Claimed By The Tyrant King

Rosalind slowly nodded as she absorbed his words, and the tightness that had settled in her chest gradually eased because they had finally been given something to hold on to besides blind hope.

Beside her, Rebecca released a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, and relief washed over her heart as she looked back at Cedric.

After so many sleepless nights and countless prayers, hearing that he was nearing consciousness felt as though a heavy burden had finally been lifted from her shoulders.

"As soon as he opens his eyes, please do not hesitate to send for me," the physician continued while carefully returning his instruments to his leather case. "I would like to examine him immediately after he regains consciousness."

"We certainly will," Rosalind replied with a grateful nod. "Thank you for everything you have done."

The physician smiled politely before bowing once more. "It is my duty, Your Majesty."

With that, he excused himself and quietly left the chamber, leaving the room much lighter than it had been only moments before.

Julian, on the other hand, could barely contain the relief that filled his little heart. The physician’s words had proven that he hadn’t imagined anything after all, and the fear that everyone would think he had lied slowly disappeared. More than anything, he was happy because Cedric truly was getting better, and although they still had to wait a little longer, the wait no longer felt hopeless.

The Lord Commander was finally finding his way back to them, and that thought alone was enough to bring a small smile to Julian’s face.

Meanwhile, deep beneath the palace in the cold dungeon, Griswold sat alone in the darkness with only the faint light from the torches outside his cell creeping through the iron bars. His mind was no longer consumed by anger alone, it had already begun working tirelessly on a way out of the miserable prison that had become his cage.

He had to escape.

There was no other choice.

His people needed him now more than ever because without their leader, they would continue falling one after another until the royal army wiped them out completely.

Rowan had already destroyed several rebel camps, and if this continued, everything Griswold had spent years building would crumble before his eyes.

He clenched his fists tightly as bitterness rose within him once again. He had underestimated Rowan once already, and that single mistake had cost him his freedom. Now he sat trapped inside a filthy cell with no certainty that he would ever walk out alive, and the thought alone made his jaw tighten in frustration.

No... he refused to accept such an ending.

If spreading fear and unrest throughout the kingdom was no longer enough to shake Rowan’s rule, then he would simply have to force the king’s hand another way. Once he escaped, he would gather every ally and every hidden supporter still loyal to his cause because his connections stretched far beyond the kingdom’s borders, and it would not take long for him to raise another army strong enough to challenge Rowan openly. After all, removing Rowan from the throne had always been his true objective, and once that obstacle was gone, placing another ruler upon it would be simple enough.

Julian.

The boy carried royal blood, and that alone made him the perfect choice. A child could easily be guided, influenced, and controlled, while Griswold would remain the true power behind the throne, shaping the kingdom exactly as he pleased. That future had not disappeared simply because he had been imprisoned, and as long as he still drew breath, he refused to abandon it.

****

Griswold patiently waited for the usual hour when the guard would bring him his daily meal because, after spending so many days locked inside the dungeon, he had already memorized every little routine.

He knew when the guards changed shifts, when the food arrived, and even which of them were more cautious than the others, and that knowledge was the only advantage he still possessed.

Outside the cell, one of the guards turned to the man carrying the tray of food and water before reminding him once again, "Always be careful around him. We never know what he is thinking, so place the food by the corner and leave immediately. Don’t give him any opportunity."

"I know," the guard replied with a nod because he had heard the same warning countless times already. Even so, he remained alert as he unlocked the heavy iron gate and slowly stepped inside with the tray balanced carefully in his hands.

The dungeon was as dark and damp as ever, with barely any light reaching the inside of the cell. Normally, Griswold would already be sitting in the far corner, waiting impatiently for his meal, but this time the guard frowned when he realized the prisoner was nowhere to be seen.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness.

"Your food is here," he called out. "Come out and eat before I return to collect the plates."

Receiving no response, he cautiously bent down to place the tray on the floor, believing Griswold was simply hiding deeper inside the cell.

That single moment of carelessness was all Griswold had been waiting for.

A shadow emerged silently from behind him, and before the guard could even turn around, a hand clamped firmly over his mouth while the cold edge of a dagger pressed against his throat. The blade was the very same one Griswold had managed to hide inside the lining of his clothes before he had been thrown into the dungeon, buried so carefully that none of the guards had discovered it during their search.

"If you move," Griswold whispered coldly into his ear, "I’ll slit your throat."

The guard froze immediately as a frightened whimper escaped beneath Griswold’s hand, his entire body stiffening the instant he felt the sharp steel against his skin.

"Remove your clothes," Griswold ordered quietly.

The guard’s eyes widened. "What?"

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