The dungeon never knew dawn.

Even when the morning sun gilded the rooftops of the garrison, down in the cells there was only damp stone and torch smoke. The air hung stale, heavy with mold and rust, and every breath tasted of iron.

Aiden sat cross-legged on the straw, eyes half-closed as if meditating. But his mind was awake, sharper than the edge of any blade.

The scrape of boots came, followed by a hollow clang of keys. A guard swaggered into view, face half-lit by the torch he carried. He stopped before Aiden's cell, lips already curled in a smirk.

"Two days," the man announced, jangling the keys like a priest shaking bells. "That's all the time you've got. The Earl has called a tribunal. A proper judgment, so the people think you're given a chance." He leaned closer, his breath sour with onions and ale. "But don't get your hopes up, boy. Everyone knows how it ends."

The man tapped a finger against the bars, eyes gleaming with malice. "No knight survives when the Commander whispers in the Earl's ear. You'll hang—or worse. They might just make you scream for days before letting you die. Be entertaining for us, eh?"

The guard laughed, a thin cruel sound, and spat on the floor just outside the bars. He turned and left, humming tunelessly.

Aiden didn't move. He didn't curse. He didn't beg.

He smiled.

The kind of smile that unnerved men, because it wasn't born of humor. It was a quiet, patient curve of lips, the smile of someone sharpening a blade in silence, waiting for the right throat.

Two days. Good. That was enough.

Darkness bled into the dungeon, swallowing the thin torchlight until the world was nothing but shadow and echo. Aiden lay flat on the straw, staring up at the ceiling, when he heard it: soft, quick footsteps. Lighter than a guard's march. Measured. Intentional.

The torch outside his cell flared, as if someone had coaxed it alive. Then she appeared.

Tanya.

Her figure was hidden beneath the simple apron of a servant, but her eyes were sharp as daggers in the gloom. She glanced once down the corridor to be sure they were alone, then slid silently to the bars.

"You're smiling again," she whispered. "That means you've already planned something."

Aiden tilted his head. "Always."

Before more could be said, heavier footsteps followed hers. Not hostile—hesitant. The shadow that entered behind her was familiar.

Aethal.

The Earl's son looked tired, his fine tunic wrinkled, eyes heavy with sleeplessness. He stepped forward, glancing nervously at Tanya before his gaze fixed on Aiden through the bars.

"My father means to finish you," Aethal said bluntly. His voice was hoarse, as if repeating the words hurt him. "The tribunal is just theater. A show for the court. He and the Commander will see you condemned no matter what."

The words should have weighed like iron. To any other prisoner, they would have been a death sentence spoken in advance.

But Aiden only leaned back against the wall, chains clinking softly, and smiled again. "I expected nothing less."

Aethal's fists clenched. "Damn it, don't grin at me like that! Don't you understand? You're running out of time."

Tanya touched his arm lightly, steadying him. Her own expression was unreadable, caught between admiration and cold calculation. "He understands," she said. "Better than you think."

Aethal exhaled sharply, then forced himself to continue. "But… there's something else. News. The wife of Earl Durand—the drunkard—she's heard your name...from x

Lady Shina.... She wishes to meet you."

That made Aiden pause. Not long, but enough for Tanya to notice the flicker of interest in his eyes.

"The wife...?" he asked slowly. "Not the Earl himself..?." He questioned, or more so he acted.

Aethal nodded. "The Earl drinks himself half-blind every night. His wife has more control over his affairs than he does. If she chooses to protect you, it could shift the balance. My father listens to Durand when he's sober enough to speak."

Tanya added softly, "And noble women… they have ways of whispering louder than men ever notice. Aiden, this is opportunity."

The golden eyes gleamed in the dark. "Good," he said simply. "Very good."

The three of them stood there a moment in the hushed dungeon.

Chains rattled faintly as Aiden rose to his feet, stepping close enough to the bars that his presence filled the narrow space. His voice was low, but each word carried weight.

"Two days. That's what they've given me. That's what I'll use. The tribunal won't be my noose—it'll be their stage. And by the time the curtain falls, they'll be the ones choking."

Aethal stared at him, torn between fear and awe. Tanya's lips curved faintly, her silence saying more than words.

Finally, Aethal broke it. "If you're wrong…" His voice shook. "If you fail—my father will kill you. And me, for even being here."

Aiden reached up, touched the dried spit still faintly crusted on his cheek from the Commander that morning, and wiped it away with the back of his gauntlet. He looked at the smear on his glove and chuckled softly.

"I never fail..." he said, "Cause I don't know how to…" His eyes met Aethal's, bright as molten gold in the dark. " Your father's chains will be nothing more than kindling for my fire."

Aiden smiled as Tanya and Aethal left him by the door. They didn't linger—just a glance, a nod, a whisper of good fortune neither of them truly believed he needed.

Luck was a tool for mortals. Aiden carried other weapons.

If not his incubus blood, then his aura. If not his aura, then the sculpted beauty of his face. And if not that, the velvet of his words—each syllable spun like silk, woven to catch, to bind.

He exhaled once, slow and measured, chest rising and falling as if rehearsing the rhythm of seduction itself. Then he raised his hand.

Knock.

The sound echoed, low and deliberate, through the chamber door.

For an instant he closed his eyes, centering himself in the old lessons—the heat beneath the skin, the current of hunger that pulsed through his veins. Desire was not something he simply wielded. It was a tide. And tonight, he would not fight it. He would be it.

The silence on the other side stretched too long.

Then: a shift. A breath of warmth through the cracks of the door, scented with something sharp and sweet—like spiced wine left to ferment. The aura inside was awake. Aware. Waiting.

Aiden's smile widened, wicked and patient.

He let his knuckles brush the door once more, softer this time, almost intimate. "Shall I come in," he murmured, voice pitched to seep through the wood, "or would you prefer to drag me in yourself?"

The latch clicked.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.