Clang!
The sound of metal striking stone echoed harshly in the quiet night of the underground royal prison of Thăng Long Citadel. This noise did not come from the golden bracelet that Chiêu Hoàng had thrown from the bell tower of Báo Thiên Pagoda. Nor could she have heard it.
The sound came from a large iron chain slamming against a stone wall. It resounded like the growl of a ferocious beast, ready to devour its prey. Just a few houses away stood the royal secret dungeon. It was neither outside the citadel walls nor within the imperial prison. Carved deep beneath the earth, under the thick layer of laterite stone in the Inner Forbidden Palace, it lay only a few dozen steps from the granite steps of Thái Hòa Palace. Once a wine cellar of a bygone dynasty, it had been sealed and transformed into a secret dungeon, used to confine those who could neither be known to the world as alive nor allowed to die without orders.
This dungeon was not for ordinary criminals. It was reserved for emperors and kings of rival nations, royal princes, or rebellious nobles. A hidden passage led through the rear of the palace, descending via winding stone steps like the coils of a dragon's gut. Only eunuchs, royal physicians, or those personally summoned directly by the Emperor tread that path.
The dungeon had no name, no sign, only a thick iron door, rusted and moss-covered on the outside, secured with an ancient bronze lock. But inside, the iron chains gleamed, the shackles remained icy, and death always lurked.
Chế Củ jolted awake. The darkness clung to him like toxic moss, thick and raw. He pushed aside the red robe, bestowed by the Đại Việt court, that covered him and propped himself up on the thick lim-wood plank, blackened and polished by the sweat of countless prisoners who had spent their lives in this dungeon. Just yesterday, he had been confined with his compatriots. But after selecting fifteen of his most battle-hardened soldiers—men who had fought alongside him through decades and hundreds of military campaigns—for tomorrow's "Human Chess" game, the Guards of the Thăng Long Citadel had come and escorted him to this solitary dungeon, completely separating him from his men.
His broad, bare back touched the damp stone wall, cold as a corpse, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. The stench of rat droppings, human urine, dried blood, and the musty smell of thousand-year-old earth mingled in the thick air, so dense it felt like he was breathing through the lungs of a caged beast. From a corner of the cell, the steady drip of water fell, each drop marking time like a water clock for those abandoned by history. A cockroach as big as a thumb crawled across the stone wall, where faint scratches marked the passage of time by some prisoner before him. The cockroach calmly licked at the marks of time as if it were the true master of this dungeon.
Chế Củ had grown accustomed to the darkness. But he could never get used to the deadly silence of this place—a silence not of peace, but of oblivion, of souls cast aside and forgotten.
The heavy iron door creaked open.
A dim golden light spilled in from the corridor. In the flickering glow of a swaying lamp, a figure entered—back straight, face cold. In one hand, he held a brown-glazed ceramic lamp shaped like a parrot. In the other, a wooden box. He said nothing. His faded indigo robe hung loosely, and a bundle of large keys jangled at his waist with each step.
He was the royal Warden—the jailer of the final edge of life, where even former kings became living corpses. He didn't glance at Chế Củ. He stepped directly to a stone table against the wall, placed the lamp down, and pulled things from the wooden box.
A sealed letter, an ink bottle, a brush, and a sheet of golden dó paper were arranged on the table. The letter bore a red wax seal, with elegant, flowing seal-script characters: "Grand Imperial Tutor, Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor Trần Thủ Độ."
Without a word, he left, his long shadow trailing behind him as the heavy iron door closed. Chế Củ stared silently. He cared little for the letter. He already could get its contents. What caught his interest was the stone table, where the lamp cast a warm, inviting glow. That warmth came not just from the light but from the lamp's beautiful shape.
The people of Đại Việt crafted things of true beauty. From mere clay, his people made only simple terracotta jars and pots. Here, they created objects with vivid and mystical features like this parrot-shaped ceramic lamp.
The lamp was crafted from brown-glazed pottery, a hallmark of the Lý dynasty, distinguished by its ivory or opaque white glaze, adorned with delicate, lively manganese-brown designs. Its body was shaped like a parrot—a bird symbolizing intelligence and language. The parrot sat with wings folded, head raised, round eyes bright, and beak curved, as if listening intently or about to sing.
Its body bore lotus-petal motifs drawn in a soft brown glaze. The parrot's back held a compartment for oil, with a small hole for the wick. The beak served as the spout for the flame. The parrot lamp cast a shimmering, warm, and ethereal light, its glow reflecting off the glaze like moonlight gliding over water, sparkling in the dungeon's gloom.
One day, Chế Củ would teach his people the wonders he had seen and heard here if the Gods left him alive.
He turned to the letter. He didn't rush to open it. His hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the sensation of a fish flopping on dry land, knowing its fate that was in another's hands. He carefully tore the envelope. Inside was a sheet of pale golden dó paper, inscribed with sharp, elegant, and bold calligraphy, not a single stray drop of ink. It was the writing of someone accustomed to giving orders, not making requests.
The first lines sent a chill down his spine:
"To Chế Củ,
Once, you were a sovereign of a realm, your banners flying across the South, where the blood of Việt people stained the lands of Champa, and the blood of Champa soaked the lands of Đại Việt.
Đại Việt and Champa, bound by eternal enmity, blood for blood, bone for bone, land for land. Now, the tides of fate have turned. You have fallen and been captured here. Our swords remain sheathed. Your head is still on your shoulders, only because I have not yet chosen to take it.
I do not ask if you still harbor resentment or dream of restoring your kingdom. I ask you only this question:
Do you know about your time?
You, who called yourself a king, failed to grasp the flow of time, defied the will of God, and dared to speak arrogantly before our Sacred Emperor in the imperial court?
Those words were the words of a reckless man at his end, not the speech of a gentleman, even in defeat. Before, you lost on the battlefield. Now, you have lost your identification and character.
The saddest and obvious truth is:
You did not realize you had already lost in the moment you spoke with such arrogance with our High Majesty Emperor.
When you entered Thăng Long in chains, I wished to order your execution to honor our banners and cleanse the shame of our blood-stained lands. But our Emperor, a saintly ruler with a heart that is as vast as the sea, instructed me: "Give him a path to turn back."
That is why your head remains on your shoulders, and your blood has not yet spilled on the granite steps of Thái Hòa Palace.
Tomorrow, three chess games at Thái Hòa Palace before the court and the people of both nations are your final chance to prove your brave spirit—not a place to defy our enlightened Emperor.
I wrote this letter not because I am fear of you, nor to debate with you. I wrote this letter to you because of my Emperor's command—the words of a generous and tolerant king who values the bravery and spirit of a warrior, even though this warrior is chosen the wrong way.
If you surrender, acknowledge your defeat honorably, and swear to serve as a vassal, uphold the rites of a subject, and vow never again to invade Đại Việt's land, you will not only be spared but granted peace, rewards, and the chance to return to your homeland to restore your people and ancestral crown.
Do not mistake our merciful Emperor's leniency for a license to persist in insolence. For if you refuse, the time will come when I no longer need to keep your head on your shoulders.
Trần Thủ Độ, respectfully."
Chế Củ set the letter on the stone table. His hand clenched and his mind flashed images of warhorses galloping under the Phan Rang sun, the boom of battle drums echoing from Champa towers, banners fluttering over Cả Mountain Pass, and sleepless nights guarding the frontier. All that once belonged to him—the Champa king with a dream to conquer the North. He did not fear death. What he feared more than death was living as someone other than himself.
He reached out, grabbed the ink bottle from the table, and hurled it at the wall.
Black ink splattered everywhere.