A big gust of wind weaved its way into the underground dungeon of Hyrenshire Prison, tossing dirt into the cells and clawing at the tattered robes of a young shackled man, his lengthy hair tousled against his face.
The dungeon was quiet this time. The lanterns hanging in their metal cages illuminated the rusted iron doors with vines and moss climbing up. This was the prison of the late emperor’s loyalists. The nobles who once held a high rank in the empire—those the seventh prince of Russenfelt had captured after they opposed his inheritance to the throne—but are now titled as traitors by the imperial prince and his faction
Zale sat on the floor of the murky dungeon as another gust of wind tore at him. The raging storm was somewhat useful to their inescapable deaths, as if the gods were in favor of the seventh prince’s reign. The rain signified the gods weeping in joy for the prince’s victory—the child of ill prophecy born by the emperor and his peasant queen—mocked the loyalist faction who sought to put their own prince on the throne.
How disturbing.
Zale didn’t sacrifice himself for the loyalist faction to fail, or place the imperial crown on the ill-fated prince. He used his power and connections as the head of a prestigious family to put their puppet prince on the throne seeking order within the empire, not to fail and to be sent to the guillotine.
The fact that he had spent ten years of planning to grab the crown with several other loyalist nobles only to be reduced to nothing more than just a failure was already a blow to his ego. With his talents and being regarded as the genius enchanter of the empire, he could have been standing next to their imperial prince and reunited with his younger sister had they succeeded. Instead, he’d been locked up in a damp dungeon at Hyrenshire Prison for three weeks, served only stale bread and half a glass of water. He’d already been regretting his actions for the last two weeks but that wasn’t enough to silence the burning hate he harbored for the seventh prince.
Escape was impossible in Hyrenshire. Even if he and his fellow loyalists tried to plan and escape now, they wouldn’t be able to brush off the seventh prince’s dog—a muscular chap whose trust and loyalty was only for the seventh prince. If they escaped, they would be executed the moment they are caught.
Every drop of hope he had in his body was drained clean as he counted the slow patter of water droplets on his cell’s ceiling, its’ little weeds on the cracks of the stone shaking against the storm of the gods’ cry.
Two men with large builds approached his cell, swords resting peacefully in their sheaths ready to be pulled out any time he had the motivation to escape. He envied their clean uniforms—the uniform of the imperial guard and a brooch pinned to their chest—the symbol of the seventh prince’s army. It was his army of loyal dogs, ready to risk their lives for their chosen ruler. Both men stepped aside, making way for the person he despised with all his being.
The Imperial Prince—one who killed his father and siblings to attain the rights to the throne—stood before him with eyes filled with contempt.
Zale’s eyes were filled with contempt too, but that was the only thing they had in common. His hair, shaded to a beautiful gold, tousled over his face, his cheekbones sunk deeper than the last week due to lack of food, and his skin covered in muck and grime. The power running through his veins, as the descendant of the very first enchanter of the empire was useless as he had magic cancelling shackles on both his wrists to prevent him from escaping. He was inferior to the one who stood before him.
Although both men had their share of beauty, the seventh prince was far superior in both looks and talent even though he was just a boy. Had Zale bathed and robed in expensive fabric, then he would have the face to rival that of the imperial prince.
“You look no better than before,” the prince said.
Zale’s heart thundered in anger as he sneered at the prince. He answered, “And you hadn’t changed the last time I saw you, your imperial highness.”
The prince showed no sign of annoyance as he peered down at him. Zale tugged on his tightly shacked hands, spilling blood on the floor as he leaned back on the wall nonchalantly. It was an action that usually would have immediately sent him to the guillotine, but he was going to end up there anyway, so there was no harm in adding more fuel to the fire.
“You are dying today, all because you attempted to put your prince on the throne that is rightfully mine and bothered to support my late father’s inconceivable choice of placing an heir.” The prince’s eyes bore into Zale’s, but the man did not appear to be at least bothered by it.
It had nothing to do with the late emperor’s nonsensical talk. Zale had been plotting to place their chosen prince on the throne ever since his father, the previous head of his house, died. He was never satisfied with the late emperor’s chosen heir and he certainly was not happy about the ill-fated prince having the same chance of inheriting the throne like his brothers.
He gathered several nobles who had the same mindset as him—those who strongly opposed the emperor’s decision of having the seventh prince equally fight for the throne—and plotted to force their prince to wear the crown. It had been pretty simple to gather nobles who had lost imperial favor and those who had a strong opposition to the emperor.
“Do you think you can rule the empire?” A man from another cell—one of Zale’s accomplices—said. “A half-peasant like you can never rule such a rich empire!”
“Silence!” The Imperial Prince’s guard shouted as he smacked the iron door with the hilt of his sword. “Raulo,” The prince warned.
Amusement flashed through Zale, his heart thumped and his lips quivered. It took so much effort to calm his beating heart, more effort to pretend that he wasn’t interested in what his companion said. But alas, the words his accomplice uttered was too ripe to even let it pass through one ear.
“That’s right!” Zale said with enthusiasm. “Just because you happened to be born by the emperor and his beloved peasant queen, doesn’t mean you can run an entire empire.”
“And the prophecy—“ The man from the opposite cell said. “The prophecy that you carry around will be your end. Such an ill-fated child like you is never meant to become emperor, your highness.”
Zale waited to see if there was a change in the seventh prince’s expression and demeanor, but the boy in front of him—clad in expensive royal clothes—did not look bothered. “Forgive me, your imperial highness, did we hurt your feelings perhaps? Well, it doesn’t matter since all we said was true.”
“Have you had your fun?” The prince gazed down at him with an unbothered expression. The cell was rendered silent at the sound of the prince’s clear voice. His word echoed around the dungeon, ringing into the ears of the prisoners.
Zale’s words were poisonous, enough to hurt the pride of someone in the prince’s shoes. But the prince was different. He showed no weakness and was resolute. Zale hated to admit it, but the boy carried the air of an emperor.
“I don’t know what you planned to do by spouting that nonsense in front of me, but it will not get you pardoned.”
Zale flinched. “Take them to the guillotine.”
“Right away, your majesty.” The guards said in unison and started to open the cell doors, pulling the loyalists by their chains and dragging them up to the erected stage where the show of death will start.
The clouds wept and the sky thundered, as if the gods waited for the end of the traitors. The wind clawed against Zale’s dirty and tattered robes, it tore toward him, throwing grit into the air. The other loyalists are pulled behind him; the sound of chains clinking together resonated in his ears. It was only years ago when Zale was at the comfort of his mansion with his sister following him around like a little puppy saying ‘brother, brother’ while hugging her stuffed bunny. He hoped to see her again before he died, but he couldn’t ask the prince for such a request. It was fine if other people saw his demise, but he would never let his younger sister see him die.
Before him was a vast sea of people—their prying eyes all focused on him and his companions—as they waited for blood to be spilled and lives to be taken. He was dragged toward the guillotine by the prince’s guard and was brought to his knees. He faced the imperial prince and looked at him in disdain.
“Zale Yulius Circe, for the crime of planning to assassinate and replace the seventh prince, the rightful heir to the throne, you have committed treason. The Gods have been angered by your actions and the council, as well as his highness, the seventh prince, sentence you to death by the guillotine.” A man with broad shoulders clad in an expensive black suit, embellished with medals strode to Zale’s side and looked down at him.
“Do you have any last words?” he whispered.
“Cut his head off!” The crowd shouted. “Kill him! Kill the traitor!” Zale spared them a glance and grinned. Even though the storm was still raging strong, the peasants still stayed to witness the death of a traitor like him. The nobles whispered amongst themselves as they looked at him not with pity but with contempt.
“I shall ask again, do you have any last words?”
“…me.” Zale gritted his teeth and sneered at the man. He turned to the crowd and then spared a glance at the seventh prince who was standing dry under the umbrellas his guards were holding.
“Excuse me?” The man asked with a frown.
Anger flashed inside Zale, his fists, although tied, was clenched behind him and his heart that was beating rapidly was filled with loathing. “Kill me!” He shouted.
“Be it so.”
