After Aamon left, Tharil and Tharok entered the prison cell.
"My, my, how miserable the prince looks," Tharil sneered, his voice dripping with wicked delight.
Seeing Tharil, Allesio's rage flared. He lunged at him with all his strength, but the chains were too short, binding him back against the cold stone.
"You killed the previous king," Tharil taunted, his smirk widening. "And now, you're standing in the way of the new king."
"What do you mean?" Allesio growled.
Tharil casually produced a scroll, holding it where Allesio could see. The script looked exactly like the king's handwriting, declaring that upon his death, Tharil would be named the next ruler.
"How dare you forge my father's will!" Allesio's voice trembled with fury.
"It's pretty convincing, isn't it?" Tharil leaned closer, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "Convincing enough to make everyone believe it's real."
"You bastard—" Allesio's words were cut off as the guards struck him with the blunt end of a spear.
"Stop," Tharil commanded coolly. The guards froze.
"Before I set the final part of my plan in motion, I want to get rid of you," Tharil said, stepping even closer. "Confess that you killed the king. Make it easy for us to convince the people you're guilty. Then we can all live happily ever after."
"I'll never say it," Allesio spat, his eyes blazing.
Tharil's fist struck him hard across the face.
"Beat him until he confesses," Tharil ordered.
The guards descended on Allesio with fists, staffs, and boots. They beat him mercilessly, but no matter how much pain they inflicted, Allesio's resolve never wavered.
Days turned into weeks. Every day, Allesio was tortured—beaten, whipped, burned with heated rods. But he never spoke the words Tharil demanded.
One day, Allesio was dragged, broken and bloodied, to the palace's grand wedding hall. Before him stood Lilian, dressed in a beautiful white gown, standing before Tharil's son.
Allesio's heart shattered. He struggled against his bonds, his voice hoarse as he called out for her. Lilian's eyes met his, her face pale with fear and sorrow.
"Don't do this, Lilian!" Allesio pleaded.
But Lilian remained still. The priest whispered in her ear, "If you disobey, he dies."
Tears welled in her eyes as she turned her head away from Allesio, her lips trembling.
"So this is the girl you love," Tharil sneered, watching Allesio's torment with glee. "She'll make a fine toy for my son."
Allesio strained with every ounce of his strength, but the chains held firm. He could only watch as the ceremony continued.
The pain, the betrayal, the heartbreak—it all ignited a searing hatred deep within Allesio. The kind-hearted prince was being consumed by darkness, his soul twisted by rage and despair.
Even when Aamon came to him in secret, trying to reason with him, Allesio refused to listen.
Soon, Tharil declared himself the new King of Eryndor. The kingdom descended into chaos. Crime surged, corruption ran rampant, and oppressive taxes crushed the common people.
Eryndor was no longer the kingdom it had been. And Allesio's heart had grown as cold and unyielding as the chains that had once bound him.
After three long months…
A lone guard stood outside Allesio's cell, his eyes fixed on the prince.
"How long are you going to just stand there thinking?" Aamon's voice broke the silence.
Startled, the guard turned. "I didn't notice you, sir."
"How long are you going to keep thinking about Allesio?" Aamon asked again, stepping closer, his voice quieter this time.
"I'm supposed to guard him, so of course I think about him," the guard replied, trying to sound professional.
"That's not what I'm asking," Aamon said firmly. "I've seen you here, watching him every day—even when you weren't assigned to this post."
The guard hesitated, his gaze dropping.
"You can tell me," Aamon said gently. "I won't tell anyone."
The guard sighed. "It's just that... I don't believe he's the kind of man who would kill his own father. I've known him since he was a boy—he was always so kind, never harsh or arrogant. He used to play with my son, a common guard's boy, as if they were equals. He always treated us like people, not like servants or strangers. I just... I can't believe that kind-hearted prince could be capable of such a crime."
He realized he might've said too much and lowered his head. "Sorry, sir. I spoke out of turn."
Aamon placed a hand on the guard's shoulder. "No, you're right about him," he said softly.
The guard looked up, surprised.
"He's just like his father—the kindest man I've ever known," Aamon continued. His voice was low, filled with regret. "That's why I need your help."
"My help?" the guard asked, cautiously hopeful.
"I need you to help me get him out of this mess," Aamon said, determination flickering in his eyes.
The guard straightened, his resolve clear. "I'll do my best, sir. I'll do whatever I can."
In the Royal Council room…
"How are things going on the northern side?" Tharil asked Tharok.
"After the increase in tax, they're working twice as hard as before," Tharok replied, smirking. "It's bringing in all the gold we need to buy troops and weapons to take over the territories we've marked."
"That's how you get the work done," Tharil said with a wicked grin. "That damn king… his generosity, his gestures… where did they lead him? To his death."
"No one is mourning him," Tharil added coldly.
From the shadowy edge of the wall, Aamon listened in, his face darkened with quiet rage.
He remembered his visit to the northern side, just a few days ago…
Aamon was walking through the streets of the northern district of Eryndor.
The people he passed had pale, sunken faces, burdened by exhaustion and despair.
He saw a boy, no older than seven or eight, tugging at his mother's sleeve.
"These are too many," the boy whispered, glancing at the scant pile of food. "Will we have enough to eat for dinner?"
His mother wept silently, her hands trembling as she tried to console him.
Every scene Aamon witnessed weighed heavier on his heart, each one igniting his hatred for Tharil. But deeper down, it wasn't just Tharil he despised—it was himself.
"Maybe I should have stopped Tharil back then," Aamon muttered to himself. "But then what?"
"The king would have forgiven him."
"What if I killed Tharil?" Aamon argued with himself. "Then the king would've cast me out. Allesio would have lost his trust in me. A new Advisor would've come and might have done the same thing…"
"If I'd told Allesio," he whispered bitterly, "maybe we could've prevented it all."
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Mister, why do you look so sad?" a little girl asked, her wide eyes filled with innocent concern.
"I'm not sad," Aamon replied automatically.
"You shouldn't lie. That's what my mommy told me," the girl said, tilting her head.
Aamon smirked faintly.
"I'm sad because my friend won't talk to me," he admitted quietly.
"Did you do something bad?" the little girl asked.
"Yes," Aamon said softly, his voice cracking under the weight of guilt. "I did something bad."
"Then you should apologize," the girl said with childlike wisdom.
"But he won't listen to me," Aamon murmured.
"Don't give up, mister. If he's your friend, he'll listen," the little girl said, her words simple but heartfelt.
Those simple words, spoken without malice or judgment, ignited a flicker of hope in Aamon's heart—a hope that he couldn't abandon Allesio.
Aamon returned to the present, his gaze hardening as he watched Tharil.
"I will end your delusions. Allesio, I'll make you the King of Eryndor. That's my promise."