Behind Castle Walls

Her Trapped Lover
Darkness.

It pressed against him like water, suffocating and inescapable. Every breath felt like a blade through his chest.

Darius stirred—barely. Pain lanced through him with the smallest movement. His body, battered and broken, screamed in protest. His wrists and ankles were still bound, the iron chains heavy and unforgiving, cutting into skin already torn open by the whip and boot.

His right eye was still swollen shut. A crust of dried blood clung to his temple, matted in his hair, smeared across the cold, filthy floor of the dungeon cell. The left eye fluttered open to nothing but pitch black.

The air reeked of rot, old blood, and mold. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped—steady, cruelly rhythmic. His tongue was thick in his mouth, parched and clinging to his palate. He tasted metal. His own blood.

His throat burned. He tried to swallow but found it hard. His lips were cracked. His jaw throbbed from where the hunter’s gauntlet had shattered something. Maybe bone.

He lay in a puddle of his own blood and filth, the floor below him jagged and cold. His body refused to obey him. There was no strength left. Not even in his hate. Just a numb, gnawing ache that had settled deep in his bones.

Then—

Footsteps.

They echoed through the corridor like a drumbeat in the dark.

He tried to lift his head, but his neck refused. He blinked into the blackness, the dull clank of armor growing closer. There were at least three sets—guards. The familiar sound of steel-toed boots and leather. One of them dragged a torch; the orange glow crept across the corridor like fire licking toward oil.

The flame pooled at the edge of his cell, casting long, warped shadows on the stone walls.

Then came a fourth set of steps. Slower. Deliberate.

He knew those steps.

CLICK. CLACK. CLICK.

The guards stopped. A command was given—sharp and certain.

“Open the door.”

The sound of keys. A rattle. A creaking iron gate. The cell door groaned open on rusted hinges.

Darius didn’t have to look up to know who had arrived. The air itself shifted. It grew colder, but more electric, as if the dungeon had suddenly bent to accommodate her presence.

And then—her voice. Sweet as poison, smooth as wine.

“Well, well.”

He didn’t move.

“You look awful, Darius.”

Still, he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

She stepped forward into the cell, her heeled boots clicking on the stone. The torchlight caught on the golden crown nestled ontop her head, studded with violet and onyx gems. Her ebony hair flowed in waves down her back, sleek and glossy as obsidian.

Her dress was raven-black, lined in velvet and silk, with long sleeves that dragged elegantly behind her. She had not dressed for mourning.

No—she had dressed for a celebration.

Queen Lysandra of Edralis, in all her cruel and radiant glory, stood before him. Her beauty was sharp, dangerous, the kind that inspired both awe and fear. And she was smiling.

Not kindly.

She crouched, letting the hem of her gown pool around her knees as she leaned forward.

“Aww,” she cooed mockingly, her violet eyes gleaming as they studied the swollen mess of his face. “Did my hunters play too rough?”

Her fingers, soft and cold, reached for his face. He twitched, flinched—but he couldn’t pull away. She gripped his jaw, forcing his head up so their eyes met—his one bloodshot eye barely able to focus.

She tilted her head and tutted. “Look at you,” she whispered. “Once my most trusted sword. My secret blade. And now?” She chuckled darkly. “Now you’re nothing more than a ragged traitor in chains.”

Still, Darius said nothing.

Not because he chose silence.

He physically couldn’t speak. His jaw hung loosely, aching. His tongue was thick with blood. But gods, if he could’ve spoken, the words he would’ve hurled at her—

Her nails dug into his stubbled cheek. “Nothing to say? Not even a grovel?”

A flicker passed through his eye. She caught it. Her grin widened.

Then, from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound emerged—a dry, broken laugh.

It was so small it could’ve been mistaken for a wheeze, but Lysandra heard it clearly. Her brow furrowed slightly.

He rasped, “You think I betrayed you?” His voice cracked, each word spoken like broken glass. “You arrogant bitch. I was never on your side.”

Lysandra’s eyes narrowed. Her smile fell. Slowly, her grip tightened, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his skin until he flinched.

“Say that again.”

He tried—but all that came out was another dry cough. His lip curled upward despite the pain.

“I was always… with the witches.”

There was no fear in his voice. Only truth. Pure and raw.

A vein pulsed in her temple. Her nostrils flared. And then—she struck him.

Not with her hand.

With her magic.

A surge of invisible force slammed into his ribs, flipping him onto his back with a grunt of agony. The chains rattled. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

She rose slowly, brushing her gown with regal calm.

“You ungrateful traitor.”

She paced, heels clicking like hammers.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me? Years of grooming, of training. I gave you everything. Power. Command. A future beside me at my throne.”

She turned sharply to face him again.

“And you chose her?” Her voice spat the word like venom. “The little witch girl? The God Witch? You think she’s your redemption?”

He coughed, a whisper of a chuckle still in his chest. “She’s more of a queen than you’ll ever be.”

A long silence.

Lysandra’s fists clenched. The firelight made her eyes glow with fury.

Then—her voice dropped.

Low. Serpentine.

“You know, Darius,” she purred, crouching beside him again, her tone almost gentle, “I should kill you. I want to. Gods, I want to see your head roll across the palace floor.”

His good eye met hers, defiantly.

“Then do it.”

It was a rasp. Barely more than a whisper.

“Kill me.”

But Lysandra only smiled.

She reached down, and caressed his bloodied face, stroking his cheek as if he were a lover, not a prisoner.

“No,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

He blinked, barely comprehending.

“You’re still useful to me, darling.”

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You’ll bring her here for me.”

Darius’s eyes fluttered open wider.

“Aurora,” Lysandra whispered. “If she ever happens to wake up, she’ll come for you. I know she will. That’s what makes you so precious. You’re my bait. And when she steps foot in Edralis…”

She stood and turned, gliding for the door.

“…I’ll be waiting.”

The cell door groaned shut behind her.

The torchlight faded.

And once again, Darius was left in the dark—bleeding, broken, but not entirely hopeless.

Because deep down, through the agony, he whispered—

“Don’t come, Aurora.”