The iron door groaned open.
Carlden returned with the Crown Prince of Loryn, flanked by Marcus and Veronica who shoved him forward.
The young man's chin was high, his golden hair disheveled but his pride intact. Shackles bound his wrists, yet his arrogance filled the room.
"So this is the great Regent," he sneered, his voice smooth with disdain. "The thief who stole what was meant for me."
Alaric's gaze sharpened. "What was meant for you?"
"Rose Daphne," he said, his tone almost reverent. "She was the only one worthy. A formidable woman, fit to be queen. My queen. I intended to take her as my wife, to stand beside me when I claimed Eldoria's throne. But you..." his lip curled in disgust, "you snatched her like some greedy dog."
The room froze.
Alaric didn't move at first. His breath came deep and ragged.
Then, without warning, he closed the distance and drove his fist into the prince's face.
The crack echoed through the dungeon, louder than the torches' hiss.
