Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The only time Ren had seen the Prince—now King—was for the few, brief moments during the trial that had sealed his fate.
The Wolf had looked intimidating from afar, but seeing him closer up made an even worse worry churn Ren’s stomach.
The new King was terrifying with his hard features, a permanent scowl on his face, and scars which still looked fresh with how red and angry they were.
He had the same dark hair and eyes his parents did, but his height and broad shoulders made him feel more menacing than the late King and Queen.
He loomed over Ren as he eyed him up and down. He wasn’t even paying attention to what the doctor and Falk were explaining to him; his gaze was even more intense than Falk usually watched him with.
And Ren watched him right back.
His eyes were narrowed, a frown on his own lips as he stared up at his King.
“Oren,” Falk snapped when he realized the King wasn’t paying any attention.
“I don’t see why this is even a question,” Oren responded, still not looking away from Ren. His stiff posture and wide stance suggested that he was ready for Ren to rip his throat out the moment he looked away. “He is a prisoner. He must be held down in the cells.”
“He is still extremely sick, Your Highness,” the doctor said quickly. “He miscarried at 16 weeks. It will take his body a long time to heal entirely.”
That finally snapped Oren out of whatever trance he was under, his gaze finally moving to the other Alphas. “16 weeks?” he echoed.
“Yes,” the doctor said slowly. Ren wondered what that look between the two of them could possibly mean.
“We believe… That is why he murdered those Alphas—I have reason to believe that the abuse he faced is what caused his mental break. And now, he is honestly lucky to be alive after this—if Falk hadn’t brought him up here when he did, he could have easily gotten an infection and?—”
“No,” Oren said. “If he is well enough to be sitting up in bed right now glaring at me like that, he is healthy enough to go back to his cell.”
Falk looked over at Ren who crossed his arms even tighter over his chest and scowled even harder at Oren. Ren despised how Oren smelled—like the pine trees of the forest he was told never to enter alone, and the slightest hint of citrus.
“Ignore him and listen to what we are trying to tell you,” Falk snapped. Ren’s eyebrows rose at the tone—Falk and their King really must be close if he was allowed to speak to him like that without fear for his life.
“And I’m telling you?—-”
“Oren,” the doctor interrupted, stepping between him and Falk. His voice dropped to such a soft whisper; Ren had to strain to hear it. “You know how few Omegas are currently being born—you know how much we need them.”
“He is no longer dying, right?” Oren snapped. The doctor hesitated but nodded with a sigh. “Then he can go back down to his prison cell for now.”
“I want to perform a psychiatric evaluation on him,” the doctor said. “Which is also why I want to keep him up here for a while longer.”
“You can perform your evaluation down in the prison with him,” the King muttered, his gaze sweeping back to Ren. Ren shivered as he felt those eyes roving over him, calculating. “You will have plenty of opportunities for it seeing he will be there for a very long time.”
Ren wasn’t sure how many days, weeks, months went by.
The days all started blending together once he was back down in his dingy cell.
He had been surprised to find a new mattress waiting for him; he wondered if his blood had soaked through the previous one to the point they thought it was cruel to make even a prisoner sleep on it.
And, for the first little while, the doctor came to see him once, twice, three times a day—Ren wasn’t entirely sure.
At first, the doctor just checked him over physically which Ren quickly became numb to. His body slowly became less sore, slowly became more like what it was before—though he couldn’t place a finger on what the ache inside of him was.
And then it became obvious the doctor was beginning the psychiatric evaluation he had mentioned. Ren had decided pretty quickly he didn’t want to partake and stared at the doctor, expressionless, every time he came until he finally gave up.
After the doctor stopped visiting, Ren truly had no way of counting the days.
He used to count them with how often Falk left, but now he was gone more and more often.
He had meant to ask Falk where he was going nowadays, why they suddenly didn’t think Ren needed a 24/7 guard, but he couldn’t get his lips to move anymore.
He couldn’t even get words to come out when Falk tried to speak with him, tried to ask him questions, or even tried to get him to eat some extra food.
But then, the monotonous days came to a close when Falk and the doctor appeared together alongside several other Alphas.
Ren sat up, curious at the serious expressions on all of their faces and the difference in clothes they all wore.
Falk was always dressed the same—in the black uniform of the Warriors consisting of leather pants and shirts, with a sweater or jacket thrown over it during the winter months.
But today, Falk didn’t wear the familiar all black outfit, instead he was dressed in red and white—just like the rest of the Alphas were.
Ren watched the Alphas who were making their way further into the prison as Falk fished out his keys to unlock Ren’s cell door.
Ren scrambled to his feet. Falk pushed the door open and closed it behind himself, closing the two of them in together. “What’s going on?” He asked.
“The King’s coronation,” Falk said, his words short and sharp. He pulled out a small bundle of clothing Ren hadn’t even seen him holding. “You need to be dressed in the prisoner’s colors.”
“Prisoner’s colors?” Ren echoed. “I have to wear a special outfit to sit down here while the King is crowned?”
Falk blinked at him before nodding his head slowly. “All prisoners are taken up to the coronation as well. It is tradition.”
“Why?” Ren asked, baffled. “Is it not a terrible idea to have a bunch of criminals attend a new King taking the throne? What if one of us got away and tried to kill him?”
Falk’s expression told him he had never considered that, but it was quickly wiped from his features. He held out the clothing again, “Please get changed into this.”
Ren wasn’t going to say ‘no’ to new clothing.
He grabbed the garments out of Falk’s hands and was quick to rid himself of the linen pants and light sweater he had been wearing.
Falk averted his eyes the moment Ren’s skin was on display.
Ren almost wanted to tease him, but refrained.
Instead, he tugged the dull gray tunic and pants on without protest.
Once he was done, Falk locked the cuffs around his wrists again which attached to an iron chain.
Ren was vaguely reminded of when they were taken to their trial—something that felt like a lifetime ago.
He recognized a few of the Alphas lined up with the other guards.
A few faces were more gaunt and skinnier than they had the first time they were taken above in handcuffs together.
He laughed at how funny an image they must be—so many Alphas and himself, lining up like little ducks in a row.
He was surprised to see one of the other prisoners was smiling at him as Falk led him out of his cell and to the back of the line.
Ren chewed his lip; the Alpha looked kind enough, and much younger than many of the other prisoners, not like someone who should be down here.
But Ren supposed he also didn’t look like the type of person who should be down here rotting away his youth either.
When Ren fell into line beside Falk, the prisoner turned around, still smiling at Ren. “Do you not recognize me?”
“Quiet,” the Warrior at the front of the line snapped.
Ren frowned and shook his head once.
“I was the?—”
“Face forward,” Falk ordered, pointing a finger toward where he was supposed to be looking.
The man continued smiling, shrugged once and said, “Thank you for the ball.”
It took Ren a moment to put it together before a grin slid over his own face. “Thank you for the bread.”
Falk didn’t reprimand them again—maybe he was also a bit soft on the Alpha prisoner who had given up so much of his own bread for Ren.
Once the Warriors were sure they were all accounted for and were properly restrained, they began the march up the stairs.
This journey was where Ren truly felt what the last few months had done to his body—his legs ached and screamed in protest over just a few stairs, his back aching from the strain of so many.
Ren squinted when they finally got to the top of the stairs—the sunlight was too bright.
It reminded him of when he first woke up in the infirmary—his eyes wanted to shut tightly, wanted to protect him from the rays of the sun.
But Falk tugged him along, jerking his hands forward until his feet had to follow. Ren glared at his guard.
Falk was stiff beside him, his back straight, shoulders back, and eyes forward like a true Warrior. Ren tipped his head to one side, wondering when Falk stopped seeming like a Warrior to him.
Falk didn’t even glance at him even as Ren stared, watching his profile as they walked.
He found it odd, knowing if they weren’t in such a serious, professional setting, he would have seen the little uptick at the corner of Falk’s mouth by now or would have even gotten a snarky little quip from him.
Ren decided he really didn’t like Falk when he had to act as a Warrior.
The coronation had yet to begin when they stepped outside. Ren tipped his face back so he could feel the slight burn that would pink his skin by the end of the day. He didn’t care—he wanted to feel the sun’s warmth, wanted to etch the feeling into his mind so he never forgot it again.