Throne of Ash and Shadows

Chapter 2 Vlad Vasiliev

The taste of blood filled my mouth, a familiar, bitter reminder that I was alive again. The rough edge of a metal shackle rubbed against my wrist, the heavy chain at my ankles biting into my skin. I rolled my head back and blinked, expecting the sharp light of my chambers. Instead, I was greeted by the dim, suffocating gloom of a dungeon.

Everything hurts. I turned my head and caught my reflection in a shallow puddle nearby—cracked lips, a bruised eye, my face battered and swollen. They had beaten me while I was dead, ensuring that when I returned to life, I would wake in weakness.

I felt the faint flicker of my powers dancing at the edge of my fingertips, but I couldn't summon them. My eyes scanned the room, and there it was—the silencer. A cursed relic, designed to suppress magic. It surrounded me, ensuring I would remain powerless, no matter how hard I tried.

I leaned my head against the cold stone wall and groaned, a low, guttural sound that rumbled in my chest. Did they think pain or torture would make me break? Did they think these bruises and chains would weaken me? How wrong they were. My father had seen to it that I would never know weakness, that I would endure horrors far worse than this.

These fools had no idea. If they knew what I'd been through, they would pale in comparison. But it was my father's training that had shaped me, that had forged me into the man I am today—the immortal killer. His immortal killer.

My stomach growled, the gnawing hunger twisting like a knife in my gut. My throat burned with thirst, but I knew it would do me no harm. Hunger, thirst—none of it could kill me. None of it would even weaken me. I took a deep breath, feeling the sharp sting in my lungs as the scent of bile and blood filled my nostrils.

Why had they kept me alive? The Caldorians had never cared for my body after battle, leaving it where it fell, convinced that I was finally dead. But not this time. No, this time they had dragged me into their dungeons.

I was the prince, the commander of Avernia. Surely my father would send someone to find me. I wasn't just anyone—I was their heir. I was needed.

Soft murmurs reached my ears. I turned my head and saw them—just beyond the glass walls of my cell stood the young king of Caldoria and the general who had "killed" me.

I glared at them from where I sat, chained and bleeding, my stare locking with the king's cold, calculating gaze.

Moments later, he entered my cell, guards flanking him on either side.

"Prince Vlad of Avernia, Commander-in-Chief, heir to the throne..." He spoke my titles as though they were a joke, walking slowly toward me. His eyes never wavered from mine. I didn't look away.

"How lucky am I to have you under my possession," he smirked, kneeling in front of me, his eyes level with mine. "You must be wondering why I've kept you alive, wondering how foolish it was for me to capture you."

He stood, circling my cell with slow, deliberate steps. "But you see, unlike our fathers, I think ahead. Always two steps ahead," he said, stopping just in front of me, his smirk widening. "You see, Prince, I had a Mimarian—a shapeshifter—impersonating you."

My heart skipped a beat as he continued.

"Now that I know your sister, the only Sevren—mind reader—Avernia had is dead, I know no one will catch the bluff. They'll never know I've replaced you." He drew a dagger from his boot, its blade glinting dully in the low light. With a swift motion, he pressed it to my throat, the cold steel biting into my skin, blood trickling down my neck.

"And as for your sister... What if I told you I've found her? Yes, Vlad, I've been searching for her as long as you have. And now, she's mine. My little bride-to-be," he whispered against my ear, his voice dripping with venom.