The whip cracked again, cutting through the damp air before it carved into flesh.
Axel's scream echoed off the stone walls, only to be swallowed by the thick cement that buried the dungeon beneath the palace. His leather bindings creaked as he lurched forward, blood splattering against the cold floor and walls like crimson ink on parchment. His back was a canvas of shredded skin and exposed sinew, raw and wet. The lash had torn through him so many times now, the pain came in waves—distant, then blisteringly close.
He couldn't stand. Couldn't fight. Could barely breathe.
Axel's jaw clenched so tight it threatened to crack. His shoulders sagged, trembling from the weight of agony and shame. His father's towering figure loomed behind him, silhouetted by flickering torchlight, the whip dangling like a serpent in his clenched fist.
"Why were you there, Vladimir?" King Vladimir's voice rumbled with rage—deeper than fury, closer to betrayal. He snapped the whip taut again, the sound like thunder in the boy's ears.
Axel flinched, but said nothing.
He couldn't say it. Couldn't admit he'd snuck away to see her. That when Scarlett had received her mother's final warning text, he'd still been upstairs—in her room, in her presence—until he saw the silver glint of his father's Royal Knights storming through the door below.
He hadn't saved her. He had run.
His silence earned him another strike. The leather whip lashed across the same exposed nerve endings, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. He collapsed forward, barely held up by the chains bolted to the stone floor.
"Why?!" his father roared. "She is a commoner! Her family serves us! She is nothing to you!"
Axel's blood-slick lips parted. His voice came out broken, breathless.
"She is something to me."
He didn't say it to provoke. He barely even meant to say it aloud. But the truth had clawed its way out of his chest like a demon seeking light.
King Vladimir froze.
Then the whip clattered to the ground.
With three strides, he was upon his son—hands like iron clamping around the back of Axel's neck. He shoved him down with such force that the boy's knees buckled, his jaw slamming into stone. A strangled gasp tore from Axel's throat as blood filled his mouth.
"She. Is. NOTHING!" the King bellowed.
Axel coughed violently, gagging on copper and bile as he clawed at his father's wrists in desperation. "Father," he gasped, his voice fractured and hoarse, "please..."
But there was no mercy in the King of Crimson.
Only fury.
Only fire.
With a show of monstrous strength, King Vladimir yanked Axel upward by the leather restraints, his wiry frame dragged to its feet like a marionette pulled too tight. The King didn't stop until Axel's bruised face was level with his own.
"Do you love this girl?" the King sneered, the disgust curling his lip nearly as vicious as his grip.
Axel's eyes widened, the raw skin of his back trembling with every breath. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his mouth parted in a wheeze. "Y-yes... Father," he gasped, the words barely escaping past the crushing weight around his throat.
Color drained from his face, fading from crimson to a ghostly pallor. Blood dripped freely from his back, his ribs, his lips—pooling at his feet like a slow, inevitable confession.
There was no point in lying.
Vlad could see through falsehoods like glass. A lie would only prolong the punishment. Make it more creative.
The King's snarl deepened, but his fingers loosened—just enough to let Axel choke down a full breath. Not enough to free him. Only enough to let him speak.
And suffer.
Vlad's irises bled from hazel to red, like ink dissolving in water—until the crimson consumed him completely. The change was slow, deliberate. He wanted his son to see the predator beneath the crown.
"Then why don't we invite her to the Choosing Ball, hmm?" His voice dripped with venom and dark glee.
Axel's chest rose sharply. Ice slid down his spine as the meaning behind the words sank in. The Choosing Ball—the King's Blood Trial. A twisted blood sport cloaked in royal tradition. It wasn't a proposal.
It was a death sentence.
"She doesn't love me," Axel croaked, desperate, delirious, straining against his father's grip. "She'd never win... she'd die—"
A low, guttural chuckle rumbled from the King's chest, reverberating like thunder in a crypt. "Oh, how wrong you are, Vladimir," he growled, his fangs slipping lower with each syllable. His true face emerged—the one behind the press conferences and ceremonial robes. The one built on manipulation, hunger, and power.
"I see with more than eyes," Vlad hissed, a breath of rotting heat spilling over Axel's cheek. "That girl would die for you. She'd kill for you."
The words hit harder than any whip.
Axel froze, breath caught in his throat. Scarlett. Brave, fierce Scarlett. He could see her now—her fury, her loyalty, her self-sacrifice.
And now... his greatest fear.
The King knew.
He knew everything. Her love. Axel's guilt. And exactly how to use it against them both.
Scarlett Ambrose had just become his father's favorite weapon.
Vlad huffed, the threads of restraint finally snapping, and hurled Axel's bloodied body across the dungeon. The boy crashed into the stone wall with a wet crack. His skull hit first, then the rest of him collapsed, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of his ribs. The sound echoed like a judgment rendered—final and absolute.
"You disappoint me, son," the King seethed, voice stripped of warmth. "Love makes you weak."
Without another glance, he turned toward the iron door. Its rusted hinges screeched, then boots echoed on the stairs—measured, practiced steps. A guardsman entered the chamber, his presence sharp and crisp.
"Your Majesty," the soldier said, bowing. "The raid on the Ambrose estate is complete."
Vlad paused just before the exit, one hand resting on the doorframe. "Report."
Blood continued to drip from the boy's split lips, soaking into the already saturated floor beneath him. His body trembled, not from fear—but from the shame that bloomed like a virus in his chest. His breathing was ragged, shallow.
"House neutralized as instructed. No resistance. Josephine Ambrose is confirmed dead."
Silence descended.
Then Vlad exhaled, slow and satisfied. "Good," he murmured. "Let that be a warning. That family served the Crimson Crown and forgot their station. Let the rest remember theirs."
Below them, Axel barely stirred. The blood in his veins froze. Josephine. Dead.
He hadn't been fast enough. Hadn't stopped it. He had doomed them the moment he stepped into Scarlett's room.
The guardsman adjusted his stance. "Orders, Your Majesty?"
Vlad's eyes narrowed as a cruel thought coiled behind them. "Extend an invitation to Scarlett Ambrose to the Choosing Ball."
The soldier hesitated. "The common girl, sire?"
A thin smile tugged at the King's lips. "You forget tradition. The heir selects twelve noblewomen to compete for the Queen's throne in the Choosing Ball...and the King always reserves the right to name the thirteenth."
He stepped forward, eyes burning. "Scarlett Ambrose may be mine. May be my personal selection."
The words landed like a blade, deliberate and cold.
"Maybe I'll let her compete. Let her bleed in front of the court. Let the entire kingdom see how far a girl will fall for a prince who failed to save her."
He turned, and with one last slam, he left Axel in the dark, disappearing into the corridor, his footsteps fading like distant thunder.
Axel didn't scream. Couldn't.
Scarlett's face swam in his vision, both a comfort and a curse. Her laughter. Her light. Her mother.
Gone.
And it was his fault.
The last of his strength dissolved as blackness overtook him, but his thoughts clung to her—burning, sharp, and full of regret.
I'm so sorry, Scar.