Their laughter—a hollow, chilling sound—filled the chamber.It was the kind of laughter that mocked the dead who could no longer take offense.
I remained motionless—a broken thing in their eyes.
But inside, the fires of retribution seared hotter than any torch they could bring against me.
Lord Alexander remained out of reach.
“Did you know you were planning your death?”His voice slithered like a serpent, full of venom and dark amusement.“When you came to us all those weeks ago, speaking of this grand masquerade...who knew?You were designing your execution.”
He stepped closer, relishing the moment, eyes gleaming like a wolf scenting blood.
“We’re going to break you, Amir.Slowly.Every last one of us will take a piece of you.We will carve your disobedience from your bones, burn you, make you beg for death.”
His lips curled into a wicked grin, feeding off his cruelty.“And then, my dear Elizabeth will add the finishing touches—with her poison.”
My stomach coiled at the mention of her name, but I did not move.Did not speak.
He thought he had won.He thought I had lost.
A rumbling laugh escaped him, deep and cruel, before he turned and bellowed into the shadows?—
“Guards!Bring me the gilded cage!”
The command reverberated off the stone walls, a cruel decree meant to herald the spectacle they intended to make of me.Yet beneath the weight of their arrogance, a secret thrill coiled in my veins.
For this masquerade was mine.
And the final act had yet to play.
The dungeon’s air thickened with the sound of approaching boots, the cadence menacing—a funeral march for men who did not yet know they were dead.Shadows stretched long and distorted against the damp walls, crawling forward like specters ushering in their doom.
Then, with a grating echo of metal against stone, the gilded cage was dragged into my cell.
It was a grotesque display of opulence, its golden bars gleaming in the dim light.It was a mockery of imprisonment meant to parade me through the streets like a captured beast.But the fools had yet to realize that this prison was not my tomb.
It was their pyre.
Six men struggled beneath its weight, their breaths ragged, their muscles straining.The putrid stench of death curled through the air, clinging to them, thick enough to choke.One of them—a broad-shouldered brute—stumbled mid-step.His face twisted in revulsion, his body convulsing.
Then, with a violent gag, he doubled over and retched.
A flicker of satisfaction curled at the edges of my lips.Good.Let them taste the rot they had cultivated.
“Good gods,” Lord Winston wheezed, his voice taut with disgust.He pressed a silk handkerchief to his lips, his aristocratic repulsion writ across his pale features.His gaze flickered to mine, meeting my eyes for a fleeting second—before he turned away.
Coward.
“Alexander, let us leave at once,” he muttered, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat.“These men will do their job and transport him to Kew Palace.”
Lord Alexander did not move immediately.His icy gaze lingered on me, as cold as a dagger’s edge, a silent promise of suffering yet to come.
I did not look away.Let him watch.Let him believe.
But whatever taunt he had prepared died before it could leave his lips.The stench overpowered his sadistic amusement, and with a final glance, he turned on his heel.
They retreated as hastily as dignity would allow, their silks and arrogance wilting under the weight of the decay that clung to this place.
They thought I was caged.
