(Vlad's POV)
Cold stone pressed against my cheek.
The scent of iron and blood clung to the air, thick enough to choke. I was half-awake, drifting in and out of consciousness, my body refusing to respond no matter how hard I willed it to move.
Chains rattled faintly.
But—.
Something was wrong.
There was no burning pain on my chest.
No mark seared into my flesh.
I had expected it. I had braced myself for it—the brand of a slave, the seal of a traitor that would bind my fate to humiliation and obedience.
Yet my skin was intact.
"…He's alive."
A voice reached my ears, calm and measured.
"Barely," another replied. "His wounds are severe, but he is still useful."
Useful.
I forced my eyes open.
Through blurred vision, I saw silhouettes—imperial soldiers in dark armor, their capes bearing the crest of the Draconian Empire. I tried to move.
Pain exploded through my abdomen.
I gasped, a broken sound tearing from my throat.
