Claimed By The Tyrant King

As more rebels were brought in for questioning, Rowan no longer wasted his time trying to persuade each one for hours. It didn’t take him long to distinguish those who were willing to cooperate from those who remained stubbornly devoted to Griswold’s cause.

The ones who chose to speak were questioned thoroughly before they were locked away, while those who refused every opportunity to redeem themselves were sentenced without hesitation.

Before long, the king became the center of discussion throughout the palace, the council chambers, and even among the noblemen and women.

People had always feared Rowan because of his cold expression and commanding presence, but that fear had now deepened into something far greater. It was no longer the fear of standing before a strict king. It was the fear of standing before a ruler who would carry out judgment the moment he believed it was deserved.

Before, many had believed that although Rowan was firm, he would always listen before reaching a decision. He still did, yet something had undeniably changed.

The people had begun to understand that their king possessed a ruthless side he rarely allowed others to witness, and when that side emerged, it was far harsher than anyone had ever imagined.

Outside Griswold’s prison cell, two guards stood watch as they quietly passed the time with idle conversation, unaware that every word they spoke carried clearly through the iron bars. "I heard another rebel camp was destroyed yesterday," one of them muttered.

The other guard nodded slowly. "Doesn’t that make three in total? At this rate, they’ll fall much sooner than any of us expected."

"It seems so." The first guard folded his arms. "I also heard that one of the captured rebels finally revealed the location of another hideout to His Majesty. Once the knights arrive there, it’ll be over for them."

A low chuckle escaped the second guard. "Who would have thought things would move this quickly after the Lord Commander fell? I honestly believed the kingdom would struggle without him for a while."

"So did I," the first admitted.

"Instead, His Majesty used the opportunity to spread the knights across several regions instead of relying on a single force. The rebels barely know where to strike anymore because soldiers are already waiting for them."

"It was an effective decision."

"It certainly was."

Their quiet laughter drifted through the corridor.

Inside the dark, damp cell, Griswold remained seated against the cold stone wall as every word sank deeper into his mind.

His hands slowly curled into fists until his knuckles turned white, and his jaw tightened so hard that an ache spread through it.

He looked nothing like the proud minister he had once been.

Days without bathing had left dirt clinging to his skin and clothes, while the stale smell of sweat and mildew surrounded him. His beard had grown unevenly, his hair hung in tangled strands around his face, and exhaustion had hollowed out his once-confident features.

Even the food brought to him each day could barely be called a meal. More often than not, it consisted of scraps that would have been rejected by others, accompanied by foul-tasting water that he had once refused to touch.

In the beginning, pride had kept him from eating.

How could a man like him lower himself to consume such filth?

He had convinced himself that starvation was preferable to accepting such humiliation.

Yet hunger was cruel.

As the days dragged on, his body slowly stripped away every ounce of pride he possessed until those scraps became the only thing he anticipated. He had even memorized the exact hours the guards arrived because that brief interruption had become the closest thing he had to a routine.

Now, even that miserable existence was beginning to crumble before his eyes.

Three rebel camps.

Three!

His breathing grew heavier as the number echoed through his thoughts.

Everything was collapsing far more quickly than he had ever anticipated.

When he first orchestrated the attacks across the kingdom, he had been convinced Rowan would eventually bend beneath the pressure. Burning homes, frightened civilians, and endless unrest should have forced the king into making desperate mistakes. That had been the entire point.

Yet Rowan had refused to yield.

Instead of allowing the kingdom to descend into chaos, he had adapted. He had changed his strategy, divided his forces wisely, and struck back harder than Griswold had expected. Every move meant to weaken the crown had only revealed the king’s ability to overcome adversity.

A bitter laugh nearly escaped him. How had he miscalculated so badly?

His teeth sank into the side of his finger as regret slowly crept into his mind.

He should have fled.

The opportunity had been there, yet he had let it slip past him. Now he was trapped inside a godforsaken prison, surrounded by cold stone walls while death waited patiently somewhere beyond them.

Nothing about his future was certain anymore except that possibility.

His breathing became uneven as another memory surfaced. Cedric.

If only he had acted differently.

If only he had lured the Lord Commander to Raven’s Hollow sooner and arranged his death without exposing himself, none of this would have happened. His identity might have remained hidden, and he could have continued manipulating events from the shadows instead of rotting in this prison. Instead, greed had clouded his judgment. He hadn’t merely wanted Cedric dead. He had wanted the famed commander alive long enough to force him into serving his cause.

Now Cedric lay unconscious.

Griswold sat behind bars.

And the rebellion he had spent so long building was being torn apart piece by piece before his very eyes.

Rage burned inside him until it felt as though his chest might split apart.

Every report from the guards was another reminder that everything he had worked for was slipping beyond his reach.

His carefully laid plans... His followers... His ambitions... They were all crumbling.

His nails dug into his palms. ’I can’t keep staying here like this’, Griswold resolved, his eyes hardening despite the exhaustion weighing on him. ’I have to get out of here’.

The thought gave him a brief spark of determination, but it quickly faded as his gaze shifted toward the iron bars.

Escape... It sounded simple enough.

Yet how was he supposed to accomplish it while those two fools remained stationed outside his cell day and night? As much as he mocked their intelligence, they still stood between him and the only chance he had left. If he wanted to survive, he would need an opportunity.

And until one presented itself, all he could do was wait.

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