CHAPTER 2
Dungeon was cold, thick with the stench of damp stone and old blood. Shadows clung to the corners like phantoms, shifting with the fickle glow of the torches lining the narrow passage.
In the heart of this suffocating abyss, a woman lay curled upon the freezing ground. Her crimson hair, once a crown of fire, was now a tangled ruin, matted with filth and blood. Her fingernails had been torn away, leaving only raw, weeping wounds. Clad in naught but tattered rags, she hovered upon the brink of oblivion.
Her breath was shallow. Slow. A whisper against the silence.
The iron doors groaned open.
A herald's voice rang through the dungeon, each word a proclamation of power.
"King Tommen of House Aragon, First of His Name, son of the late King Hosea and Queen Aries, Ruler and Protector of Aethelgar!"
Heavy boots struck the stone floor. A presence, vast and oppressive, filled the chamber.
King Tommen strode forward, his midnight-blue mantle trailing behind him like a shadow. Rings adorned his fingers, the firelight glinting off gold and gemstone. His golden hair, long and thick, spilled over broad shoulders, framing a face of sculpted angles and cruel beauty. His piercing blue eyes, sharp as a predator's, gleamed with quiet amusement as they fell upon the wretched creature before him.
A slow smirk curled his lips.
"Lift her up."
The guards obeyed, seizing the woman by her arms and hauling her onto a wooden chair. Leather bindings fastened her wrists and ankles to its arms and legs, the iron buckles biting into flesh. She stirred weakly, the chains rattling with the effort. Blood-streaked strands of hair veiled her face, yet even through the grime and bruises, her beauty endured.
Tommen tilted his head, stepping closer.
"What a waste." His voice was smooth as silk, yet laced with mockery. He traced a gloved finger down her cheek, smearing away a trail of blood. "Is this not what your kind excels at? Spinning spells with a bat of your lashes? Bewitching kings with a whispered breath?"
He circled her, slow and deliberate, like a beast toying with wounded prey.
"Tell me, witch... what have they done to that pretty face of yours?" His voice was soft, almost tender. Then, with an air of false sympathy, he added, "Shall we clean it?"
A guard stepped forth, bearing a wooden bucket. Without warning, he upended its freezing contents over her head.
She flinched, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips as the icy water seeped into her wounds. Her breath shuddered. Her hair clung in darkened tendrils to her pale skin. And yet, when at last she lifted her head, her pale hazel eyes held his gaze with quiet defiance.
"You are wasting your time, Tommen." Her voice was but a thread of sound, yet unbroken.
Tommen chuckled, threading a hand through her sodden locks.
"Oh, I have time enough," he murmured. "It is you who has precious little of it."
His fingers coiled around a handful of her hair, twisting it idly.
"They say witches come in many forms. Some wield flame, others command the tempest, some summon ice..." He crouched before her, his eyes glinting with something dark. "And then there are those who heal. Now, tell me-what are you?"
She did not answer.
Tommen exhaled, shaking his head. "No reply?" A snap of his fingers.
A brazier was wheeled in, its flames crackling hungrily. Heat rippled through the air, filling the chamber with the scent of burning coals. Tommen leaned in, his lips but a breath from her ear.
"There is an old tale," he whispered, "that a witch's power dwells within her hair. That severing it is like carving into her very soul."
A flicker of tension crossed her face, fleeting yet telling.
Tommen grinned. "Shall we see if the tale holds true?"
Before she could react, he wrenched a fistful of her crimson locks and sliced through them with a dagger. The severed strands tumbled into the fire.
A piercing scream tore through the dungeon.
Her body seized, convulsing against the restraints. From her eyes, blood welled-thick, crimson tears spilling down her cheeks. Agony, raw and unbridled, ripped from her throat.
Tommen watched, head tilting in fascination. "Oh? That painful?" He clicked his tongue. "I wonder-if I cut more, will it double?"
Again, the dagger flashed.
Again, she screamed. Louder. Harsher. Her body bucked, jerking against the chair-until, with a ragged gasp, she fell limp.
Silence.
Tommen leaned back, surveying her slumped figure with mild amusement. Then, with a smirk, he chuckled.
"It seems our guest has grown weary." He turned to the guards. "And we all know how discourteous it is to slumber in the presence of a king."
His laughter echoed through the dungeon.
Then-
"Your Highness."
A guard entered, bowing low. "Prince Hosea and Prince Raymond have arrived."
Tommen exhaled sharply, amusement slipping from his features. He cast one final glance at the unconscious woman before shifting his gaze to the guard.
"Hmph." He rolled his shoulders, the mirth in his eyes now replaced with cool authority. "Then we shall continue our little game later."
With a final glance at the witch, Tommen turned and strode from the dungeon, his cloak billowing behind him.
The brazier flames crackled, their glow casting eerie shadows upon the damp stone.
The witch did not stir.