Solvane's body was a symphony of agony, every nerve screaming in protest as he dangled helplessly in Roxanne's iron grip. His chest heaved with labored breaths, each one feeling like a vacuum had lodged itself in his throat, choking him from the inside out. His ribs, likely fractured from the earlier impact, throbbed with a dull, relentless pain that radiated through his torso. But he couldn't afford to focus on the pain—not now, not when he was teetering on the razor's edge between life and death. His mind raced, scrambling for any lifeline, any spark of an idea that could pull him out of this nightmare.
"Think, Solvane. Think!" he urged himself, his voice a hoarse whisper in his own head. His eyes darted around the dimly lit bathhouse, searching the faces of the women glaring at him, their expressions a mix of fury, disgust, and suspicion. The rippling bathwater cast eerie reflections on the stone walls, amplifying the suffocating tension in the air.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, inspiration struck. "My golden fur!" he gasped, a triumphant grin spreading across his battered face despite the pain. If anything could prove his royal lineage, it was the shimmering golden fur that marked him as the crown prince, a trait unique to his bloodline. With newfound determination, he began tugging frantically at the tattered remains of his robe, fingers fumbling with the knotted ties.
Roxanne blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Her cheeks flushed slightly—not with embarrassment, but with a mix of incredulity and rising anger. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut through the humid air.
Solvane didn't answer. With a final yank, he tore off the cloak, letting it fall to the wet tiles with a heavy slap. Beneath, his chest and arms gleamed with the unmistakable sheen of golden fur, catching the lantern light and sparkling like molten gold. He straightened as best he could, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs, and puffed out his chest with as much pride as he could muster. "Do you believe me now?" he declared, his voice ringing with desperate confidence. "I really am the crown prince!"
He stood there, expectant, waiting for the tide to turn—for the women to gasp, to bow, to beg for mercy, maybe even to weep in awe at the sight of his royal mark. In his mind's eye, he could already see them falling to their knees, their earlier hostility melting into reverence.
Instead—
SLAP!
The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap. Solvane's head snapped sideways, his cheek burning from the force of Roxanne's open-handed strike. The pain was immediate, a stinging heat that blossomed across his face, leaving it red and swollen.
"Okay… now I'm definitely having déjà vu," he muttered, clutching his cheek with one trembling hand. The golden fur did nothing to soften the blow, and his earlier confidence crumbled like the fractured stone beneath his feet.
Roxanne glared at him, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury. "I can't believe you dyed your fur gold to keep up this ridiculous act," she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "You really committed to the role, didn't you? Pathetic." She let out a harsh laugh, but there was no joy in it—only a seething, dangerous rage that made the air feel heavier.
Solvane's heart sank as he pressed his palm against his stinging cheek. "Shit… they still don't believe me," he thought, panic creeping back into his chest. The golden fur, his last trump card, had failed him. He glanced around, hoping for a miracle, but the other women's expressions mirrored Roxanne's—contempt, disbelief, and a growing eagerness to see him punished.
High above, perched precariously on the roof, Fil had seen enough. His heart pounded as he scrambled down from the rafters, his movements clumsy with urgency. His hair was a tangled mess, matted with sweat and dust from the crumbling ceiling. "I need to get him out of there myself," he muttered, his voice trembling with resolve. "If I don't act now, he might actually die. This has gone too far."
The bathhouse fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water and the faint creak of the roof above. Solvane dangled helplessly in Roxanne's grip, her fingers still wrapped tightly around his collar like a mother cat holding a wayward kitten. His mind raced, searching for another escape, another plea, anything to delay the inevitable.
Then, a soft voice broke through the tension, radiant and feminine, with a gentle lilt that could make any boy's heart flutter. "Umm… ca–can we at least confirm if he's lying before we kill him?"
Solvane's head whipped around, his heart skipping a beat. It was her—the yellow-haired Asper girl he'd been stealing glances at earlier. She stood near the edge of the group, her arms still wrapped tightly around herself, her gaze averted as if she couldn't bear to meet his eyes. Her voice was hesitant, but it carried a quiet strength that seemed to ripple through the chamber.
A warm smile crept onto Solvane's lips, his heart swelling with gratitude despite the dire circumstances. "Yes. Yes! I get to see tomorrow," he thought, his mind racing with relief. "I promise I'll pay you back, sweet lady. Thank you, thank you, thank you…" Outwardly, though, he kept his face stoic, not daring to let his emotions betray him in front of Roxanne's wrathful glare.
"Why?" Roxanne snapped, her patience visibly fraying. She rounded on the Asper girl, ignoring Solvane's subtle squirming in her grasp. "He's obviously lying. This whole golden fur nonsense is just another trick!"
The girl flinched slightly but held her ground, her voice soft but firm. "I just… I think we should be sure. If he's telling the truth, we'd be making a terrible mistake."
Roxanne's eyes narrowed, but she relented with a grudging huff. "Very well. We'll check it out." Her grin returned, sharp and wicked, as she turned back to Solvane. "If you're truly the crown prince, I'll apologize—on my knees, even. But if you're not…" Her voice trailed off, the threat hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.
Solvane gulped audibly, the sound almost comically loud in the tense silence. "I just hope you are," he muttered under his breath, his bravado faltering.
Roxanne snapped her fingers, and one of the other women scurried forward, carrying a small leather bag. From it, Roxanne pulled a circular silver artifact, its surface etched with intricate runic markings that seemed to pulse faintly in the lantern light. At its center was a convex crystal lens, flawless and gleaming, catching the light like a trapped star. She thrust it toward Solvane with a challenging smirk. "Okay, well? Here. Work it."
Solvane took the artifact gingerly, his hands trembling slightly as he turned it over in his fingers. The runes were familiar, stirring memories of long, tedious lessons with his father in the royal study. The old king had drilled the ancient language of Asperion into him, insisting it was a prince's duty to know the sacred rites. His eyes scanned the markings, piecing together their meaning as his heart pounded in his chest.
He took a deep, steadying breath, willing his voice to remain calm. "From the flame of Asperion, born of the eternal light, I summon the shield of divinity," he intoned, his words slow and deliberate, each syllable carrying the weight of his dwindling hope.
The chamber held its breath. The women leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the artifact. Fil, now lurking in the shadows near the chamber's entrance, froze, his fingers digging into the stone wall as he watched.
Silence.
Nothing happened.
The artifact remained inert, its crystal dull and lifeless. Not a single rune glowed, not a spark of magic flickered.
Solvane's gaze dropped to the artifact in his hands, then flicked up to the crowd of women, their expressions shifting from curiosity to grim certainty. Roxanne's grin widened, predatory and triumphant.
"I'm so gonna die," Solvane whispered, his voice barely audible. His knees buckled slightly, the weight of his failure crashing down on him like the collapsing roof above.