roman’s presence, the least terrifying figure among his captors—Leona, Thorne, and now himself.
"Please, let’s get this over with. I’m tired," Roman said, his impatience seeping through the monotony of his tone.
"I’ve told you this for two years!" The crown prince’s voice was desperate, trembling with fear and exhaustion. "All I know is that he escaped to the Church of Elaris. Please, I’m begging you—"
The plea hung in the air, laden with desperation. Roman regarded him coldly, knowing well the weight of the prince’s cowardice. He had once been a figure of pride, but that had long since crumbled beneath the pressure of his choices. Roman examined the jagged scar that marred the prince’s once-handsome face, a cruel work of art left by Noelle’s wrath. It had festered, a grotesque reminder of his past transgressions, and each time it threatened to heal, Thorne had made it a point to reopen the wound, ensuring that the prince’s suffering was never-ending.
Roman felt a flicker of pity deep within, but he quickly buried it beneath layers of indifference. This man had dared to lay hands on Noelle, Thorne’s beloved omega. The insanity of it all was staggering. Now, the prince had lost everything—his kingdom, his people, and his own dignity. His life had become a relentless cycle of torture, and Roman couldn’t summon any sympathy for him. The intoxicating effects of momentary lust had led to devastating consequences, and here he was, a husk of his former self.