Chapter Three: A Cage of Shadows
1204 Words
Pain dragged me from the abyss.
Not the sharp, fleeting kind. No, this was deeper—woven into my very bones, seeping into my muscles like poisoned ink. My head throbbed with every heartbeat, a slow, merciless drum pounding against my skull.
I tried to move.
Cold metal bit into my wrists.
Chains.
Panic surged through me, white-hot and blinding. My fingers curled, testing the restraints. The iron held firm, cruel and unyielding, its weight pulling my arms above my head. My legs, too, were bound, shackled to the stone beneath me.
I was trapped.
I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dimness. Shadows stretched across the damp stone walls, flickering in the light of a single torch mounted in the far corner of the chamber. The air was thick—humid and stale, carrying the scent of earth and something metallic.
Blood.
Not mine.
The realization did nothing to ease the tremor in my chest.
Memories crashed into me all at once.
The attack. The coup. The darkness swallowing me whole.
And Damien.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Rage surged past the fear, lighting a fire in my veins. “Damien,” I hissed, my voice hoarse from disuse. “You bastard.”
Silence answered me.
No footsteps. No movement.
Just the slow, deliberate drip of water somewhere in the distance.
I was alone.
For now.
I clenched my jaw, forcing steady breaths through my nose. I couldn’t afford to panic. Not yet.
Think.
Where was I?
A dungeon, clearly. But whose?
Not my family’s. The walls here were different—darker, rougher. The air lacked the familiar, bitter scent of the herbs my father had insisted on burning in the lower chambers.
Damien had taken me somewhere else.
But why?
I wasn’t royalty. Not truly. The crown had passed over my father long ago, and though we held power, we were not the ones who ruled. If Damien had staged a coup, his quarrel should have been with the king, not me.
And yet…
He had let the nobles run.
He had let the city burn.
But he had taken me.
A chill crept down my spine, settling in my gut like a lead weight.
I tugged against the chains again, my wrists burning where the metal dug into my skin. Useless. The bindings wouldn’t budge. My magic—what little I had inherited—was as unresponsive as dead embers.
A door creaked open.
My breath hitched.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Each one deliberate, echoing against the stone with the certainty of a man who knew he had already won.
Damien.
I didn’t need to see him to know.
The air shifted, carrying the scent of cedar and something sharper—something dark.
I forced my expression into one of defiance as he stepped into the dim light.
He looked… untouched.
Unbothered.
His tailored black coat was free of blood, his gloves pristine. Not a single golden hair out of place. He could have been attending a royal gala rather than standing in the depths of a dungeon he had no right to control.
His eyes met mine, glinting with something unreadable. “You’re awake.”
“Unfortunately,” I shot back.
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Still sharp, I see. That’s good. It would be a shame if you broke too easily.”
I refused to let my unease show. “Is that why you took me? To see how much I could endure?”
His gaze darkened, amusement slipping into something heavier. “You were always quick to assume the worst of me.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You butchered my people. Forgive me if I don’t think highly of you.”
Damien exhaled through his nose, stepping closer. The torchlight cast his features into sharp relief—high cheekbones, a jaw carved from stone, and eyes that had once held warmth but now carried only ice.
“You’re not here because of your people,” he said. “You’re here because of you.”
My pulse stuttered.
That should have been obvious. I had already suspected it. But hearing him say it aloud made the truth settle into my ribs like a weight I could not shake.
“Why?” I demanded.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small vial filled with dark liquid. He held it between two fingers, tilting it slightly so the substance inside caught the light.
Recognition struck like a blade to the gut.
Blood magic.
A binding potion.
My stomach turned. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Damien arched a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
“You said you weren’t like your father.” My voice was a whisper now, raw and aching. “You said you would never—”
“I said many things,” he cut in. “But circumstances change, Celeste.”
“You mean you changed.”
His jaw tightened. For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—an emotion I couldn’t quite place. Regret? Guilt? No. Damien didn’t feel guilt.
But I wasn’t wrong.
He had changed.
The boy I once knew would never have dragged me to the depths of a dungeon, shackled and powerless. The boy I once trusted would have fought for me, not against me.
But Damien wasn’t a boy anymore.
And neither was I.
“I won’t drink it,” I said.
“You will.”
His certainty sent a fresh wave of anger through me. “And if I don’t?”
His lips parted as if to respond, but he hesitated. That flicker of something returned, only to be smothered just as quickly. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “Then I’ll have to make you.”
I swallowed hard.
He meant it.
Damien wasn’t one for idle threats.
And yet, there was something beneath his cold exterior—something unsettled, something restrained. He wasn’t enjoying this. Whatever his reasons, this was not the victory he had dreamed of.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow through.
His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my chin up. The touch was gentle—too gentle for a man who had taken everything from me.
His next words were quieter, meant only for me. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Celeste.”
Rage and betrayal warred in my chest.
I spit in his face.
For the first time, Damien’s composure cracked. His eyes flashed with something wild—something primal. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he slowly wiped his cheek with the back of his glove.
Then he smiled.
Not the cruel, taunting smile I had grown used to. No, this one was something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
“You always did like to fight,” he murmured.
Before I could retort, his free hand closed around my throat—not tightly, not yet, but firm enough to silence me. Firm enough to remind me of exactly where I was.
Powerless.
At his mercy.
His gaze never left mine as he uncorked the vial with one hand.
“You’ll drink,” he said.
And this time, I believed him.
- Writer
