"Ughh..." Elian groaned, rolling onto his side on the dirty, muddy stable floor.
Apart from the ache he felt all over his body, he loved every other thing. Yes, even the mud—but especially the golden rays shining over his body.
Three months in the dark dungeon made him so appreciative of even the most stupid things.
He groaned again as he gently opened his eyes, only to realize that he was lying in front of a wooden stall.
For a moment, his vision swam, blurred by pain and exhaustion. Then, slowly, it cleared.
A large horse stood just beyond the half-door, its powerful leg visible through the narrow gap beneath it. The animal shifted slightly, hooves scraping softly against the ground.
Elian blinked, his dry lips parting as a weak breath left him.
A stable.
Of course, it's a stable.
He could recall the wicked duke instructing that huge guard to bring him here.
He had struggled with Edgar, trying to escape under the rain, but he'd only ended up getting beaten to a stupor.
He propped himself up and shut his eyes instantly as his head pounded like it was being stomped by a horse's hooves.
"Blasted," he muttered, his hand going up to palm the side of his head.
"Curse you, Duke Valemount," he whispered as he blindly reached out for any support in front of him.
He was scared of reopening his eyes and experiencing another wave of pounding pain.
He sighed as his hand grabbed onto something solid.
A leg?
It couldn't be.
However, as he was about to get a better grasp of whatever that was, he received a heavy kick to his head, sending him flying backward.
"Ugh!" Elian groaned painfully, his vision blurring instantly.
His ears rang loudly, but he managed to faintly make out the heavy footsteps moving toward him.
"Get up, you flea bag!" Edgar growled.
Elian choked, coughing from a parched throat.
He knew he should stand as ordered. He'd learned the hard way that stubbornness merited instant pain.
"I said, up!" Edgar barked.
Elian inhaled shakily and forced his eyes open.
The world swirled around him, but he still managed to get himself standing, swaying like a dying tree.
"You are punishing the wrong person, sire," he staggered, his bruised fingers grasping onto the stall door to keep himself from falling.
The horse inside the stall whinnied, trotting its hooves gently at the intruder.
"Move it," Edgar grabbed onto Elian's collar and pulled him away.
Elian's vision went dark for a few seconds, his toes stumbling against stones as Edgar kept pulling him along without giving him a minute to catch his breath.
"The Duke awaits you," Edgar tugged harder as they walked toward the duke's stone-walled mansion.
The Duke.
For a second, fear gripped Elian's soul.
His fingers trembled slightly as he recalled the face of his father's executioner.
Why was the Duke so adamant about him?
Was he his next victim?
"Argh!" Elian's eyes widened in horror as a jagged splinter pierced through the sole of his foot, warm blood oozing beneath him as pain shot up his leg.
Edgar did not stop.
"Ughh, m-my leg, I—"
"You will be quiet, boy!" Edgar suddenly turned and growled, the sun casting over the deep scar under his right eye.
Elian froze, his curly brown hair falling away from his dirty face as he stared up at the giant man in front of him.
Fear and pain... they were a bad combination.
Sweat matted his face and neck, clinging his hair to his nape and forehead, his head feeling heavy with the continuous loss of blood.
"I... I will see the Duke, sire," Elian said hoarsely, his head falling in defeat as his curls fell over his face, shielding his tears from his foe.
"You have no choice, son of a traitor," Edgar snarled and tugged his collar like a stubborn dog.
The stone-walled mansion loomed in front of them, foreshadowing Elian's doom.
He bit his lip to keep from groaning with every step. The bleeding did not cease, and the splinter only drove deeper into his foot.
As they approached, the guards in front of the gigantic wooden door immediately pushed it open, nodding to Edgar with respect while their eyes scorned Elian.
With a parched throat, heavy head, stinging foot, weak limbs, blurry eyes, and bleeding feet, Elian once again stepped into the duke's grand hall.
The polished black marble reflected his wasted self so well that it hurt to look.
He forced his head up, preferring to watch his surroundings. And that was how he realized that he was being dragged toward the long staircase in the center of the grand hall.
They climbed the stairs and stopped right in front of another door with two men standing guard.
"His grace is having a meal, Edgar. He..." one of the guards pointed at Elian in disdain, "is a sore sight."
Elian kept his head lowered. It would hurt less if he didn't look into the eyes of his haters.
"His grace has asked for him. Are you disobeying an order?" Edgar asked slowly, towering over both men.
The guards exchanged looks and immediately stepped out of the way.
"You may enter," they said.
With a huff, Edgar pushed the door in and tugged Elian along.
The moment they stepped into the room, Elian was welcomed by the sweet aroma of food before he even took note of the high ceilings.
The room was large and long, and at the end of the dark wood table that took up much of the space sat the man who haunted Elian's unconscious mind.
Lucien sat like a king at the end of the long table, his hands gloved like last night.
His meal perfectly displayed in front of him.
Two maidens stood behind him, waiting.
And the moment his green eyes landed on Elian, the temperature in the room dropped to a freezing degree.
Their eyes locked—one observing, judging; the other masking, afraid.
Elian was lost for a moment, struggling to pick which object to focus on.
The hot, steaming meal in front of Lucien, or Lucien's dangerously handsome face.
"Come forward, Young Morel," Lucien's smooth voice echoed through the large dining hall.
He was snapped out of his daze by Lucien's command.
Edgar released him, pushing him forward.
He groaned quietly, his pulse dancing in his ears as he limped over to the Duke.
His nails clutched the side of his dirty shirt, head hung low as he fought the urge to push over the table in rage.
"Stop," Lucien's voice rang out again, halting Elian three feet away from him.
Elian stopped, heaving quietly as the small journey had taken a heavy toll on his injury.
"Kneel," Lucien ordered.
Before Elian could even muster the strength to go down on his injured knee, Edgar's large hand pressed him down by the shoulder, his knees cracking as they collided involuntarily with the hard floor.
"Ah," a gasp escaped Elian's lips.
He couldn't keep that one in—the pain was getting too much to bear.
A gentle scrape of a chair.
Unhurried footsteps.
Finally, Lucien's dark shadow towered over Elian.
The sun from the cathedral window caught the glaring contrast between them.
One stood tall, his outfit regal and intimidating, his aura fiercely royal and dark. The other knelt with a slouched back, his appearance depicting his lowly state; he looked small, like a caged animal—broken, yet mysterious.
"Young Morel," Lucien called slowly, not moving an inch from his position.
Elian gulped, taking a shuddering breath before lifting his head to look at the monster in front of him.
The good-looking monster.
It was a shame that the only thing good about royalty was their looks; everything else was rotten—especially their hearts and souls.
Blue eyes met dark green ones, and the world paused in that moment.
Lucien stared at Elian with resentment for his father's actions, and Elian stared at Lucien with pure hatred for executing his father unjustly.
It was safe to say the two men understood each other instantly without words—a connection only two bound souls could share. But in their case, they were bound by the burning hatred coursing through their veins for each other.
"Tell me why your father wanted to have me dead," Lucien spoke calmly, his eyes never wavering from Elian's defiant blue ones.
Elian balled his fists.
He shut his eyes for a second and shook his head gently, trying to stay conscious as his blood loss worsened.
"I..." he shook his head again, gritting his teeth, "my father was innocent—"
He was cut short by a harsh slap from Lucien.
Elian's face didn't just snap to the side from the impact.
He flew.
The force sent his body crashing against the sturdy leg of the table.
Elian coughed, blood spilling from his mouth like the night before.
I'm going to die, he thought as he lay curled up on the floor.
He could hear Lucien's footsteps striding toward him, but his body was too weak to run.
Was he doomed to die by the same man who killed his father?