CHAPTER THREE
The dungeons of Castle Larkridge were a far cry from the sunlit halls of King's Court, a labyrinth of damp stone and flickering torchlight buried deep beneath the rugged cliffs of the eastern marches.
Gwendolyn had been dragged here in the dead of night, blindfolded and bound, after the nobles, hiding under the banner of the Council of Protectors, had attacked King's Court.
Their plan to kidnap the heir, Guwayne, had been thwarted when he had slipped off into the night when their plans had been discovered.
The castle itself was an ancient relic, long abandoned by the royal line but now repurposed as a secret stronghold for the conspirators. Its walls whispered of forgotten sieges and betrayed oaths, a fitting prison for a deposed queen.
Gwendolyn sat on a rough-hewn bench in her cell, her once-elegant gown torn and soiled, her hair matted against her pale skin.
Chains bound her wrists to the wall, loose enough for minimal movement but a constant reminder of her captivity.
The clanking of metal that accompanied her every move seemed to mock her fall from grace.
Across the narrow corridor, in adjacent cells, Sir Kellan and the surviving members of the Shield Guard endured similar fates.
Kellan, her loyal knight and commander of the guard, bore fresh bruises from the skirmish, his armor stripped away, leaving him in a simple tunic stained with blood, his own and that of the people he had fought.
The guards—twenty strong, all that remained after the nobles' mercenaries had cut down the rest—muttered curses and prayers, their faces gaunt under the dim light.
Their restraints were less forgiving than those of their queen.
It had been three days since the coup. Three days of isolation broken only by interrogations.
The nobles, led by the scheming Lord Aldrich, had seized control under the guise of "stabilizing the realm" amid the Shield's breaches, even turning Thorgrin's disappearance into something to their advantage.
They claimed the throne was vacant, the royal line weakened, the heir nowhere to be found, and that Gwendolyn's rule had invited chaos.
But she knew the truth: greed and ambition fueled their treachery, a bid to carve up the Ring's lands among themselves while the people suffered.
They had been waiting in the shadows, plotting, biding their time, allowing their bitterness at what their entitled egos saw as their own, going to others in the realm to grow and fester.
They hated the fact that a shepherd had risen to the highest honor in the kingdom.
Hated the fact that he seemed to judge everyone as equal, no matter what family they were born into, what crest hung over their door.
Then when the Shield had started to weaken, allowing beasts to cross into the Ring, they had seen it for the opportunity that it was and had moved swiftly and decisively.
Proudlock, one of Thor's most trusted lieutenants, swayed by the promise of rank, glory, and gold coin, had betrayed his king, leading him into an ambush.
He had then taken Thor's bloodied cloak and paraded it around the realm as evidence of the monarch's death, though his tale was that it was at the hands of feral beasts, not paid mercenaries.
Proudlock had not lived to revel in his ill gotten gains, drugged by those who had promised to pay him, his reward a sword in the back instead of gold in his pocket.
The clank of keys announced another visit.
The door to the dungeon corridor groaned open, admitting a pair of armored interrogators—hired thugs in the nobles' employ, their faces hidden behind visored helms. They dragged a stool before Gwendolyn's cell and unlocked the bars, one entering while the other stood watch.
"Queen Gwendolyn," the first began, his voice oily and rehearsed, "we meet again. Lord Aldrich grows impatient. Where is the boy? Prince Guwayne—your heir. Tell us, and perhaps your accommodations improve."
Gwendolyn lifted her chin, her blue eyes steady despite the ache in her limbs.
She had anticipated this line of questioning from the start.
Guwayne's departure south had been her command, a desperate measure to safeguard the bloodline when she had discovered the real reason for the Council of Protectors’ visit to King’s Court.
She had sent him off to an island to the south.
Owned by a relative, it enjoyed the dual benefit of being both fortified but also forgotten.
But that wasn’t the story they had agreed on.
"I have told you before," she replied calmly, her voice echoing with the authority of one who still believed herself to be the queen, despite her present circumstances. "Guwayne went north in the footsteps of his father. He went to finish the job that Thor began. To find the reason for the Shield’s breaches and to safeguard the Ring and the people within in.”
The interrogator leaned forward, his breath foul with ale.
"Lies won't save you, Majesty. They also won’t feather your bed or loosen your chains.
We have spies throughout the land. No entourage bearing the royal crest headed north.
The boy vanished—perhaps with your blessing.
To where? Hidden in some loyalist's keep? Overseas?"
Gwendolyn's heart tightened at the mention of overseas, but her expression remained impassive. She thought of Guwayne, her only child, barely fifteen. Had he reached the isle yet?
“Come, we both know he didn’t travel north. Where is he?”
Gwendolyn sighed with impatience. "You overestimate my foresight," she said evenly. "Guwayne obeys his duty. If he has deviated, it is the will of the gods, not mine. Torture me if you must, but I cannot reveal what I do not know."
The second interrogator snorted from the doorway. "The guards sing a different tune.”
Across the way, Kellan rattled his chains, his voice a growl. "Lies! My men are loyal. You'd twist words from a dying man's lips to suit your masters."
The first interrogator ignored him, focusing on Gwendolyn. "Cooperate, my Lady. The nobles offer mercy. Name Guwayne's location, swear fealty to the new council, and you'll be moved to quarters befitting your station. No more chains. Hot meals, perhaps even a view of the sea."
Gwendolyn allowed a faint smile, though it held no warmth.
"Mercy from thieves? You refer to me as your Queen, as ‘my Lady’, why not treat me as such?
I built this kingdom from ashes. You really think I would barter my son's life for comfort.
" She leaned forward as much as her bonds allowed, her gaze piercing.
"Tell Aldrich this: the people will not forget. The Ring endures not by noble decree, but by the will of its guardians. Your coup is a fleeting shadow. History will not be kind to you and your masters.”
The interrogators exchanged glances, frustration evident.
They had tried threats, promises, isolation, cold, and hunger to break her, but Gwendolyn's resolve was forged in wars past. As they departed, slamming the bars shut, she heard the guards in their cells murmuring encouragement.
"Hold fast, my queen," one whispered. "The light will return. "
Sir Kellan met her eyes through the gloom. "They grow desperate, Majesty. Without Guwayne, their claim is hollow. The people chant your name in the streets—or so the guards whisper when they think we don't hear."
Gwendolyn nodded, though weariness tugged at her. "Desperation breeds mistakes. We wait, Kellan. And pray Guwayne finds his path."
Hours later, the dungeon door opened again, this time admitting a figure of greater import.
Lord Aldrich himself descended the stone steps, flanked by two personal guards in polished armor bearing his sigil—a coiled serpent, devouring its tail on a field of gold.
He was a man in his mid forties, tall with a hooked nose and oiled hair, streaked with gray, dressed in fine velvet despite the dungeon's chill.
His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the cells before settling on Gwendolyn.
"Leave us," he commanded his escorts, who hesitated but obeyed, retreating to the corridor's end.
Aldrich pulled up the stool, sitting with an air of false familiarity.
"Queen Gwendolyn—or should I say, former queen?
These accommodations do you no justice. A woman of your stature, reduced to this. .. it's unbecoming."
Gwendolyn regarded him coolly. "Spare me the pleasantries, Aldrich. You've come to bargain, as your dogs failed."
He chuckled softly, though it lacked mirth.
"Direct as ever. Yes, to bargain. The council—our new regime—controls the Ring now.
The breaches are contained, the guard loyal to us.
But the people... they adore you. Whispers of rebellion stir in the markets, the taverns.
'Free the queen,' they say. It's tiresome. "
"Then release me," she retorted. "End this farce."
Aldrich leaned in, his voice lowering. "Cooperate, and we can coexist. Acknowledge our council as regents until.
.. stability returns. In exchange, luxurious quarters here in Larkridge.
Books, servants, even visits from your ladies-in-waiting.
And protection for Guwayne, should he surface. We need not be enemies."
Gwendolyn's laugh was sharp, echoing off the stones. "Protection? You mean control. Legitimize your theft, and you'll parade me as a puppet while you plunder the treasury. No, Aldrich. I will not bless your coup. The throne is mine by right, Thorgrin's by conquest. Your regime is built on sand."
His facade cracked, eyes narrowing. "Stubborn to the end. Without you, the people might rally to us—heroes against the chaos you failed to prevent. But with you alive, a symbol... it's problematic."
"Kill me, then," she challenged, though her pulse quickened. "Make a martyr of me. See how the Ring responds."
Aldrich rose, smoothing his tunic. "Tempting, but crude.
We'll see." He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"Think on it, Gwendolyn. Comfort or chains—the choice is yours.
Because believe me, you are not going anywhere in the meantime, and winter comes.
You think these dank dungeons are unwelcoming now?
Wait until the frost settles over the land. "
She listened to his footsteps fade and closed her eyes, her troubled thoughts not resting on her own discomfort but on the future of the Ring, the safety of her son, and of her husband, Thor.
She had started to come to terms with his death, through sickening gut-wrenching grief, when Kellan had put the seed of hope into her mind that perhaps Proudlock’s story wasn’t what it had seemed.
That maybe there was more to the circumstances than he had led everyone to believe.
That maybe, just maybe Thor was not dead…
No. She couldn't allow herself to believe that. All she was doing by allowing herself such a forlorn hope was setting herself up for another devastating blow when his death was confirmed.
Upstairs, in the castle's opulent living quarters, tension of another kind simmered.
Lord Aldrich entered the chamber, where Baron Holt, Lady Elowen, and Lord Garrick awaited before a roaring fire.
Elowen, tall and slender, skin pale as moonlit snow, black hair threaded with white, pulled into a severe bun that further accentuated sharp cheekbones.
Her piercing green eyes flicked to Aldrich as he strode in, her long fingers fingering the pendant that hung around her neck, depicting a raven, her house's crest.
Lord Garrick’s appearance could not have been more different.
Built like the highland crags he hailed from, he was broad-shouldered and strong armed.
His face bore the scars of battles he had fought alongside Thor, the king he had plotted to bring down.
A jagged line sliced across his left eye, leaving it milky and blind, while his right eye burned with unrelenting fury.
His hair was shorn close, military-style, and his beard trimmed to a sharp point, giving him the look of a predator stalking prey.
His large hand held a goblet as he paced in front of the fire.
It was the third member of the party who spoke first. Unassuming and drab in appearance, Baron Holt’s greedy mind was anything but. "Well?" he demanded. "Does she yield?"
Aldrich shook his head, pouring himself a goblet of blood red wine. "Stubborn as granite. Maintains ignorance of the boy's whereabouts. Refuses to legitimize us."
Garrick slammed his goblet down. "Then execute her! A quick beheading, blame it on assassins from the Wilds. The people will mourn, but move on. We divide the lands—east to you, Aldrich; north to me; south to Elowen."
Elowen whirled on him. "Fool! Kill her, and she becomes a saint.
There would be riots in King's Court and every godforsaken village in the realm.
Everyone knows she is in our custody as a guest. The Shield Guard would flock to any banner raised in her name.
No, we neutralize her influence differently—spread rumors of her madness, or concoct evidence for her complicity in the breaches.
Or marry her off to one of us, bind her to the regime. "
Aldrich stroked his chin, gazing into the flames. "Marriage? Ambitious, Elowen. But she despises us. And if Guwayne lives, he'd contest any such union."
"Find the boy first," Garrick growled. "Torture the guard—Kellan will break eventually."
Elowen smirked. "Or use subtler means. Poisons that cloud the mind make her pliable. We can't afford a martyr, but a broken queen? That serves."
The debate raged on, voices rising in the warm room while below, in the cold dark, Gwendolyn shivered, steeling herself for what came next.