Chapter 115: The End?
It was around three in the morning, the kind of hour when the world felt suspended between sleeping and waking. A cloaked figure moved through the narrow path beside the outer walls, his steps careful, measured. Every few paces, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hood, checking for pursuit. The empty streets offered no pursuers, only the echo of his own caution. Satisfied, he moved on, his destination towards the Royal Dungeons of Lycanthria.
He reached the stone fence that marked the boundary of the inner grounds and followed it until he arrived at a small, poorly marked entrance. Two guards stood there, spears resting against the wall, their posture relaxed, as they counted the minutes until their shift ended.
The guards snapped to attention at his approach. The cloaked figure did not hesitate. He stepped forward, slipped a leather pouch from beneath his cloak, and tossed it toward the nearer guard. The coins inside clinked softly. The guard caught it, weighed it in his hand, then nodded without a word.
The second guard glanced around, scanning the empty pathway, then produced a large key. After a brief pause, the iron gate opened just wide enough, and the cloaked figure slipped inside, followed by the second guard. He shut it quickly.
They moved deeper into the dungeons, their footsteps echoing lowly against the stone. Torches lined the walls, casting steady light that revealed rows of iron-barred cells. Most of the prisoners inside were asleep, sprawled on straw beds or slumped against walls.
The guard led the way, his boot scraping on the floor, moving deeper away from the cells of mere thieves and debtors. With each turn, the atmosphere changed. The smell of rot and decay crept in, thick and unmistakable. The guard grimaced slightly and reached for a heavy ring of keys hanging from his belt. He selected one to open a heavier iron gate. He passed through and ushered the cloaked figure through. The final corridor was narrow, lined with doors that seemed less like cells and more like tombs.
At the very end, the guard stopped before the last door. "This is as far as I go," he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open, standing aside. "You don’t have much time. They’ll be changing shifts soon." He muttered, his voice barely a whisper, eyes darting back the way they came.
The cloaked figure nodded and stepped inside alone. The cell within was small, dim, but not completely dark. Eirene sat on the bare stone floor, her back against the cold wall. Her head was bowed, her hair hiding her face. Thick chains were bolted into the wall behind her. One was fastened tightly around her left wrist. Where her right hand should have been, there was only a band of metal encircling a brutal stump. More chains restrained her ankles, limiting even the slightest movement.
At the sound of footsteps, she stirred. For a moment, there was only the sound of Eirene’s shallow breathing.
The cloaked figure reached up and pulled back his hood. Elder Toben’s face was revealed. His expression bore no pity or triumph, only a weary urgency.
"Eirene," he said quietly.
Slowly, she lifted her head. Dirt and old bruises marred her beautiful features. But her eyes still held defiant fire.
Her lips curved into a low, humorless smile. "Finally," she croaked, her voice rough from disuse. "I was beginning to think you’d lost your nerve, Elder Toben. Have you come to see if the threads still hold? Or to cut them?"
She studied him with tired but sharp eyes. "Or is this about fear? Is the coven so worried I’ll start talking? I’ve already heard about the king’s illness. I know how this ends for me."
Toben’s expression remained controlled, though there was tension in his jaw. "I cannot stay for a debate, Eirene. Neither did I come for a conversation." He said.
She let out a dry chuckle that echoed softly off the stone walls. "Debate? No. I imagine not. Then why come at all? What do you want, Toben? Though I suspect I already know. Do they fear a mutilated woman in the deepest hole they could find, will somehow make it alive and ruin their plans?"
"Your perception was always sharp." Toben acknowledged, his voice low. "I have a message from the Dark Lord." He took a step closer, the smell of decay and her unwashed body filling his nostrils.
That caught her attention. Her smile faded, replaced by something more complex. "What does he want?"
"Your mission is over. He said you failed Drakwyne." Toben said flatly.
Eirene snorted, a sudden, violent sound. "Over? He declares it over? Is that what he calls this? Failure?" She shook her head. "What of my daughter, Toben? What of Rowena?" The name was a plea and a weapon torn from her throat.
"Rowena is well. More than well."
"Where is she?!" Eirene snapped.
"In Drakwyne. She was crowned Queen of Drakwyne today."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Eirene’s eyes widened, the defiance shattering into pure horror. A strangled sound escaped her lips. "No!" She tried to lurch to her feet, but the chains jerked her back savagely. She fell to her knees with a cry of pain and fury, the metal links screeching against stone as she strained against them.
"How?!" She screamed, the sound raw and echoing in the tiny cell. "How dare he! How dare he! How dare Zareth crown my daughter Queen of those forsaken lands! A gilded tomb!" She shouted. Her voice cracked with fury and fear. "She is a pawn! A lamb for the slaughter!"
"It is for the best," Toben said, his voice unnervingly calm against her fury.
"For the best?" Eirene laughed bitterly. "You call placing that weight on her head ’for the best’?"
"The crown provides stability. Purpose. And she is already feeding," Toben replied. "Soon enough, the Witch-Queen would have claimed her soul completely. The Dark Lord believes that with guidance, she can be shaped instead of shattered. Someone will train her. Someone who understands restraint."
Tears welled in Eirene’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She pulled at the chains until the metal bit into her skin, pain flaring through her body. "No! You don’t understand!"
"She is protected in Drakwyne. And she will fulfill her purpose." Toben insisted.
"No one can protect her there! Not the court. Not the crown. Not the power. Definitely not Zareth! Only I can! I am her mother!" Her voice trembled as grief and rage tangled together. "And I won’t stop. I will find her. I will save her from all of you."
Toben let out a low laugh and crouched in front of her, bringing himself to her eye level. "And how do you plan to do that?" He gestured around the cell. "Save her from here? You can’t even use your powers. Those chains aren’t ordinary; they leech your power, your very soul. You are a bird with clipped wings raging at the bars."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a dark liquid. He placed it on the stone floor between them and, with a slight push of his finger, sent it rolling towards her. It rolled until it stopped just within her reach.
Toben’s gaze locked on hers. "The Dark Lord fears not your imprisonment but your influence. He fears that if you were to meet Rowena again, you would dissuade her. Fill her head with a mother’s sentimental poison. You have failed your mission, now a lost cause to our mission." He paused, letting the finality of the words sink in. "It’s convenient if you end it all. With dignity. For her sake."
Eirene stared at the vial, her chest heaving. "You want me to kill myself," she whispered.
"I want you to understand," Toben said evenly, rising to his feet. "Rowena will be fine. This is mercy."
Mercy.
The word echoed in her mind as Toben turned and walked toward the gate. The guard outside was already shifting nervously. Toben did not look back as he stepped through the door. The iron gate shut with a soft click. She watched his retreat through blurred vision, her tears falling freely now.
She bowed her head and sobbed, her body shaking with grief. Images of Rowena flooded her thoughts—her laughter as a child, her stubbornness, the way she used to cling to her when she was afraid. She wept for the weight of a kingdom she knew would crush a spirit not yet hardened to its ruthlessness. She wept for the idea of her daughter alone, burdened by a crown and surrounded by forces that wanted to consume her, tear her apart. She wept for the terrible destiny her daughter was being steered towards, a feast for an ancient hungry power.
But as the sobs slowly subsided, something else began to rise within her. It fueled a hotter, more dangerous flaw. In her regret, a renewed hope surged. Not a gentle nudge but a sharp, desperate, and ruthless determination.
She lifted her head and looked at the vial again. Her breathing steadied. A bitter smile touched her lips.
"No, I won’t give you what you want, Zareth. Sending poison like a coward."
If Zareth wanted her dead, he could come and do it himself. He should have the courage to wield the blade himself. She would make sure Zareth looked into the woman’s eyes and saw the consequences. She would not drink poison like a defeated pawn. Not while Rowena still lived. Not while there was even the slightest chance to reach her.
She would save her daughter. She would tear down Drakwyne brick by brick if she had to. She would tear down every wall, every chain.
She clenched her chained fist, pain flaring, but she welcomed it. It reminded her she was still alive.
She would endure the dungeon. She would endure the chains. She would not back down. Not now. Not ever. And if it means allying with the very devil she had betrayed, if it means begging forgiveness from the one she had hurt the most to gain the power to protect her child, then so be it. And if saving her daughter meant helping the one she had broken the most, then so be it.
She looked down at the chains meant to hold a witch. But it can’t come close to the strength of a mother who had just found a reason to live, a reason to become something far more terrifying than she had ever been before.
A grim, bloody smile touched her lips. No, her mission was not over. It had simply changed.
