The stink of iron and damp stone clung to the cell. The torch outside hissed against the draft, casting crooked shadows across the walls.

Aiden sat with his back to the cold bars, wrists chained, legs heavy with shackles. The weight didn't matter.

He had carried heavier burdens—his own damnation, the silence of gods, the blood of those who had fallen because of him.

The clank of armored boots shook the ground. Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured to announce dominance before sight.

The Blood Commander arrived.

Seven feet of crimson steel, polished until the torchlight gleamed hellfire across the plates. His helm was tucked under one arm, revealing a scarred face, cropped hair, and eyes filled with the poison of envy.

The man reeked of power used too often, of cruelty sharpened into habit.

He stopped just outside the bars and smirked.

"Look at you," he said, voice carrying the weight of mockery. "The Earl's chained dog. The commoner knight who thought himself chosen. I should have killed you in the dungeon before you crawled back up."

Then he spat.

The warm, slimy weight hit Aiden's cheek and slid down to his jaw. For a moment—just a moment—the chains rattled as his fists tightened.

His chest rose with the sharpness of suppressed breath. The instinct was there: to leap, to tear, to crush.

But instead—he smiled.

A slow, deliberate curve of the lips.

The Commander's brows furrowed. "What are you smiling at, bastard?"

Aiden tilted his head, golden eyes catching the torchlight like molten coins. "Just wondering how small a man must be, to spit through bars instead of drawing a blade."

The Commander slammed a gauntlet against the bars. The clang rang through the stone corridors like a war gong. "Watch your tongue, filth. You're no knight. You're an accident of power imbalance. An low born stain upon the order."

The words hit harder than fists. Aiden had carried the weight of that secret long before Arina's whisper confirmed she knew.

A commoner Taint. He remembered the priests' sermons, the whispered fear in servants' eyes when they lingered too long in his presence.

But he refused to let the Commander see the cut.

So he sat back, chains loose against his wrists, smile never fading. "And yet… even filth has a way of staining white banners."

The Commander leaned close, breath hot with wine. "You think these chains protect you. They don't. One word from me, and I'll see your bones cracked one by one before sunrise."

Aiden did not flinch. He whispered low, so only the Commander could hear:

"Do it. Break me. But know this—your envy will outlive me. Every time you look at yourself in the mirror of your armor, you'll see me. Smiling."

For the first time, the Commander stepped back. Not far, not afraid—but unsettled. His lip curled, covering the twitch in his eye. He slammed the bars one last time and turned away, spitting on the ground as he left.

Aiden exhaled slowly. The spit drying on his cheek burned less than the memory of Aros's scaled hand at his throat. Compared to that, this Commander was nothing more than a gnat buzzing loud in red steel.

.

.

The Drunken Earl

Far across the garrison, in a hall thick with smoke and the sour-sweet stench of wine, another scene unfolded.

The only other Earl in the garrison sat slumped at a heavy oak table. His face was red, his doublet stained, a crown of goblets toppled around him.

His laughter boomed between hiccups as he squinted at the parchment in his trembling hands.

Aiden's letter.

Across from him, Baron Meliodas sat stiff, his noble composure cracking under the haze of frustration. Aethal, the Earl of Wessex's son, leaned forward, fists clenched on the table.

"My lord," Aethal urged, voice taut. "This isn't a jest. If my father moves against Aiden, he risks more than one knight's life. He risks alliances. He risks blood...he doesn't understand."

The drunk Earl waved the letter lazily. "Blood, blood, blood—bah! You young men talk like poets at funerals. All I see is a chained up brat who forgot his place."

Baron Meliodas's voice was silk over iron. "And yet, my lord, that 'brat' has already moved in shadows deeper than you or I. Do you not wonder why Wessex chained him instead of executing him outright? The Earl fears something. He fears what Aiden carries."

At that, the drunken Earl paused, eyes narrowing. His hand trembled as he glanced again at the letter.

And in the corner, silent as the smoke curling from the brazier, Tanya stood. A maid's apron wrapped her form, but her gaze was sharp, her presence deliberate.

She had ensured she was here before the men arrived. And now, with exquisite timing, she stepped forward.

"My lord," she said softly, bowing her head. "If I may."

The Earl's bloodshot eyes lingered on her, suspicion warring with curiosity. "A maid dares to speak in the affairs of earls and barons?"

Tanya smiled faintly, unthreatened. "Not a maid. A messenger." She touched the parchment delicately, her fingers brushing the Earl's hand.

"Every word in this letter carries weight. But weight means nothing to the drunk, or the coward. Only to the ambitious."

The Earl stiffened. Aethal blinked in surprise. Meliodas hid his own smirk behind a sip of wine.

Tanya leaned closer, her whisper just for the Earl. "Wessex will not share power. He never has. He will use you, then cast you aside.

But Aiden…" She let the name linger like a secret. "Aiden offers storm. And in storm, the weak drown, but the cunning rise."

The Earl's hand tightened on the parchment. Greed flickered behind his drunken haze. The fire of paranoia, always waiting for tinder, caught light.

Aethal pressed in, sensing the shift. "Help us, my lord. Counterbalance my father before he destroys more than just one knight."

Silence stretched. The torches hissed.

Finally, the Earl slammed the goblet down, wine splashing across the table. "Very well. I'll hear this out. But if this storm you whisper of consumes me, I'll drag you all with me into the fire."

Tanya's smile deepened, unseen as she bowed. "Then let the fire come."

.

.

Return to Chains

Back in the cell, Aiden lay on the straw-strewn ground, armor battered but still clinging to his frame. He stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the stone.

The Commander's spit still dried on his cheek. He touched it with two fingers, then smeared it across the back of his gauntlet. A mark. War paint. A reminder.

He thought of Arina, of her fiery defiance. Of Illyana's desperate eyes as she begged him to take her daughter. Of Tanya's calculating smile. Of Shina's trembling lips beneath his kiss. All threads, woven into a tapestry that no chain could bind.

Footsteps echoed again. Heavy. Familiar.

The Commander returned, looming outside the bars. His voice was lower now, almost satisfied. "You got what you deserved, bastard. Enjoy the straw. It suits your bloodline."

Aiden did not rise. He simply turned his head, golden eyes glinting in the shadows. And he smiled again.

The Commander frowned. "What are you smiling at now?"

Aiden's voice was soft. "The storm."

The Commander barked a laugh, hollow. "You'll be dead before it breaks. I have prepared your death...."

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