The chains were louder in the morning.
At least, Kyle *thought* it was morning. There was no sun in the dungeon, no windows or birdsong—just the slow, steady drip of water, the faint creak of torch brackets, and the soft groan of cold stone adjusting in the silence.
Still, something in the air felt different.
Like the whole place was holding its breath.
Kyle sat curled in the far corner of the cell, eyes half-lidded. He hadn't slept much. The straw on the ground was barely enough to separate his body from the wet stone. The scent of mildew never faded. And his mind—his mind refused to quiet down.
He kept thinking about her.
Talia.
The way she spoke. Her calm. The vial. The parchment. Her eyes.
She knew. Not guessed—**knew**—he wasn't Kael. And instead of turning him in or running away, she offered help.
Why?
Kyle had asked himself that question a dozen times already, but each time, it led nowhere.
And now?
Now it didn't matter. Because someone else was coming.
He could hear the footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Not hurried. Not casual. Measured. Controlled. Heavy, but not clumsy. Boots with polished heels that clacked sharply against the stone.
Two sets.
One leading. One behind.
Kyle pushed himself up to sit straighter. He pulled his knees in and placed his bound hands in front of him, palms down. Composed. Not aggressive, not desperate. Just… present.
The footsteps stopped.
Keys rattled.
A deep *click* echoed through the corridor.
The iron door opened.
A flicker of brighter torchlight spilled into the cell as two figures stepped inside.
The first was a soldier—muscular, armored, and stone-faced. A silent guard who looked like he'd crush someone's skull for blinking wrong.
The second…
A man draped in crimson and charcoal robes.
He wore no armor. No visible weapon. Just finely stitched silk and a belt lined with scroll tubes and thin, leather-bound books. A silver brooch in the shape of a burning eye fastened his collar, gleaming even in the dim light.
His skin was pale, his features narrow. Nose sharp. Lips thin. Hair dark and slicked back neatly. His eyes—cold, gray, and glinting with something unreadable—rested on Kyle the moment he entered.
Kyle didn't move.
The man said nothing at first. He simply stared, eyes flicking from Kyle's face to his posture, then to the chains on his wrists.
Minutes passed.
The air grew heavier.
Finally, the robed man spoke. His voice was smooth—educated, precise, and empty of warmth.
"State your full name."
Kyle blinked.
That was it?
No introduction. No explanation. Just a demand.
He knew it was a trap.
They expected a performance. A lie. A stumble. Maybe even defiance. That's what the old Kael would've done—respond with arrogance or mockery. A perfect excuse for a public flogging or a harsher sentence.
Kyle, however, gave no such gift.
He met the man's eyes.
"Kael Vireon," he said evenly. "Third son of Emperor Thalor Vireon. Born of Lady Ilene."
Silence.
The robed man raised one eyebrow slightly. "You speak plainly today, Your Highness."
Kyle gave the faintest shrug. "Hard to be dramatic when you're shackled and haven't bathed in days."
The corner of the inquisitor's mouth twitched upward.
It wasn't a smile.
More like amusement from a cat watching a wounded mouse.
"You speak of bathing as if you still possess dignity."
Kyle said nothing.
The inquisitor stepped closer. He removed a thin, black notebook from his belt and flipped it open with long fingers.
"You were apprehended five nights ago. Do you remember how?"
Kyle's mind raced.
He couldn't give away that he didn't. But saying too much might reveal the truth.
So he gambled.
"I remember being betrayed," he said flatly.
The inquisitor paused, quill hovering.
Then scribbled something.
"You attempted to stab the Second Prince in the back. During a private audience. In front of the Empress."
Kyle didn't flinch. "So they say."
"Do you deny it?"
"I don't confirm it either."
The inquisitor's eyes lifted again.
"Interesting."
He turned a page.
"You've refused to speak to any of the prison clerks. You rejected the priest of confession. And when the Captain of the Guard insulted your mother, you spat blood in his face."
Kyle allowed the faintest smirk to curl one corner of his mouth. "I was bleeding anyway."
That got a reaction.
The guard behind the inquisitor shifted his stance. Clearly displeased.
But the robed man remained calm. Unmoving.
He closed his notebook and placed it neatly back into his belt.
Then he walked forward—slowly, deliberately—until he stood just two feet from Kyle.
The scent of herbs and ink wafted from his robes.
"You're not acting like yourself," he said at last.
Kyle's heartbeat quickened.
But he kept his voice steady.
"Maybe I'm tired of acting."
The inquisitor crouched slightly, bringing their eyes level.
His pupils were cold steel.
"Do you feel guilt, Kael?"
Kyle hesitated for just a second.
"Not for what they say I did."
"Then for what?"
Kyle looked down at his shackled hands.
He wasn't lying. He didn't feel guilt for attempted murder—because he hadn't done it. But guilt? Yeah, he had plenty of that. For other things. For things back in the world he came from. For leaving his mother alone. For dying before he could pay her debts. For never having done enough.
He looked back at the inquisitor and said, quietly, "For wasting time."
The man stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment.
Then, without a word, he stood, turned, and walked back to the door.
Kyle blinked.
That was it?
The man stopped at the doorway.
"Execution is in six days," he said without turning around. "A tribunal will be assembled. The Empress will attend. If your words today were meant to inspire pity or mercy, you have failed."
Kyle remained silent.
"Should you remember anything," the inquisitor added, "send word. I'll return tomorrow."
The door creaked.
Then slammed shut.
The echo of his footsteps faded down the corridor.
Kyle exhaled slowly.
His body sagged with exhaustion—not from fear, but from the weight of holding himself still, focused, unmoving. Every muscle in his back ached. Sweat rolled down his temple.
"That… could've gone worse," he muttered to himself.
He let his eyes close briefly.
Then, a whisper came from the hall.
Faint. Careful. Just outside earshot of the guards.
Talia's voice.
> "You bought yourself time."
Kyle's lips curved into a small grin.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But today?
Today, he survived.