CHAPTER 17: CHAPTER 17: KNIGHT? WHERE?

Huffeled and muffled.

Aiden didn’t resist much.

At first, he thought he should—maybe thrash, maybe curse—but that instinct only bubbled for a moment before it faded. In truth, he didn’t feel fear, not exactly.

The ropes bit into his arms, the bag over his head smelled faintly of damp wool and old sweat, and all of it, oddly, excited him.

This was his first time being kidnapped, and his heart wasn’t pounding out of terror—it was racing like a gambler’s before the last card is drawn.

What would happen next?

Where would they take him?

Would this be the end, or would it be something far more interesting?

A strange, reckless part of him welcomed it. He’d seen enough of life to know that certain moments—painful, humiliating, dangerous—had their own kind of beauty. This, he thought, might be one of those moments a man is supposed to experience at least once before he dies.

Thud!

Pain shot through his shoulders as his body slammed into something hard—wood, uneven and splintering under the force.

Probably the bed of a carriage. His head rattled against the floorboard. Above him, muffled against the bag, came the clop-clop-clop of hooves on packed dirt.

The world swayed with each turn of the wheels, the sound of metal fittings creaking and the faint whine of wooden axles joining the rhythm.

’Mother fuckers, could’ve placed me a bit gently’, he thought, shifting his weight to relieve the pressure on his spine.

He breathed in the dusty scent of the carriage’s interior. Sweat, old hay, and the faint sweetness of horse feed clung to the air.

As time passed, the noises became patterns—hooves slowing, then speeding, the occasional distant shout, the wind shifting directions through the cracks in the wood.

When the wheels finally ground to a halt, the sudden stillness made the carriage feel heavier, almost suffocating.

Light leaked faintly through the coarse weave of the bag. Aiden squinted into the gray blur.

"...hmmm, he didn’t resist much," a voice said. Familiar—too familiar.

Gail.

"He knows his end is near," another voice answered, thicker, more nasal. "So I think he just gave up..."

...and Conish.

The bag muffled everything, but there were more voices—several pairs of boots scraping on gravel. He recognized some of the tones, enough to know this wasn’t just two men. There were others here.

Soldiers, perhaps. Gail’s men.

Rough hands hooked under his arms, dragging him out. His boots scraped against the ground. The air changed—cooler now, with a dampness that clung to his skin like a film.

The smell was heavier here: mold, stagnant water, and the faint iron tang of rust. The sound of the world outside vanished, replaced by the enclosed hush of stone.

A basement. Or a cellar.

They shoved him down onto a chair. The legs scraped harshly against the floor before finding their place. A rope wrapped around his chest and arms, pulled snug, then tighter. The fibers were rough but not cruel, and he knew the hands tying them.

"Make it tighter," Aiden muttered, low enough that only the binder would hear.

And he did—coiling the rope once more, biting into Aiden’s ribs until his breath hitched.

"Oouu!" Aiden hissed, the sound half pain, half amusement.

"...you told me so," the man behind him whispered back, a smirk in his tone.

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Step... step... step... step.

The bag came off. Lamplight stabbed at his eyes, blinding him for a second. The air was warmer here, but the damp stone walls still wept moisture in thin glistening lines. Aiden blinked until shapes solidified.

And there he was.

"...Gail. I should have known."

The green-haired knight’s face was shadowed on one side, the light turning his short hair into a poison sheen. His beard was trimmed but uneven, as though he’d cut it himself in a hurry.

His eyes—dark, brown, calculating—looked at Aiden not as one man sees another, but as a hawk might look at a rat it’s cornered.

Gail stepped forward.

Slap!

The sound cracked in the enclosed space, the force jerking Aiden’s head to the side. His cheek burned where the leather glove had landed.

"It’s Sir Gail for you... peasant." The knight’s voice was hoarse, like gravel dragged over stone.

Aiden’s jaw tightened. The taste of copper rose in his mouth.

Gail’s boots thudded on the floor as he began circling the chair.

"You know," Gail began, low and slow, "I’ve fought in wars. I’ve killed men who wore crowns. But never—never—have I wasted my time on a gutter-born stray like you."

He crouched, so close Aiden could smell him—steel oil, leather, and a faint bitterness like old wine.

"You’ve got that look—like you think you matter. Like somewhere under all that grime, you’re worth something.

Let me break that for you. You’re not a knight. Not a noble. Not even a soldier. You’re a street rat who stumbled into a world he can’t even spell."

Aiden kept his face still, though his pulse thudded in his ears.

"Do you know what people like me call people like you?" Gail’s lips curved into something sharp. "We call you dirt that learned to walk upright. That’s all.

You weren’t born into a bloodline that shapes kingdoms. Your ancestors were shoveling manure while mine decided who lived and who died."

He stood, pacing behind Aiden.

"You reek of lowborn arrogance—thinking you can sit at the table with lords when your place is on your knees cleaning it.

You could bathe in rosewater until the day you die, and you’d still smell like the piss-soaked alleys you crawled out of."

Gail stopped behind him. Aiden felt his breath just above his ear.

"And here’s the truth you choke on: you’ll never belong. You could win a hundred battles, charm a hundred fools, and still, when the real blood looks at you... they’ll see what I see right now. A peasant tied to a chair, waiting for permission to breathe."

Aiden’s fingers twitched against the rope. His skin itched with the heat of humiliation, but deep in his chest, something hotter than shame began to burn.

Gail came back into view, standing in front of him, eyes glittering with cruel pleasure.

"When you die, boy, no bard will sing your name. No banner will fly in your honor. You’ll vanish the way dirt vanishes in the wind. And no one—no one—will remember you were ever here.

I can’t understand, even now, why Lady Flora was so fond of you..."

The torch crackled, spitting resin. Shadows stretched across the floor like claws.

"Hehe..." Aiden’s laugh was low, almost lazy.

Gail’s brow furrowed. "Hmmm... what’s so funny?" His voice tightened, a thread of rage pulling taut.

"...you can’t even slap me with your bare hands," Aiden said, smirking through the blood on his lip. "How much of a pussy are you?"

His eyes roamed the room. The walls were bare stone, the corners piled with crates. Half the men standing there were faces he knew. The other half—armor-clad strangers, likely Gail’s soldiers—stood rigid, hands near their weapons.

"Why would I take off my glove to even touch a peasant like you? You don’t even deserve that."

Slap!

"Don’t use your foul words on me. I am a knight."

Aiden’s smile widened, the kind of smile that wasn’t just on his lips — it lived in his eyes, a slow, mocking curl that wormed under the skin and into the bones. He tilted his head just enough to meet Gail’s gaze through the lamplight.

"...knight... a knight?" Aiden’s voice dripped with disbelief, every syllable drawn out like poison. "Where is he then? Show him to me. Because all I see..." — he spat a thick rope of blood onto the cold stone floor, the sound sharp in the silence — "...is a jealous little coward, the kind who hides behind titles to mask the fact that he couldn’t win the girl he drooled over."

Punch!

The blow cracked across Aiden’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. He tasted more blood, let it drip from his lips without shame. Gail’s fist lingered in the air for half a heartbeat before driving in again.

"Shut. Up."

Aiden turned his face back, ragged but steady, breathing like someone who had decided pain was a currency he could spend forever.

"You know what I’m thinking?"

Punch!

"I’m thinking... you’re right. About your precious lady-in-waiting—"

Punch!

"I didn’t just talk to her, Gail." His voice came out hoarse, but each word was aimed straight at the knight’s ego. "I tasted her."

PUNCH!

"I savored every single part of her..." His lips pulled into a slow, bloodied grin. "...and she begged me not to stop."

PUNCH! PUNCH!

"And do you know the best part?" His face was swollen now, one eye almost shut, blood painting his chin. He leaned forward as far as the ropes would allow, forcing his words into Gail’s space. "She said..."

"SHUT! UP!"

"...she loved my cock, Gail. Loved it like it was made for her. She said you could never... ever... satisfy her. Not in days. Not even if you prayed to your gods and they handed you a miracle."

Gail’s nostrils flared, his breath hot and heavy, chest rising in sharp bursts. His teeth ground together, the tendons in his neck taut like bowstrings.

The sound of steel rang out — cold, pure, and lethal — as his sword slid free from its scabbard.

"DIEEEEEE!!!"