Sink!
A metallic door swung open, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. It was faint at first, but with each passing second, it grew louder and closer, until—
"Here is your lunch," said a voice.
The young man seated in the cell slowly lifted his head. His eyes fell on a leather boot, worn by a man in a dark brown shirt tucked into black fitted trousers. The man had a beard that concealed his lips, twisted into a perpetual scowl, and his eyes, brimming with disdain, stared down at the blond-haired prisoner.
The young man said nothing. His head drooped again.
Clank!
The cell door creaked open. A tray, carrying a slab of meat, was flung at him.
BAM!
It collided with his head. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
"There's your feast. A piece of advice—eat up. This might very well be your last day in this world."
With a scoff, the man turned and walked away.
The young man slowly turned to the tray. He stared at the meat.
"Hah," he laughed dryly. To think it had come to this. To think it had gotten this serious. He had always known that life in the palace was dangerous, especially with how fond the third princess had grown of him, despite all his efforts to avoid her.
"Maybe I should've just..."
He trailed off.
But what had happened, had already happened.
With a sigh, he picked up the meat—probably the only decent thing he'd had in ten days—and sank his teeth into its flesh.
"Ugh!"
He retched immediately and threw it across the cell.
"What the actual hell is this?!"
He couldn't quite describe the taste, but he was certain he'd felt blood—and something squirming inside.
"Sigh..."
He ran a hand over his matted hair.
"I can't die... not yet. I haven't gotten my revenge on those bastards. Damn it... DAMN IT!"
He pulled at his hair in frustration, overwhelmed by how everything—everything—he had planned and built crumbled because of one desperate psycho.
...
...
"Isn't that... Lumiea?" a hushed voice asked, as the butler of the main house walked with quiet elegance. A pair of soldiers dragged a blond-haired young man through the expansive hallway. Maids and butlers stole glances but dared not linger.
"Tch. What really happened? I still don't understand what he did," another maid whispered as she rushed toward the kitchen.
"I don't know the full story, but according to... Eanar—"
"Oh~ Your sweetheart?" the other teased.
A quick hand to her mouth stifled her words.
"Keep your voice down, idiot. Sigh... That loud mouth of yours is going to get us both killed one day," the first maid hissed, then removed her hand.
"Sorry. So... what did he say?"
She glanced around before whispering, "It seems he... read a book. In the Imperial Library."
The other maid's face went pale.
...
...
Now, kneeling before a man seated on a grand throne, the blond-haired young man kept his face downcast. Two guards stood grimly behind him.
"What is the rule of a slave in the royal house?"
Silence. A silence so heavy it swallowed sound and breath.
"...SPEAK."
The command came not from the king but from the butler. Instantly, the young man's throat burned. Blood crawled up his tongue. His head spun. The pressure was unbearable.
"The... Royal slaves... should never disobey the masters of the palace," he croaked.
"Royal slaves are nothing but tools and should always be ready to sacrifice themselves... for the masters of the palace," he added.
The man on the throne stared.
"The royal slaves... should never... acquire knowledge from the library."
There it was.
The man leaned forward, voice cutting like ice.
"Did you read a book from the Library?"
The young man bit his lip. 'A'? Not 'The'? That distinction—intentional.
The slave's mark prevented him from lying. And that was the real trap.
He hadn't read the book they accused him of. But he had read a book—many books, actually. Secretly. Quietly. On Syphas, on magic, on the system of Ether. He'd soaked in forbidden knowledge like a sponge.
So the answer—if you followed the phrasing—was yes.
But he said nothing. Endured the butler's crushing pressure in silence.
"Sigh... Take him away. He'll serve as a lesson to anyone with similar motives. There's a reason rules exist," the king said.
The guards dragged him out.
After a long pause, the king tilted his head toward the still-bowing butler.
"What are your thoughts, Wilfred?"
"It seems he walked right into a rather well-laid trap, Your Highness," Wilfred replied smoothly.
The king nodded.
This was how the world worked: the weak bowed to the strong, and the strong bowed to the cunning.
The boy was a fool to fall into it.
Such fools did not deserve to live.
Suddenly—
"Your Highness!"
A voice rang out from the end of the hall.
"It's Princess Ariana. She demands to see you," a guard announced, face pale.
Wilfred turned to leave. But if one had looked closely—closely enough to peer past his mask of indifference—they might have seen it.
A glint of amusement.
The nuisance had been removed. The plan had worked.
Now he would simply watch it unfold.
"Let her in," the king said.
BAM!
"Father!"