CHAPTER 463: IN THE HANDS OF A VILLAIN: MIRA’S FATE

When they reached Estalis after days of grueling travel, she was dragged from the cart like refuse cast aside. Her garments were torn, her body smeared with dust, yet no one spared her a glance of pity. To the soldiers, she was not a woman of flesh and blood but a burden, a captive to be disposed of. She had hoped that Turik would help her, but he lay unconscious, his breathing shallow—his silence signaled her doom.

They hauled her through the gates of the fortress, past walls slick with damp moss, into a place where the stench of iron and rot clung to the air. The dungeon swallowed her whole, its darkness broken only by the guttering flame of a torch. A jailer thrust her into a cell no larger than a cattle pen, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed like a sentence. She was cast down not as a noblewoman nor even as a prisoner of worth, but as one condemned to vanish beneath stone.

From that first day, she learned the art of silence. She kept her head bowed, her eyes lowered, for any spark of defiance was met with blows or jeers. The dungeon did not forgive weakness, nor did it reward pride. Her voice, once strong, became a whisper within her own mind. Shouting only brought fists or the scrape of a boot against her ribs, and so she swallowed her words like poison.

Each day—or what she thought to be a day—she was given a single slice of bread, coarse and blackened at the edges. At first, she devoured it hungrily, only to feel it cut the tender flesh of her throat as though she swallowed shards of pottery. Later, she discovered that soaking it in the foul water from the bucket softened it enough to keep from choking. Hunger made even this miserable fare a treasure, though her stomach ached constantly with emptiness.

She counted herself fortunate in one regard alone: though she was degraded and imprisoned, she was not handed to the guards for their sport. That mercy—whether by oversight or decree—became her fragile shield, the one thing that allowed her to endure the days of unbroken dark.

Yet the cell crept into her mind like a parasite. The damp stone numbed her bones, the silence pressed upon her ears until she fancied whispers stirring in the walls. In time, she could not tell whether the sounds she heard were real or conjured by her own despair. And still she endured, clinging to the faint hope that beyond the dungeon’s grasp, someone—anyone—might remember her name.

When the guards came for her, she thought it was her execution. They dragged her from the cell, her legs weak, and hauled her through the torchlit corridors of Aegir Palace. But instead of the gallows, they brought her to a chamber she knew too well—the room where General Turik lay.

He looked better than when she’d last seen him: his eyes, those eyes still burned with a feverish fire.

"Come closer," he said, his voice deceptively soft.

Mira hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to stay away. But the guards’ hands shoved her forward, and she found herself kneeling at his bedside. She kept her eyes lowered, afraid of what she might see in his.

"Go take a bath. You stink. After that you have to wipe me clean. My body itches."

Mira obeyed. It was better to be with him than stay in that prison. His chamber had a separate room where she could bathe herself. Afterward, she brought a basin and a washcloth and wiped Turik’s body.

The air thickened. Mira’s pulse raced as she realized something had shifted as she wiped his body.

His thumb brushed against her jaw, not gently, but with the certainty of ownership. "You will stay by my side, Mira. You will bring me what I need. You will keep me strong." His lips curved into a dark smile. "And when I rise again, you will remember that you chose wisely."

Mira swallowed hard, but could she say no? After spending time in the dungeon, this was heaven.

...

Days passed before Lirea returned. She told herself it was duty, that she had to report her father’s displeasure and remind Turik of his precarious position. But when she entered his chamber, her pulse betrayed her—too fast, too sharp.

Turik looked up at her from the bed, his face gaunt with pain yet his eyes burning with that same dangerous fire. And beside him was the concubine standing docilely.

"Get out!" Lirea spat and Mira scrambled out of her way.

"Well, well," he murmured, his voice smooth despite the rasp in it. "The Princess graces me again. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me."

"I came to warn you," Lirea said coolly, taking her seat with calculated distance. "My father has begun to consider whether Estalis should wash its hands of you entirely."

Turik tilted his head, studying her with unnerving intensity. "And yet here you are, alone in my room again. Tell me, Lirea, why risk your reputation for a crippled general?"

Her jaw tightened. "Because I am not afraid of you."

He laughed softly, the sound low and predatory. "No? Then why do your hands tremble when I touch you?"

Her breath caught—she hadn’t realized until then that her fingers twisted against the fabric of her gown, betraying her.

Turik leaned forward, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You despise me, Princess. I see it in your eyes. But hatred is only the twin of desire. Both consume. Both burn."

"Enough." She rose abruptly, but before she could turn, his hand snaked out and caught her wrist again. She should have called the guards, should have wrenched away, but she didn’t.

Turik tugged her closer until she stood over him, his face tilted up toward hers. His grip was firm but not crushing, his touch searing where their skin met.

"You came to warn me," he said softly, his lips curving into a cruel smile. "But you will come again. You’ll tell yourself it’s duty, or strategy, or curiosity. But deep down, you’ll know the truth: you’re drawn to me. And the more you fight it, the stronger it becomes."

Lirea’s heart hammered, her throat dry. She hated him—hated his arrogance, his cruelty, his smug certainty. And yet... something in his words coiled inside her like poison.

She wrenched her wrist free, glaring down at him with all the fury she could muster. "You disgust me," she hissed, but her voice faltered.

Turik leaned back, his laughter rich and dark. "Disgust, desire... they taste the same on the tongue, Princess."

She stormed from the chamber, but his voice followed her, curling like smoke through the closing door.

"You’ll be back."

Meanwhile Mira stood outside with the guard. She appeared nonchalant, and yet her ears flicked to the door to listen to the exchanges inside. Though faint, she still understood the dynamics between Turik and the Crown Princess of Estalis. No, not the crown princess, but the queen.

A glint crossed her eyes as she watched Queen Lirea stromed from Turik’s room.