The cell was not dark.
That was the cruelest part.
Light filtered in through the narrow slits high above, illuminating the iron bars, the cold stone floor, and the dried blood at Laura's feet. She sat upright despite the pain, her back straight, chin lifted—defiant even in chains.
Her father stood before her.
Once, he had been the right hand of Ross. Trusted. Honored. A man whose word carried weight beside the throne. Now he wore finer clothes than ever, his posture relaxed, his expression sharp with impatience rather than shame.
"You will kneel," he said coldly. "You will apologize. And you will be freed."
Laura laughed softly. It hurt her ribs, but she did it anyway.
"I would rather die," she replied, voice hoarse but unwavering, "than beg forgiveness from a traitor."
His hand struck the iron bars.
"Careful," he snarled. "You live because I allow it."
"No," she shot back. "I live because you are afraid to kill me."
His eyes darkened.
"You think Vanella would thank you for this?" he demanded. "For clinging to pride when survival is offered?"
At the mention of Vanella, Laura's chest tightened.
She remembered scraped knees and whispered secrets. remembered Vanella standing before punishment meant for her. remembered the princess taking blame, enduring lashes, silence, confinement—always smiling afterward, always protecting her.
"She saved me more times than I can count," Laura said quietly. "Even when it cost her everything."
Her father scoffed. "And where is she now?"
Laura's gaze sharpened. "Dead to you. But not to me."
That was when his control snapped.
"Enough," he barked, turning away. "Rot here if you must. I have no daughter who chooses ghosts over life."
At the threshold, he paused only to add, venomously,
"And do not speak her name again."
Then he left.
The door closed with finality.
Laura did not cry.
Only when footsteps approached again did she lift her head.
Her brother.
He looked just like their father—same eyes, same build—but his expression was conflicted. He dismissed the guards with a wave and stepped closer.
"You didn't have to provoke him," he said quietly.
"You didn't have to watch him destroy Ross," she replied. Her voice trembled now, not with fear, but with disappointment. "You said you loved her. You said Vanella was like family."
His jaw tightened.
"I still do."
"Then how could you stand by?" she demanded. "How could you let him butcher her family? Her people?"
Silence stretched.
Finally, he exhaled. "Because this world rewards obedience, not loyalty."
Laura shook her head. "That's not the brother I knew."
He crouched before her, lowering his voice. "Listen to me. You need to play along."
Her eyes widened. "No."
"Yes," he insisted. "Pretend you've changed your mind. Apologize. Say what he wants to hear."
"I won't betray her," she whispered fiercely.
"You won't," he said. "You'll survive."
She searched his face. "You swear you know what you're doing?"
A pause.
Then, quietly, "Trust me. Please."
Her fists clenched around the chains. Every instinct screamed refusal. But somewhere deep inside, survival flickered—not for herself, but for Vanella.
Slowly, reluctantly, Laura nodded.
"Fine," she said hoarsely. "I'll pretend."
Her brother stood, relief flickering briefly across his face before vanishing behind resolve.
Good, Laura thought bitterly.
Because pretending was something she had learned long ago.