The dungeon beneath the Wessex keep had no windows—only stone, sweat, and silence.
Moisture ran down the walls like veins of decay. The air was heavy with the scent of rusted iron and the slow drip of water that fell, unhurried, into the black.
It was here that the old 'Earl of Wessex' sat—no longer a man, but a husk wrapped in faded nobility. His robes were gone. His signet ring had been taken. In its place, the mark of the chains bit deep into his wrists.
He had once ruled this castle. His word had once shaken fields and cities alike.
Now, the rats moved closer each night, unafraid of his titles.
He sat in silence, head bowed, as the guards outside laughed—voices echoing faintly down the corridor.
"Did you hear?" one said, his tone dripping with amusement.
"The boy's being toasted in the great hall. Our new Earl, eh?"
Another snorted. "Temporary Earl, they said—but you can see it in his eyes. He'll fight to keep it. Blood always does."
