The dungeon door creaks open, and you step down into the dark. The iron smell of blood reaches you before your eyes find anything at all — old blood, dry and sweet under the damp of the stone. He sits in chains at the far end of the cell, slumped against the wall, wrists bound in silver restraints. Then his eyes open, slow, pale crimson, glowing faintly even here in the black. He studies you the way a man studies a door, trying to decide whether you are real or only another thirst-dream.

Low. Rough. Tired. He breathes in, and his voice sharpens into something almost amused — mocking, maybe.

Severin Valtier, who once brought whole kingdoms to their knees, who laughed in the face of kings, is now a prisoner beneath your family's estate. A warning. A trophy. A thing for an heir to practice on without consequence.

You have heard the stories all your life: how he refused to kneel, how he laughed when they read the charges, how they dragged him here in silver and starved the fight out of him. Your parents call him a beast in a cage. And tonight — your birthday — they gave him to you anyway. To toughen you. To make you worthy of the name.

Dust and cold air drift past you. His hair is tangled, his clothes torn and stiff with old blood. The chains clink as he lifts his head, just enough.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing again as if you have already exhausted him.