The dungeon beneath the east wing had become Gerffron's entire universe.
Days blurred into nights. The single torch outside the iron bars was his only clock — it burned low, was replaced, burned low again. His wrists were raw meat where the iron cuffs had worn through skin and into flesh. His ribs screamed with every shallow breath. The bruises from Gorgina's fists and the guards' boots had turned deep purple and black across his chest, face, and back. Blood from his split lip had dried in a crust along his chin, cracking open again whenever he tried to speak.
He hung there, arms stretched above his head, feet barely touching the cold stone floor, and let the silence press against him like a living weight.
After Gorgina's last visit — the tears, the screams, the slaps that had left fresh blood on her knuckles — no one had come. No food. No water. No words. Only the distant echoes of shouting from the upper levels that had slowly faded into an uneasy quiet.
Gerffron had stopped counting the drips of water from the ceiling.
The iron door screeched open.
Gerffron lifted his head slowly, expecting another guard or perhaps Gorgina returning for another round of heartbreak.
Instead, the King of Zenos stepped into the cell.
King Arbestas II was not dressed in royal finery. He wore simple gray robes, the kind a man might wear when visiting a grave. His once-powerful frame was slightly stooped with age, silver threading heavily through his dark hair. But his stormy gray eyes — the same gray Styrmir had inherited — were sharp and clear.
Two guards flanked him, but they remained outside the cell at his command.
The King looked at Gerffron for a long moment — at the chains, at the blood, at the man hanging like a broken doll.
Then he spoke, voice quiet but carrying the weight of decades of rule.
"Release him."
The guards hesitated for half a second before moving forward. The iron cuffs were unlocked. Gerffron's arms dropped heavily to his sides. He stumbled and would have fallen if the King had not stepped forward and caught his elbow with surprising strength.
"Easy, son," the King murmured. "You've carried enough weight already."
Gerffron stared at the man who ruled the empire. His voice came out hoarse and cracked. "Your Majesty…"
The King guided him to the small stone bench against the wall and helped him sit. One of the guards brought a cup of water. The King took it and held it to Gerffron's lips himself.
"Drink slowly," he said. "You've been here too long."
Gerffron drank. The water tasted like heaven.
When the cup was empty, the King stepped back and studied him with those stormy gray eyes.
"I have heard everything," he said quietly. "The slave market. The auction. The escape of the phantom prince. The mass breakout of the others. The nobles are screaming for refunds. My son's… involvement."
The King's voice grew heavier.
"And I have heard what you did. You alone. A house-husband. A man bought as decoration. You risked everything — your life, your position, your future — to free innocent people who would have been condemned to hell for years. You triggered the collapse of a market built on suffering. You exposed corruption that even I had turned a blind eye to."
Gerffron looked up at the King, blood still dripping from his lip.
The King continued, voice soft but steady.
"You are a whistleblower, Gerffron Wadee. A man who chose justice over comfort. A man who reminded this empire that some chains should never be worn."
He stepped closer.
"I am disappointed in my son. Deeply disappointed. He has built his power on fear and cruelty. You have shown me that there are still men who choose something better."
The King reached out and placed a hand on Gerffron's shoulder — a fatherly gesture that carried more weight than any crown.
"Tell me, son. What do you want? Gold? Land? A title? A position at court? Name it. The crown owes you a debt that cannot be repaid in one lifetime."
Gerffron was silent for a long moment.
Then he spoke, voice hoarse but clear.
"Your Majesty… I currently have what a human being should have. A house. Meals. Clothes. That is enough."
The King stared at him.
For the first time in many years, the old monarch looked genuinely moved.
He studied Gerffron — the bruised face, the bloodied body, the man who had just been offered anything in the empire and asked for nothing more than the basics of human dignity.
The King's eyes softened.
"You humble me, Gerffron Wadee," he said quietly. "In a court full of men who demand titles and gold, you ask only for what every soul deserves. That answer tells me more about your character than any deed."
He stepped back.
"For your merit, I shall reject your wife's proposal for divorce. I need men like you in my kingdom. But I can give you this — a promise. A favour from the crown. Whenever you need it, no matter how many years pass, no matter what you ask — if it is within my power, it is yours. You have earned it."
Gerffron bowed his head as much as his chained position allowed.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
The King turned to the guards.
"Release him fully. Clean his wounds. Give him food and water. Return him to the Wadee villa for now — for his own protection as much as anything else. The nobles are still angry."
He looked back at Gerffron one last time.
"Rest, son. The empire might change. And you have already played a part in that change."
The King left the cell.
The guards moved quickly — unlocking the remaining chains, helping Gerffron to his feet, bringing water and clean cloth to wipe the blood from his face.
Gerffron stood on shaky legs, the silver ring still on his little finger, the two pebbles still in his hidden pocket.
He was free.
Not completely. Not yet.
But free enough to breathe.
As they led him out of the dungeon and toward the waiting carriage that would take him back to the Wadee villa, Gerffron touched the pebbles in his pocket and smiled through cracked lips.
The King had seen him. The King had listened.
And somewhere across the border, Styrmir was growing stronger every day.
And when the boy returned as a man, the empire that had tried to break them both would finally understand what it meant to face two souls who had already survived hell.
The carriage rolled through the snow.
Gerffron closed his eyes and dreamed again.
Of India. Of his parents. Of the boy he had once been. And of the man he was becoming.