The first thing I felt was the cold.

It seeped into my skin, deep into my bones, a damp, biting chill that made it hard to breathe. My head throbbed, a slow, pulsing pain at the base of my skull where I’d been struck. My mouth was dry, my limbs heavy, but worse than any of that was the sharp pressure around my wrists and ankles.

I was chained.

My eyes fluttered open to complete darkness.

For a moment, I thought I had gone blind, but as my vision adjusted, I saw the faintest sliver of dim, flickering light coming from the base of a heavy iron door across the room. Shadows danced along the floor, stretching and curling as if mocking me.

The stone walls around me were rough, uneven, and slick with moisture. A deep, musky scent of mold, damp earth, and stale air filled my nose.

A dungeon.

And I was alone.

The chains rattled as I shifted, my shoulders screaming in protest from being left in the same position for too long. My arms were stretched above me, the cold iron shackles biting into my wrists, bolted into the wall behind me. My legs were shackled too, but with just enough slack to allow me to sit slumped against the damp stone.

I tried to pull against them, testing for weakness, but the metal was thick and solid. No rust, no give. Whoever put me here wasn’t taking chances.

There was no furniture, no straw mat, no bucket—nothing to indicate that this was a holding cell meant for long-term prisoners. The floor beneath me was nothing but cold stone, damp from the water that dripped somewhere in the darkness. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic drip… drip… drip of moisture falling from the ceiling, echoing faintly in the enclosed space.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears.

Where was Drea? Where was Malric? Garvin?

Had they been taken too? Or was I the only one missing?

I clenched my fists, the chains rattling again.

No. I had to think.

If I was alone, then I had been targeted specifically. That meant whoever took me knew what I was.

The Ashen Court? The King’s men? Someone else entirely?

I sucked in a slow breath and exhaled through my nose. Panicking wouldn’t help. I needed to figure out where I was, who had me, and how the hell I was going to get out.

The heavy iron door loomed in front of me. Somewhere beyond it, someone had the answers.

I just had to live long enough to get them.

I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, forcing myself to focus past the pain. My head was still ringing from the blow that had taken me down, my thoughts sluggish, but I couldn’t afford to waste time.

I reached inward, calling on the Darkness—on the corruption that had become part of me.

At first, there was nothing.

The chains were cold, solid, pressing into my skin like they had always been there. I pushed harder, concentrating, feeling for the inky tendrils that usually responded so easily.

Then—a flicker.

A pulse of something dark and shifting.

It stirred inside me, sluggish and slow, like it was buried under layers of exhaustion. Like something was pressing it down.

I exhaled sharply, pushing harder, willing the corruption to move, to slide between the chains and my skin, to spread through the metal and force it apart.

At first, it resisted.

Then, inch by inch, it began to slip out.

Thin, shadowy tendrils pushed from my wrists, curling like thick ink seeping into water. The cold bite of metal began to dull as the Darkness wedged itself between me and the iron.

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I gritted my teeth, willing it further.

But the moment the tendrils touched the chains fully, a sharp burn shot through my arms.

I sucked in a breath, my body tensing involuntarily.

Something was wrong.

The corruption recoiled, snapping back into me like a wounded animal. The chains **flared—just for a second—**a dull red glow pulsing from the iron.

I hissed, biting back a curse.

They were warded.

Whoever had taken me knew exactly what I was.

And they had come prepared.

The first sound was footsteps. Slow, deliberate, the unmistakable weight of armored boots against stone. Then came the clinking of metal—not the rattling of loose chainmail, but the controlled movements of plate armor, expertly fitted and well-worn.

A torchlight flickered beneath the doorway, the dim orange glow stretching thin across the damp stone floor. It paused for just a moment—then the iron hinges groaned as the door creaked open.

He stepped inside.

At first, I only saw his silhouette—tall, broad, commanding. The torchlight caught on the etched steel of his armor, revealing a breastplate of dark, polished metal, trimmed in a deep, crimson gold. Unlike the gilded ceremonial armor of noblemen, this was made for battle. The plates were heavy, reinforced, worn with use.

The cloak draped over his shoulders was a rich, deep red, trimmed in black fur, its fabric thick enough to ward off the cold of high mountain peaks. The weight of it dragged slightly as he moved, a subtle sign that it wasn’t just for show.

But it was his face that told me exactly who he was.

He had the chiseled, sharp features of a warrior-king—a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a straight, imperious nose. His golden-brown hair was cropped shorter than I would have expected, just long enough to frame the piercing, ice-blue eyes that studied me like I was a puzzle he was in no rush to solve. There was no anger in them, no cruelty—only calculated patience.

A thin scar cut down from his left brow to his cheekbone, a reminder that he had earned his throne in blood. He was no soft ruler sitting on a cushioned seat of power. This was a man who had seen war—who had survived it.

And above it all, atop his head, was the crown.

It was no gaudy, gem-studded piece meant for ballrooms and ceremonies.

This was a war crown—a circlet of dark iron, inlaid with veins of red metal that glowed faintly in the torchlight. It was seamless, unbroken, a band of unyielding strength, rising into three sharp, blade-like points, each marked with a different carved sigil.

The crown of a ruler.

The crown of a conqueror.

The crown of Emperor Titan, King of the Empire.

He stepped forward, his gloved hand reaching up to hang the torch in the iron sconce on the wall. The moment the flame settled, its light shifted, casting deep shadows across his armor, reflecting in his cold, calculating eyes.

The glow flickered over the walls, turning the damp stone into a muted, red-streaked abyss.

He clasped his hands behind his back, watching me in silence.

I was staring into the face of the most powerful man in the world.

He walked up to me and stared down, his piercing ice-blue eyes locking onto mine with an unreadable expression.

"You got me," I muttered, my voice hoarse from disuse. My wrists ached where the warded chains bit into my skin. "The corrupted Outlander. Now what?"

For a moment, he didn’t react. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a wicked grin.

Not one of amusement. Not one of arrogance.

Something colder. Something hungrier.

Without a word, he stretched out his right arm to his side.

And then I saw it.

The black ooze.

It slithered down his arm like living ink, pooling at his fingertips before growing, expanding, stretching— until it hardened into the shape of a sword.

A blade of pure obsidian black, glistening like wet stone in the torchlight.

I stopped breathing.

He was corrupted.

The ruler of the Empire—the man hunting Outlanders, the man who commanded the Ashen Court, the most powerful force in this world—was just like me.

And yet, he stood free. No chains. No restraints.

He was not a prisoner.

He was in control.

Slowly, he lifted the sword. The edge hovered just beneath my chin, so close I could feel the unnatural cold radiating from it.

I stared up at him, my mind racing, my pulse pounding in my ears.

What the hell was going on?

The End