Their captor tugged hard on their chains, and the two prisoners fell hard to their knees. The manacles encircling their wrists cut deeper into already worn away flesh, and the feeling of flames licking at their raw skin was evident on their contorted faces. They had drawn their eyebrows and with eyes screwed shut– a product of the fight to hold on to consciousness.

Despite his aching muscles, despite the deep, carving hunger in his stomach and bruised body, he still felt the cold. It made him shiver, even though sweat formed in beads along his hairline and brow, as it radiated from the worn grey stone in waves, and saturated the air.

In addition to the entire castle, the room was constructed completely out of stone and shaped in model of an oval. Balconies containing courtiers hung on either sides of the wall, and below that heavy oak doors intricately carved with scenes from mythology guarded the passage to other wings of the castle. In stark contrast, the occupants of the room were dressed solely in spartan styled clothing– neutral color palettes were the only ones present, with lacings, patterns, and adornments all absent. The chamber, save the doors, lacked any ornamentation as well. Front and center, the royals had their own balcony with huge, black silk banners hanging dominantly behind them, displaying the family crest embroidered in golden thread.            

Crispin’s gaze stayed steady on the floor, as he refused to dignify his orders to look the king in the eye. King, was the wrong word; that man in above him was a far cry from everything a king should be: honorable, respectful, grateful, and benevolent.

Crispin may have kept his line of sight downcast, but Thomas hadn’t; his face had gone chalky, and against his already milky Northern coloring, he appeared sallow. He elbowed his longtime friend, coughing when he tried to call his name; similarly to Crispin, Thomas’s throat was dry from enduring a long period of time deprived of water, and hoarse as sandpaper from screaming.

Crispin looked up.

And deeply, deeply, regretted it.

She sat in the throne meant for the queen, slouched in defeat, hands trembling. Her black as pitch, tightly waved hair had been pulled tautly back, pulling at the delicate skin behind her eyes, and rested neatly in a pile on her head. The fabric of her deep red dress was a thin, single layer and close-fitting throughout the bodice; the excessively long skirt billowed, and pooled at her feet in puddles of brilliant scarlet. The sleeves were equivalent in size and in lack of embellishments, and the neckline plunged, almost all the way down to below her ribs.

His gaze traveled to her eyes. Her striking, nearly translucent but vibrant blue eyes that were so caught up in fear and weariness, it made him regret everything that had happened simply so he could take all that pain away.

But what caught his attention the most was what made him abruptly lose the ability to breathe.

Because just like him, she was in chains; shackled quite literally to her so called throne.   `

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