Lehara gripped the arms of the chair tightly. It had become a habit for her to express her annoyance in this manner. As the prisoner’s story dragged on, she struggled to contain her impatience. She longed to interrupt him multiple times, but he insisted that she remain patient, assuring her that all would be revealed in due time. To her disbelief, he even quoted Tunklard's words about patience from the start of his story.

Initially, Lehara had been wary of him, her nerves on edge. But as he began his tale, she gradually felt more at ease in his presence. The man before her was a prince. She couldn’t fathom how he had come to be here, but at least his background explained why he spoke so eloquently.

Hours had passed, and yet she still hadn’t gleaned any useful information. She desperately needed to know about the army outside her kingdom's walls so she could inform her father. Time was of the essence, but he continued to digress, going on at length about irrelevant details from his childhood.

After requesting water and a towel, the man paused his narrative, awaiting delivery. Lehara couldn't contain herself any longer. Her voice trembled as she asked again, “Why is this important? There is an army outside our kingdom, and I fear for my people.”

He looked at her earnestly and replied, “Princess, trust me. Everything will be revealed at the necessary moment. The information I provide will save our kingdoms, but there is a specific sequence that must be followed.”

The man’s storytelling had softened his demeanor, leaving Lehara torn between the gentle man before her and the violent reputation he carried. It was difficult for her to reconcile the narratives of the man—who spoke passionately about his ideals and the avoidance of bloodshed—with the accounts of his violent actions. Victra knows how many people he had killed. How did that child become this man? How could she listen to someone who had caused so much pain? She was determined to uncover the truth, convinced that he was lying.

A guard returned with water and a towel; Lehara had paid little attention to the peculiar request. The prisoner rose from the floor and for the first time she saw him standing.

Only now was his tall and broad frame accentuated, dwarfing the guard. He walked confidently across his cell to retrieve the items he had requested, his features more visible. His face was unshaven, but she could still see his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. She may have even found him handsome if he wasn’t a prisoner. But he is a prisoner, chiding herself.

He inspected what the guard had brought him, then looked up at him. “Good man, I thank you for your kind assistance. What is your name, soldier?” he asked.

The guard looked at her, uncertainty plain on his features, unsure how to respond. Lehara just gave a subtle nod, curious to see how this interaction would unfold.

“John,” the guard grunted.

“Thank you. I know it was not a task you wanted to do, but you did what was required of you. You are a good soldier, John. I will remember your name and I’m sure you will be rewarded,” he said with sincerity.

The guard appeared confused, causing the prisoner to smirk slightly. Lehara replayed his words in her head, wondering if there was a veiled threat or ulterior motive.

Sensing the need for privacy, she gestured for the guard to leave, saying, “Thank you, John. I can manage from here.” The guard bowed low and exited the room, securing the heavy door behind him.

“You know, Princess,” a serious tone replacing his earlier levity. “When a person's name is spoken by those of higher rank, even in passing, it earns their respect. And respect is the foundation of loyalty. I don't mean respect for orders, but rather the kind that makes a person willing to risk their life for you. That, my dear princess, is true loyalty. It is often mistaken for duty. But there will come a time when you must learn to distinguish between the two.”

His words conveyed wisdom that belied his youth. Lehara noticed that John had indeed bowed lower than before, yet she was not inclined to heed the advice of a prisoner. She retorted, “I know perfectly well how to interact with our soldiers. I don't know what game you're playing at, but it won't work on me.”

“Princess,” he said earnestly, “A game implies that there is a winner between the two of us. I cannot stress enough that there will either be two victors in all of this, or we will both lose.”

Lehara scowled, refusing to be threatened or deceived by his cryptic words. “Don't threaten me or speak in riddles. As far as I'm concerned, you're nothing more than a prisoner, and you've already lost.”

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As she finished speaking, the prisoner peeled off his shirt. Although dim, the flickering torchlight offered enough illumination to reveal his chiseled muscles. His physique was impressive. I’ve seen statues carved with less definition. The statues, however, didn’t have the scars that marred his body.

Fresh wounds, bandaged but seeping through, revealed the pain he concealed. Lehara couldn't comprehend how he could still be alive with so many wounds. This man is not normal. No one can speak so naturally for hours on end without showing any pain from such injuries.

Just as she was starting to understand him and feel a modicum of comfort, her unease returned. No man could bear so many scars. How? Even the Battle Lord, who was in his forties and had fought in countless conflicts, did not possess as many. His body bore the marks of disfigurement.

Suddenly, his voice broke through her thoughts, startling her. “My lady, it is unbecoming for a woman to react so boldly to a man undressing. Perhaps you could exercise more subtlety.”

Lehara was at a loss for words. How can he maintain such a jovial facade when he should be bedridden, attended to by healers? Her curiosity grew, overshadowing her doubts.

“How?” she asked, unable to move on. He looked at her quizzically, prompting her to continue, “How can you speak without a care when you're so gravely injured?”

His gaze hardened, and he met her eyes. “My life has been hard, I don’t say this so you feel sorry for me. I have been forged by the crucibles of war; they have shaped me to the man I am today. The scars, like the knicks on my sword, remind me of the battles I've won, but they also serve as a constant reminder of the price I must pay. I never speak without care, Princess. Your kingdom and all of Valandor depend on my words. Blood or sorrow, no matter the pain, I will endure it. I will see to it that our people do not suffer.” He sounded confident, certain, but Lehara still felt his intentions were veiled.

She snapped back, “You could simply tell me what I need to do to protect our people. Why must everything be so convoluted?” Her frustration was palpable.

“If only it were that simple, Princess.” He took a long sip of water, then continued, “But it is not merely about me telling you what needs to be done. You need to understand for yourself, and that understanding can only be gained from the tale I must tell.”

Perhaps he was merely a man seeking someone to talk to before his imminent execution. The thought sent a chill down her spine. Why should she care if a man who had caused so much bloodshed met his fate? Wouldn’t it be justice served? And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that his death would be an injustice. There was something more to his words, a deeper purpose driving their conversation.

He poured water onto the towel, his face contorting with pain as he cleaned his wounds. Maybe he was human after all. She could almost feel the agony he had concealed so far. He stared into his bloodied hands.

“At the time, I wished I wouldn't vomit at the sight of blood. Now all I wish is to be that naive young boy again, free from the stain of blood I see whenever I look at my hands,” he muttered, his voice laced with sorrow.

Lehara couldn't help but confront the weight of his past actions. “How many people have you murdered?” she asked.

His response was heavy with regret and a hint of detachment. “Too many to count. There was a time when I could remember their faces and see them in my dreams. But now, I don't remember all of them.”

“Why do you kill? You knew it was wrong when you were a child. How did you become this?” she said, as she pointed at him. She knew what happened to the Accamanian Kingdom a little over a decade ago; she suspected it was due to that. But I need to understand.

Bowing his head low, the man's tone became laden with sorrow. “I used to kill to save those I loved, then I killed because it was all I knew, now I’ll kill to protect us all, and hate myself all the more for it,” he said, revealing the complexity of his inner turmoil.

“You're a prisoner now. You'll never kill again,” Lehara declared. She hadn’t planned to say that; her anger had risen to the surface, trumping her confusion.

The man smiled patronizingly in response. After a long pause, his demeanor changed yet again. His eyes were downcast; his voice creaked as he said, “I never wanted to become this. I wanted to save people from violence, but I was young and naive. I thought I could save lives with pretty words and ideals.” He paused before adding with a scoff, “How wrong I was.”

Lehara found herself at a loss. Unsure how to respond to the man's vulnerability. For the first time since meeting him, it looked as if his mask had cracked, allowing her to see past his façade. As he finished cleaning his wounds, he placed the blood-soaked towel in the corner of the room, folding it with precision. Lehara's gaze shifted to the scars lining his back. Sympathy welled up within her for the injured and scarred man standing before her, for the remnants of a past she couldn’t fully comprehend.

“I understand, Princess, that you may doubt my words, that you may doubt my intentions. Actions will speak louder than words ever can. But those actions cannot come yet.” His words hung in the air.

She realized all she could do was trust that his cryptic tale held the key to understanding the looming threat and protecting her kingdom.

With a newfound resolve, Lehara made her declaration, her voice firm and resolute, “Fine, I will listen. But know this—if you deceive me or bring harm to my people, no number of scars or stories will save you from the consequences.”

His eyes softened, his sincerity shining through. “I have no intention of deceiving you, Princess. I merely ask for your trust. Together, we will find the path to victory.” He paused, adopting a playful tone to lighten the mood. “Now, Princess, make yourself comfortable while I continue my tale.”

And so, she did, settling into her seat, ready to listen and unravel the mysteries that lay ahead.