Reign of Betrayal (The Prince and the Prisoner #1)

1. Reign

T his is my life now… I think to myself as I trudge further underground, each stone step forcing my muscles to stiffen and ache. My feet scrape against pebbles and debris, scattering them as I descend into the darkness—the unknown. Metal shackles bite into my wrists, their cold sting sharp as they jingle, the sound echoing off the stone walls. The pungent smell of dirt and stale air fills my nose as I continue further and further into the underground prison. The Hollows.

I never imagined I’d be twenty-years old and condemned to spend the rest of my life in prison. But here I am. My new reality.

My body throbs from the attack. My pale, lavender hair hangs in filthy clumps, matted with dirt and blood. I’m itchy from the royal guard’s blood, as well as my own, that had mixed and coated almost every inch of me. It has dried into a thick layer on my skin and clothes, and has begun to flake off.

Gross .

After what seems like an endless descent underground, we reach another guard. The echoes of our footsteps amplify my mounting sense of dread and uncertainty.

“We got a new one?” the new guard with a bald head and grizzly beard asks the others, both of whom are standing on either side of me.

“Yeah. She murdered a royal soldier,” the guard to my right replies, his voice thick with disgust.

The guard on my left snorts then adds, “Slit his throat—bled him like a hog.”

Pain wracks my body as I stand here with my hands shackled behind me, my mind running rampant. Unsure of what to expect, I shift my weight from leg to leg. The sound of my pulse is crashing rapidly in my ears at the memory of what I have done.

I did it. I killed him. I killed a royal guard.

The guard in front of me makes me squirm with consternation from the maliciousness of his gaze. He carries no weapon, but the sheer size of him seems enough to ensure his rules are followed. I know he is just sizing me up with that devious look on his face. I don’t even want to know what he is thinking.

“They call me Big Al. We won’t have any issues with you, will we, my dear?” His smile stretches wide as he leans in closer to my face—the smile is anything but friendly. The stench of alcohol clings to his breath. It’s enough to make me drunk or vomit—still deciding which. I can’t help but wonder how in the double burning hells I’m going to survive this.

I shake my head. “N-no sir.” I divert my eyes, not wanting to look evil in its face. His deep brown eyes make him look like he has spawned from one of the hells.

“Good!” He glances between the guards flanking me and waves them off. “I got her from here.”

The royal guards—my detainers, my oh-so-noble apprehenders—nod their heads and leave me, ascending the stone steps to get out of the underground prison. It’s where freedom awaits… just not for me.

“Briggs!” Big Al barks. It takes a moment, but soon a gangly, red-headed man appears behind the steel-barred door behind him.

“Yes, Warden?”

“Got a newcomer. Showers, print, and room.”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard, called Briggs, pulls out a set of keys to open the door. Grabbing my shackled arm, he drags me through the doorway before locking it behind us.

The clinking of the metal makes my teeth chatter, setting me more on edge—if that’s even possible. I am actually glad I’ll get to shower and get this blood off me.

Fear claws at my throat—making it hard for me to breathe—while my anxiety coils like a serpent in the pit of my stomach, just waiting to spring. I want to hunch over and hurl—anything, but continue into the unknown that’s swallowing me whole… but I can’t.

I must keep walking.

Keep going.

I put one unsteady foot in front of the next, even though every step builds more panic—more fear. My heart is pounding rapidly against my ribcage, like a prisoner wishing to escape confinement. Every new door we come to is the same: a barred, locked door and a guard there.

Great . I don’t think I’ll ever escape this place.

Ten doors later with more turns and hallways than I can count, we make it to a washroom… well, a sorry excuse for a washroom.

A female guard comes to the door. She looks me up and down, then smiles… well, more like snarls… at me.

“A newcomer?” she asks.

“Yeah.” he replies, “Shower, print, and room.”

“Got it.” She replies. Then, she pulls me into the washroom. There are multiple wash basins and toilets. The smell of mold filters through the air so strongly that I cannot imagine ever getting fully cleaned in this room. There is so much grime and muck on the floor, especially near the drains. I think my run-down house in the Drifts was better than this, and that’s saying something.

The stone walls are crumbling in some areas, leaving debris cluttering the dirty cement floor. A few torches hang unevenly on the walls that cage us in, casting a flickering light that barely touches the room’s far corners. The air is thick, suffocating even, as if the walls themselves are threatening to collapse and bury me here.

Hells… I hate this place.

“I am going to take your shackles off now. Do not run. Do not fight. If you try anything funny, I’ll break your jaw, Varlet.”

I nod, unsure how to respond.

I’m not a Varlet .

I’m not a dishonest or dangerous person.

I wasn’t a murderer—until today, that is.

She grabs my bloodied arm and spins me around, undoing the shackles. It is such a relief to have them off. The moment they fall away, I instinctively rub my chafed wrists.

“Strip. Now. Go to the basins and wash up. They are spelled so you will not run out of water. It’s the only magic that will work in this place. You have five minutes.” The guard gripes.

My eyes nervously take in the dank washroom, tracking every shadow. Trepidation forces me to tremble. Thank the gods and goddesses it’s only the two of us.

With shaking fingers, I fumble with the fabric of my dress. The tan material is now stained crimson. The once soft fabric is hard from dried layers of blood.

I pull the filthy dress off until there is a pile on the floor, and I’m left bare—broken and powerless. I cross one arm over my chest and use the other to shield between my legs. My feet squelch against something slimy, but I force myself to keep moving toward the basin.

I dip my hands into the water. It’s freezing. There’s no way I can pour this on myself.

“Hurry it up unless you want me to help you!” the guard gripes.

I huff in frustration and dump the basin over my head. The water crashes down, icy tendrils instantly biting into my flesh and chilling me to my core. My skin erupts in goosebumps.

Once the bucket is empty, it immediately refills itself. Without giving myself time to think, I dump another basin of water over me. Gritting my teeth, I snatch a nearby washcloth, soaking it in freezing water. I lather it with the odorless soap and begin to scrub furiously, dragging it over every inch of my body—cleansing every layer of grime off until my skin is raw.

But no matter how much I scrub, I now have blood on my hands and a tainted soul for eternity.

The water puddling at my feet is stained red. I continue dumping freezing bucket after bucket over myself until the water finally runs clear, and my pale lavender strands are no longer stained.

“Enough!” The guard snaps, tossing me a gray tunic and gray pants. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t give me anything to dry off with, so I put the dry clothes onto my wet body. The material is scratchy against my already irritated skin. I cannot help the involuntary shivers that seem to now rattle my body, making me shake like a leaf in the wind.

The impatient guard grips my arm, dragging me out of the washroom and through the halls. My bare feet slap against the cold stone as her boots echo beside me, accompanied by the jingle of her keys. The sound only makes me more nervous, more uncomfortable. It seems so desolate in these stone walls.

I’m going to die down here.

The panic grows like a weed. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to pick flowers again—to read a book again. Surrounded by this dark coldness, will I ever feel the warmth of the sun kissing my face? Being outside surrounded by nature was the only place I ever felt truly at peace. The thought of never experiencing that again tears at me, killing something deep inside.

We round a corner and enter a room with a few chairs and desks.

“Sit.” She barks the demand like I am a dog, while pointing to a stone chair. I do as commanded.

“Mannings will be here in just a moment,” she says, just as another guard steps through the barred doorway with blonde hair and a face full of freckles.

“Room after this?” he asks the female guard.

She nods, then strides out of the room—leaving me alone with yet another strange man.

The blonde guard glances at me. “Alright, give me your right arm.”

I hesitate, unsure why he would need my arm. “What are you going to do with it?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Crack .

My head snaps to the side. The backhand lands so hard that my ears begin ringing, the room spinning from my now blurry vision. The sound of the impact from his hand against my cheek echoes throughout the small, stone room.

“We own you now,” he sneers. “You don’t get to ask questions. Give me your damn right arm.”

Swallowing my protest, I extend my arm.

He drags a chair in front of me and opens a large black leather bag. He pulls out what looks like ink, a small hammer, and a needle. My stomach churns, sweat dripping from my brow at the sight of it.

What in the double burning hells is he going to do?

He grips my wrist and twists it, so my palm is facing up. Dipping the needle into the inkwell, he begins hammering it into my skin. Each tap burns, igniting my already chafed flesh.

When he finishes, the numbers 7296 are now permanently etched above my wrist. I make no sound, not wanting another backhand to the face. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out, though inside, I am screaming.

I guess this is who I am now.

7296.

Not a person. Just a number—a piece of property to be owned.

The guard wipes the ink away with a rough cloth, then repacks his tools.

“Let’s go,” he snaps.

I stand immediately, but my stomach cramps. My muscles are burning, face now throbbing, and every inch of me is aching in some way.

We move past door after door. It’s the same monotonous cycle—unlock, open, drag me through, shut, and lock. Each newly locked door makes me feel more and more like a caged, feral animal.

Finally, we reach a massive, oval room. The center is hollowed out, revealing all the levels of floors both above and below.

The Hollows.

Wrapped around the gaping hollow center, are stacks of prison cells. The filthy, stone walls are lined with cells on every level—some holding men, others holding women. Debris clutters the floors, and the air hangs heavy and stale. I crave fresh air, a breeze, anything that isn’t this suffocating stillness.

The guard marches me halfway around the room and shoves me into an empty cell, locking me in. The clang of the lock slamming shut behind me echoes like a final sentence.

Inside the cell, there are two stone beds on opposite walls with thin straw on them. In between the beds is a toilet and a wash basin on the dirty floor.

I walk over to one of the beds and lie down. The hard stone beneath me is cold, the straw stiff and prickly against my skin. I curl my knees to my chest, wishing for a blanket, or some comfort, or maybe a different life.

But this is it.

This is my life now.

There’s no escaping it.

I have never been truly loved by anyone, except my parents. Even then, I’ve never experienced the things little girls dream of. There is no point thinking about it now.

Tears prick my eyes as I surrender to the exhaustion. I close my eyes, letting sleep take me before the weight of the night can break me completely.

* * *

“7296! Let’s go!”

I jolt awake to the sound of a gruff voice and the clanking of metal against bars. My head is foggy, vision blurred. Disoriented, I glance at my arm, which is burning. The numbers 7296 are etched in black ink on my wrist. The skin around the ink is raised and stinging.

What the hells .

That’s right, I remind myself. I’m in prison. I’m a murderer now. How could I forget I murdered someone?

I shoot up quickly. My back and every possible muscle in my body protests, screaming from the movement. Brushing the straw from my clothes, I shuffle to the cell door.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir? Oh, I like that,” the creepy guard croaks, flashing a closed-lipped, unsettling smile. “Time for the ring.”

“The ring?” I say with confusion not sure what he is referring to.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Learn to keep your mouth shut, do as you’re told, and you might survive. All newcomers go to the ring on their first day—compliments of the warden, Big Al,” the guard replies.

As we pass cell after cell, prisoners’ eyes follow me from behind their metal bars. Their whispers trail off into a haunting silence, the weight of their stares sinking into my bones. My legs tremble under the crushing uncertainty. Not knowing what awaits me fills me with dread. My heart pounds faster with every step, my breath shallow and ragged, trying to match the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

At the far end of the prison, we pass through locked doors and wind down more hallways until we reach a new room. The space is vast, yet suffocating, with rows of seats surrounding a roped-off stage in the center. Dim torches line the bare, dirty stone walls and the ring—scattering light across the stage, casting long, taunting shadows.

Most of the people in the seats wear the same ‘stylish’ gray tunic and pants I’ve been given—yup, definitely inmates. I spot a few guards among them, standing out in brown uniforms.

The guard escorting me leads me toward the stage and nudges me up the steps. My legs feel like jelly, each step making my muscles scream with apprehension. Uneven, panicked breaths escape me, like a dog panting in the summer heat back in the alleys of the Drifts.

At the center of the stage, a tall, lean inmate with short brown hair that comes to her chin and piercing golden eyes stands waiting. Her expression is unreadable, giving nothing away. I have no idea what’s about to happen, but I already know I’m not going to like it.

Big Al climbs the steps to the stage, his wide smile flashing toward the crowd.

“As you all know, we like to give the newcomers a huge welcome on their first night here.” He smiles widely, looking at all the inmates and guards in the chairs around us.

Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad.

“7296, this is 6941.” He gestures between us.

I nod at her.

She nods back, her expression blank.

My gaze drops to the floor, and I notice dark brown stains all over the stage. Odd. Hells, is that… blood?

Big Al clasps his hands together. “6941, you know the drill. 7296, the fight ends when one of you gets knocked out.”

My eyes widen as my heart slams against my ribs.

My breath catches in my throat.

A fight? Fight!? The only fight I’ve ever been in was earlier—with the royal guards.

Big Al steps off the stage and strikes a gong. The deep vibration ripples through me, raising the hairs on my arms.

6941 immediately starts bouncing on her feet, two fists up and shielding her face. She clearly isn’t new at this.

She darts forward, her right fist flying toward my face. I try to move, but I’m too slow. Her fist slams into my nose, the sharp crunch of bone sending an explosion of pain through my head.

“Sorry,” she whispers so faintly I can’t tell if she actually said it—or if I’m already concussed.

She steps in closer. I try to throw a punch, but it’s more like the frantic swipe of a flailing cat. She dodges it with ease, then spins and catches me in the face with a kick.

That’s the last thing I remember.

* * *

I wake in my cell, my head throbbing. The rough straw pokes into my skin, and the chill from the stone bed seeps into me. I squint against the dim light, trying to gather my bearings.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Swinging my upper body into a sitting position, I see the brown-haired woman with gleaming golden eyes sitting on the bed opposite of me, her back against the wall.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to fight,” she says, raising her hands in mocking surrender. “The guards thought it would be fun to stick us together.”

Of course they did.

“I’m Larah, or 6941, as they like to call me.” She tilts her head, studying me. “I have never seen anyone with lavender-colored eyes before.”

“I’m Reign.” The words stumble out awkwardly from my mouth as I shift uncomfortably. I have also never seen anyone with lavender eyes or hair.

Larah’s gaze lingers on me—curious, unblinking. I fidget under her scrutiny, unsure what to say, and finally drop my legs off the side of the bed, sitting up fully.

“What you in for?” she asks, her eyes scanning me like she’s assessing whether I’m friend or foe.

I scoff. “What are you in for?” I keep my tone clipped, short.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together as she stares at the dirty stone floor.

“I killed a royal guard after they attacked me and killed my husband. I have been here over a year, maybe two now. I don’t know anymore.” She looks up, expectant.

When I don’t respond, she just blankly stares at me. Her golden-orbed gaze is unsettling.

“Same,” I mutter. “The royal guards came in the night—tried to kill me after they killed my husband.”

The weight of the past night crashes down on me, making every part of my body throb. I glance at the blood-streaked tunic clinging to me, and my chest tightens.

Larah, or 6941, whatever her name is, notices my reaction—her expression flickers with guilt.

“Sorry about that. It would have been worse for you if I didn’t draw blood.”

Reaching up, I feel a crack in my lip, and my nose is sore to touch.

“Have any kids?” she asks, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Thank the Gods and Goddesses, no,” I reply. The thought alone makes my stomach unsettled. I couldn’t imagine having children during a time like this.

Larah’s expression softens, something like understanding flickering in her eyes.

“I don’t either. I was pregnant but...” Her words trail off.

I sit there in silence, giving her space to share or not, letting her work through her thoughts.

“A few moons ago,” she continues, her voice distant, “a guard knocked me up. When he realized it… Well, he made sure it wasn’t an issue anymore.”

Double burning hells.

I shudder.

Was it consensual?

Forced?

I cannot imagine going through that. The thought of it makes my skin crawl.

Hells, will I have to go through that?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, letting the silence settle between us for a moment.

Pain shoots through my side, making me wince. One of the guards must’ve bruised one of my ribs, and the ache refuses to let up. Larah gets to her feet and offers me a clean gray tunic and pants.

“Change into these. I’ll help you wash the ones you are wearing.”

I hesitate, suspicion gnawing at me, and my curiosity getting the best of me. “Why… why would you be nice to me? Why give me your tunic and a pair pants?”

Larah chuckles softly. “First off, I am not giving them to you. You can use them until you win a few matches in the ring and earn your own second pair. Second…” she pauses, as if weighing her words, “I wish someone had helped me when I first got here. You will get used to this place—eventually.”

Gods and Goddesses… How does anyone get used to this?

I stand, stripping off my clothes off as discretely as I can. As I dress, Larah busies herself at the wash basin, scrubbing the bloodstained garments with soap.

“So, I take it you have never fought before?” she asks without looking up from where she’s squatting on the floor, cleaning the bloody garments. I let the sloshing of the water be the only sound for just a moment before answering her question.

“Not until last night,” I shrug, trying to sound indifferent, though the memory still stings.

She glances at my arms, her gaze sharp. “Those bruises… they’re old. Some real old. The husband do those?”

Instinctively, I cover my arms.

Hells, she’s observant.

“Yeah,” I admit, my voice low. I’m not used to people noticing—or caring. In the Drifts, we just tried to survive. No one had time to worry about a few bruises.

As ashamed as I am, I have nothing else to lose. I have desperately needed a friend these last few years, since I was forced to marry him at age seventeen. My mother got sick and was dying. She left so I didn’t have to see her pass. I could only hope she was peaceful in her final moments.

I didn’t want to talk about how I was left with a total stranger to be my husband. He was from the double hells himself, as handsome as he was, that was all he had going for him. He was a devil with a pretty mask and a strong backhand, along with a drinking, gambling, and infidelity problem. What a perfect concoction for a human. I would have been better off surviving in the Drifts alone. He was the one who taught me that real love does not exist, and that I should always guard my heart.

The Drifts—it wasn’t much, but it was mine. It was a dilapidated slum on the border of Umbrahdor and Valrum, where the sand from Valrum’s dunes drifted into every corner. It is full of Nomatrabs, weak magic-wielders, and the poor. The Drifts were rough, but it was still home.

I sigh and rub a hand down my face. Just thinking of my home makes me miss it and realize what my life has become.

“Well,” Larah says, “you’ll need to learn how to fight if you want to survive here. The guards run fighting rings at least once a month—or whenever they’re bored. Elm will help too. He’s in the hole now, but he’ll be out soon.”

“Elm? The hole?” I ask, confused.

“Elm’s another inmate. He took me under his wing,” Larah explains. “He helped me a little after I first got here. He’s got a soft spot for the defenseless.”

She frowns, her expression darkening. “The hole is... well, it’s exactly what it sounds like: a pit in the stone. No light, damp as hell, and they leave you there for days. Sometimes they drip water on you, sometimes they starve you—whatever it takes to break you.”

I can’t contain my gasp. How am I going to survive this place? How can anyone survive... this place?

Just then, three guards appear across the open center of the prison, visible through the gaps that let us see the levels above and below. They drag a filthy, beaten man to a cell opposite ours and shove him inside.

As soon as the guards walk away, the man turns toward us. A wide grin spreads across his dirty face, and he waves—not at me, but at Larah.