Alistair straightened slowly, the manic laughter still clinging to his lips. His gaze slid toward the guards, silent and rigid in the shadows. The rope hung loose around Lucian's raw throat, a serpent waiting to strike again.
"Drag him up," Alistair commanded, his tone sharp, cold, and utterly final.
The guards shifted uneasily, exchanging glances. For the first time since the ordeal began, one of them dared speak, his voice low, cautious.
"My prince… the tutor is already pale, weak. If we continue—he might not survive it."
The chamber chilled. Alistair's smile vanished, replaced by something sharper, deadlier. He turned slowly, like a predator giving prey one last chance to flee before the kill. His eyes locked onto the trembling guard who had spoken.
"What was that?" His voice slithered, deceptively soft.
