Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Finn’s world shrank to the walls of his stifling cell. Time blurred, the endless dark broken only by the taunting glow of torchlight bleeding in from the corridor.
He no longer knew how long he had been here—days, maybe weeks.
The stone beneath him was unforgiving, digging into his muscles until even the smallest shift sent pain lancing through his stiff limbs.
Hunger plagued him constantly, a dull ache that only deepened with each passing hour.
The meager rations they tossed at him were hardly enough to keep him breathing.
At first, he had tried to mark the hours, counting the footsteps that echoed through the corridors. Now, he simply existed.
The silence was unrelenting. It sank into his bones, turned his own thoughts against him. He combed through every second of his confrontation with King Darius, every word exchanged, searching for some other path he could have taken. Some way he could have won.
But there was none.
He had made the only choice he could live with.
And then…Cedric. Always Cedric. His memories cut through the dark like a shaft of moonlight on a starless night.
Cedric’s warm chuckle when Finn had fumbled with a carving knife. The warmth of his fingers over Finn’s own, guiding him. The way his voice had cracked when he’d said he needed time.
And then there were the memories Cedric hadn’t meant to leave behind.
The quiet, unguarded moments. The way his body had trembled against Finn’s that night—breath hitching, fingers curling into him, like he wasn’t sure how to hold on but couldn’t bear to let go.
And the soft, pleased sound he’d made when Finn had pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Finn clenched his jaw, dragging the memories closer, holding onto them with everything he had. Because if he let go—if he let the darkness swallow him whole—he didn’t know if he’d find his way back.
Because if Cedric was out there, alive, then Finn had to survive. Somewhere beyond these walls, Cedric was waiting for him.
And Finn refused to let this dungeon become his grave.
A grating scrape jolted him from his haze. The cell door.
Finn forced himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. His head spun, and the world lurched around him.
A guard stepped inside, carrying a battered tray with a chunk of stale bread and a tin cup of water that sloshed dangerously with every step.
“Here’s your feast, traitor,” the man sneered, shoving the tray forward. It hit the ground hard. The cup toppled, spilling most of its precious contents across the filthy stone.
Finn swallowed against the painful dryness in his throat. He kept his expression neutral.
“Enjoying your new accommodations?” The guard smirked, his voice thick with mockery. “Quite a step down from the knights’ quarters, eh?”
Finn said nothing. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.
He reached for the bread, ignoring the tremor in his fingers.
The guard chuckled, watching. “Look at you now. The mighty Sir Finnian, brought low. Was it worth it? Betraying your king for what?” Then, with a wicked grin, he added, “They say you claimed the princess for yourself before throwing away your honor.”
Finn’s stomach twisted. Bile burned his throat. “What?” His voice came hoarse, cracking from disuse.
The guard’s smirk widened. “Oh? Touched a nerve, have I?”
Finn clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait.
The guard laughed. “Well, enjoy your meal. It might be your last if you don’t start talking soon.”
He kicked the empty cup, sending it clattering against the far wall. Then, with one final smug glance, he turned and strode out, the clang of the cell door slamming shut behind him.
Silence returned.
Finn stared at the scraps before him, his stomach twisting. Hunger and revulsion warred inside him, but weakness would not serve him here. He forced himself to swallow every dry, tasteless crumb. When the last of the moisture clung to the tin cup, he licked it clean.
Shame burned in his mind, even as his body savored the meager relief.
Then came more footsteps. Not just one set. Several.
The sound echoed through the dungeon like the toll of a funeral bell. Something’s different. Finn tensed, instincts kicking in despite his exhaustion.
The cell door groaned open, iron grinding against stone. Finn’s breath caught.
King Darius stood in the doorway. Flanked by a pair of Kings Guard, the monarch stepped inside, surveying the tiny cell with thinly veiled distaste. His nose wrinkled at the filth in the corners, but when his gaze landed on Finn, his mouth curved into something almost amused.
“Ah, Sir Finnian,” Darius drawled, stepping forward. “I trust you’re finding your accommodations…motivating.”
Finn pushed himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, but he stood.
He would not kneel before this man. Never again.
He met Darius’s gaze. “Your Majesty. To what do I owe the honor?”
Darius tilted his head, amusement gleaming in his dark eyes.
“Come now, Sir Finnian. Surely you know why I’m here.
” His tone was light, almost jovial. “I’ve given you ample time to reconsider your position,” Darius continued, studying him like a piece of bruised fruit.
“Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
Finn held his ground. “You sound desperate, Your Majesty.” He lifted his chin. Defiant. Unbroken.
Darius stilled.
For a moment, just a breath, his mask slipped—his expression tightening, something ugly flashing behind his eyes.
His smile returned, stretched too thin. Forced. “You speak of treason,” he said, but the words lacked the lazy amusement from before. His voice was colder now, brittle with barely restrained fury.
He stepped forward, faster this time, closing the space between them with a suddenness that sent Finn’s instincts flaring. “Listen to me very carefully, Finnian,” he murmured, low and lethal. “I am offering you one last chance.”
A pause. A beat where all the warmth in his expression drained away.
“Tell me where Gwenna is. Tell me about the dragon. And all will be forgiven.” He spread his arms wide—too wide, too performative, a show of control that rang hollow.
“You can return to your life. You will be restored. Your name will be cleared.” He tilted his head, his smile widening like a fissure in glass. “Isn’t that what you want?”
For one agonizing moment, Finn let himself imagine it. The cool sheets of his quarters. His polished armor awaiting him. Sunwrath at his hip. The ease of slipping back into a life where his only duty was to serve, to belong.
No questions. No betrayals. No impossible choices.
But then…Cedric.
Finn gritted his teeth. “You keep asking, like I’ll suddenly grow a conscience that matches yours.” He shook his head. “Not happening.”
Darius’s smile thinned, the edges brittle. “You mistake defiance for integrity, Finnian. But when you break—and you will—it won’t be integrity that remains. Only regret.” Darius lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. “Guards.”
Heavy boots thundered through the chamber as two armored men strode forward, their faces impassive.
“Take him below,” Darius ordered.
A muscle in Finn’s jaw tensed, but he did not resist as the guards seized his arms with grips like iron.
He had expected this. He had known, the moment he spoke, that this path led only to suffering.
But he wouldn’t change a single word. His father hadn’t raised him to become a dog trotting at Darius’s heels.
Darius stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Finn could hear. “You will tell me, eventually,” he murmured, his breath warm and venomous against Finn’s ear. “They all do.”
Finn said nothing.
The guards marched Finn out into the corridor. As they headed down, the air grew colder, the torchlight casting long, shifting shadows against the damp walls.
The lower cells came and went, but the guards did not stop.
No, they were taking him beyond the dungeons, to the place where stone swallowed screams. The scent of mildew gave way to something worse: old blood, scorched iron, the acrid sting of burned flesh.
It clung to the air like a memory, thick and impossible to ignore.
A final iron-bound door loomed ahead. The guard at Finn’s left stepped forward and lifted the latch. The door groaned open.
A figure garbed in all black awaited them.
The royal torturer stood motionless, hands clasped before him. A heavy hood concealed most of his face, leaving only his mouth visible—a thin, bloodless line, expressionless as a stone.
Finn’s gut churned, but he willed himself not to react.
Chains hung from the walls, rusted dark with old blood. A brazier glowed in the corner, embers pulsing like fireflies, their light licking across a long wooden table lined with knives, pincers, rods—tools of pain honed by experience.
And at the center of it all stood a chair, its wood and iron stained just like the chains.
Darius stepped in behind them. He heaved a long, satisfied breath, surveying the chamber with the enthusiasm of a man admiring fine craftsmanship.
“Ah,” he sighed, “there’s something so very…humbling about a place like this, don’t you think?”
Finn considered keeping his mouth shut. That would be the smart thing to do. But Finn was too angry to do the smart thing. “Isn’t Lunareth known for artistry and architecture?” He lifted a brow. “I expected more from the royal suite of suffering. It’s so monotone.”
Darius’s jaw tightened.
Finn bit back a smirk. A tiny surge of pride warmed his heart. He might be stripped of his sword, but he could still fight.
Darius strode forward, trailing a hand over the interrogation chair’s wooden frame.
“This is your last chance, Finnian,” he said, sounding almost bored.
“Tell me where Gwenna is. Tell me about the dragon. And all of this?” He gestured lazily to the waiting instruments of torment. “All of this becomes unnecessary.”