Chapter 14
The shackles bite into Bellamy's wrists with every slight movement, the iron cuffs suspended from chains that keep his arms stretched above his head in a position designed to cause maximum discomfort.
His shoulders scream in protest after what feels like hours in this position, muscles cramping and burning as they strain to support his weight.
His legs shake with the effort of staying upright, calves aching from the constant tension.
The dungeon itself is a testament to King Kent's cruelty—damp stone walls that weep with moisture, a single torch providing flickering light that creates dancing shadows, and the pervasive smell of fear and suffering that speaks of countless prisoners who've occupied this space before him.
Straw scattered across the floor does little to combat the cold that seeps up from the stones, and somewhere in the darkness he can hear the scurrying of rats.
But he endures, because showing weakness now would only make things worse. Because somewhere beyond these walls, people who love him are probably searching, probably planning, probably refusing to accept that he's lost forever.
"Tell me about Mirn's grain stores," Captain Rothwell demands again, his scarred face inches from Bellamy's.
The man's breath reeks of stale ale and rotting teeth, and his small eyes gleam with the particular cruelty of someone who enjoys his work far too much.
"How much surplus does your kingdom keep in reserve?
What are the locations of the primary storage facilities? "
Bellamy lets his head loll forward slightly, as if the questioning is wearing him down. "I wouldn't know," he gasps, letting exhaustion creep into his voice. "I'm not involved in those decisions."
"You're the prince!"
"I'm the spare," Bellamy corrects, maintaining the lie that's kept him alive for the past six days.
It's a performance built on his knowledge of other kingdoms where multiple heirs compete for influence, where younger sons are often relegated to ceremonial roles while their siblings handle the real business of governance.
"My older brother handles the important matters.
I just attend ceremonies and smile at foreign dignitaries. "
The deception has worked so far, making him seem like a disappointment, a second son kept around for appearances while his supposedly more capable sibling handles the real work of running the kingdom.
It's a careful balance—he needs to seem valuable enough as a hostage to keep alive, but not so knowledgeable that they'll torture him for information he doesn't actually possess.
Rothwell's expression shifts from frustration to disgust, his scarred features twisting with disappointment. "Useless royal brat. What about military formations? Troop movements? Supply lines?"
"They don't tell me about that either." Bellamy lets his head sag, as if the admission embarrasses him. "My brother says I don't have the mind for strategy. Mother agrees with him."
Better to be seen as a worthless hostage than a valuable source of intelligence.
"Sweet gods," Rothwell mutters, stepping back with obvious frustration. "King Kent's going to skin me alive when he hears this."
The captain moves to unlock the shackles, his movements sharp with irritation.
When Bellamy's arms drop, the sudden relief is so intense he nearly collapses, his shoulders burning as circulation returns to his hands.
He bites back a groan of pain as feeling floods back into his fingers, pins and needles racing up his arms.
"Sit," Rothwell orders, shoving a wooden stool toward him. "And don't even think about trying anything clever. Guards are posted outside, and they have orders to break your legs if you cause trouble."
Bellamy sinks onto the stool gratefully, rubbing his raw wrists where the iron had chafed the skin bloody.
For the first time in days, he's not suspended in agony, and the simple act of sitting feels like luxury.
He flexes his fingers carefully, working feeling back into the joints while trying not to show too much relief.
The brief respite gives him a chance to assess his condition more thoroughly.
He's lost weight during his captivity, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced than before.
His clothes are filthy and torn, stained with sweat and dirt and things he doesn't want to identify.
But he's largely uninjured—bruises and scrapes from the initial capture, the raw wounds on his wrists from the shackles, but nothing that won't heal.
They've been careful with him, he realizes. Uncomfortable enough to break his spirit, but not damaged enough to reduce his value as a bargaining chip.
The thought should be comforting, but it only makes him more nervous about what might come next.
His fears prove justified when the dungeon door opens with a groan of ancient hinges, and King Kent himself strides into the cell.
He's a man in his fifties, gone soft around the middle from too much rich food and too little exercise, but there's still danger in his pale blue eyes and thin-lipped smile.
His expensive clothes—velvet doublet and silk hose—seem absurd in the dank dungeon, but they speak to his vanity and his need to project wealth even here.
"Well?" Kent asks Rothwell without preamble, his voice carrying the casual authority of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
"He's useless, Your Majesty. Second son, knows nothing about running a kingdom. They don't trust him with important information." Rothwell's disgust is evident in every word. "Claims his brother handles all the real decisions while he just plays at being royal."
Kent's cold gaze moves to Bellamy, studying him with uncomfortable intensity. There's something in the way he looks, something that makes Bellamy's skin crawl with instinctive revulsion. It's the look of a man who sees people as objects to be used rather than individuals deserving of respect.
"Is that so?" Kent approaches slowly, like a cat stalking wounded prey, his soft leather boots making no sound on the stone floor. "Just a useless spare?"
Bellamy keeps his expression neutral, though his heart rate quickens with each step the king takes closer. "I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. Not much use to anyone, really."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Kent's smile is thin, cruel, carrying implications that make Bellamy's stomach turn. "Even useless princes have their... applications."
The way he says it makes Bellamy's mouth go dry with dread, but he forces himself to remain still, to show no reaction that might provoke further interest.
"You see," Kent continues, beginning to circle Bellamy like a predator sizing up prey, "I know all about your little trips to Everitt, boy."
The words hit like ice water, but Bellamy forces himself not to react visibly. His heart pounds against his ribs, but he keeps his face carefully blank. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Kent's voice carries amusement now, the pleasure of a man revealing a carefully guarded secret. "Multiple border crossings, always alone, always in disguise. Meeting with enemies of your kingdom."
"You're mistaken—"
"I know you've been warming that savage barbarian’s cock for months."
The crude words hang in the air like a physical blow. Bellamy feels heat flood his face despite his desperate efforts to remain composed, his careful mask slipping for just a moment before he regains control. But it's too late—Kent has seen the reaction, and his smile widens with satisfaction.
"Nothing to say?" Kent reaches out with one finger and lifts Bellamy's chin, forcing eye contact. His touch is cold and clammy, nothing like Ivah's warm strength. "I can see what that savage sees in such a pretty boy. All that golden hair, those green eyes... quite the little beauty, aren't you?"
Bellamy tries to pull away, but Kent's grip shifts to his jaw, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The king's pale eyes are bright with a hunger that makes Bellamy's stomach churn with revulsion.
"Don't touch me," Bellamy says quietly, though his voice shakes despite his efforts to control it.
"Or what? You'll tell your barbarian lover?" Kent's laugh is harsh, bitter, full of the cruelty of a man who's grown comfortable with having power over the helpless. "He's not here, boy. No one's coming for you."
The words are designed to wound, to break whatever hope Bellamy might be clinging to.
And they do wound, cutting deep into the fear he's been carrying since his capture—that Ivah doesn't know what's happened, that he'll assume Bellamy simply chose to disappear, chose to abandon what they'd built together.
But underneath the fear is something harder, more defiant. A core of certainty that no amount of cruelty can touch.
"If you hurt me," Bellamy says, meeting Kent's gaze directly despite the terror clawing at his chest, "Ivah will make you pay in blood. He'll burn your kingdom to the ground and salt the earth where it stood."
Kent's grip tightens, his fingers pressing into Bellamy's jaw until he gasps with pain.
"Brave words. But your barbarian king isn't here, is he?
" His voice drops to a whisper, intimate and threatening.
"And if your mother doesn't want you back.
.. well, perhaps we can find other uses for such a pretty toy. "
The implication in his tone makes Bellamy's blood run cold. He's heard stories of what happens to prisoners in Kent's dungeons, whispered tales of cruelty that he'd always hoped were exaggerated.
"My men haven't had proper entertainment in months," Kent continues conversationally, as if discussing the weather rather than threatening unspeakable violence. "Maybe I’ll pass you around the barracks until you understand your proper place."
Terror floods through Bellamy's system, cold and sharp and overwhelming, but he forces himself not to react.
Won't give Kent the satisfaction of seeing him break.
Behind his carefully controlled expression, his mind races through possibilities—escape routes, potential weapons, anything that might give him a chance to fight back when the time comes.
But outwardly, he remains still as stone, his green eyes meeting Kent's pale ones without flinching.
The lack of reaction clearly infuriates the king. His face flushes red with anger, and suddenly his free hand is swinging toward Bellamy's face in a vicious backhand that cracks across his cheek with explosive force.
The blow snaps Bellamy's head to the side, stars exploding across his vision as pain radiates through his skull. He tastes blood immediately—his lip split against his teeth, the metallic flavor flooding his mouth. But he doesn't cry out, doesn't give Kent the satisfaction of hearing his pain.
"Our fun is just beginning, boy," Kent says, wiping Bellamy's blood on his expensive doublet as if it's nothing more than dirt. "No one is coming for you.”
With that threat hanging in the air, Kent turns and strides from the cell, leaving Bellamy gasping on the stool. The door slams shut with finality, the sound echoing through the dungeon like a death knell.
For a long moment, Bellamy just sits there, his heart hammering against his ribs as the full implications of what just happened sink in. His lip throbs with each heartbeat, blood still seeping from the split.
In the distance, he can hear the guards changing shifts, the clank of armor and weapons as fresh men take up positions outside his cell. The sound reminds him that he's not just a prisoner—he's a valuable commodity, something worth guarding carefully until his usefulness is exhausted.
But commodities can be damaged. Commodities can be broken beyond repair.
And King Kent has just made it clear that Bellamy's time is running out.