Caden’s POV
I went down to the dungeons alone.
I told the guards to stay back, and for once they didn’t question me. The air below the palace was colder, heavier, thick with damp stone and old iron.
Torches burned low along the corridor, their light casting warped shadows across the walls as I walked. Every step echoed, and with each echo, I felt like I was walking backward into my own past.
William sat inside the cell with his back against the wall, chains loose around his wrists but heavy enough to remind him where he was. He didn’t look up when I stopped in front of the bars. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t posture. That alone told me more than any interrogation ever could.
“You asked to speak,” I said. “You have my attention.”
His eyes lifted slowly, dark and hollow. For a moment, I didn’t see Alexander in him. I saw myself at sixteen—angry, trapped, taught that tenderness was weakness and silence was survival.
“I didn’t ask for you,” William said. “I asked for the Queen.”
I didn’t react, though something sharp twisted in my chest. “She won’t be coming,” I replied. “Not until I know what you are.”
William’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
I leaned against the stone opposite his cell, arms folded. “You’re Alexander’s son,” I said. “You walked into the heart of the kingdom your father wants to burn. You expect me to believe you came here empty-handed.”
“I came with what he gave me,” William answered. “Belief.”
I scoffed quietly. “Belief didn’t start this war.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it keeps it alive.”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the depths. I studied him carefully—the rigid way he held himself, the way his jaw tightened when certain words landed too close. He had been trained, shaped, disciplined. Not as a prince, but as a weapon that was never meant to shine.
“What did he teach you?” I asked finally.
William looked down at his hands. “That the world is cruel,” he said. “That mercy invites betrayal. That love is a weakness rulers cannot afford.”
My breath left me slowly through my nose.
“And pain?” I asked. “Did he teach you about pain?”
William’s shoulders stiffened. “Pain is clarity,” he said. “Pain is truth.”
I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Arinelle’s voice echoed in my memory, sharp and elegant and merciless. Never kneel. Never soften. Never love.
“When I was a boy,” I said, opening my eyes again, “I was taught the same thing.”
That made him look up.
“My mother believed cruelty was survival,” I continued. “She believed ruling meant breaking people before they could break you. She almost succeeded.”
William watched me now, alert, wary. “What changed you?”
I didn’t answer immediately. My thoughts went to Elara—standing unbroken in a palace that tried to devour her, loving a kingdom that never made it easy. Loving me, even when I didn’t know how to return it properly.
“Someone refused to become what the world demanded of her,” I said quietly. “And I refused to let her be destroyed for it.”
William swallowed.
“You don’t believe that,” he said.
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “Once.”
I pushed myself off the wall and stepped closer to the bars. “Alexander taught you that there is no good,” I said. “That peace is a lie. That blood decides worth.”
“Yes,” William replied. “Because it’s true.”
“Is it?” I asked sharply. “Or is it easier to believe the world is rotten than admit your father chose violence over love?”
The words landed hard. William’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
“Don’t speak of him like that,” he said, anger flashing for the first time.
“Why not?” I pressed. “Because if he chose love, he would have had to choose differently. And if he chose differently, you wouldn’t be here.”
Silence crashed down between us again, heavier than before.
“You don’t know him,” William said finally, but his voice lacked certainty.
“I know what he did,” I replied. “I know he murdered a queen. I know he tore a kingdom apart. And I know he raised a son to carry the weight of his hatred so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone.”
William turned his face away.
I let the silence sit. Let it breathe. Torture would have been easier. Fear would have been faster. But fear never builds anything that lasts.
“Why did you ask to see Elara?” I asked.
William hesitated. Then, very quietly, he said, “Because she survived.”
That surprised me.
“She was supposed to disappear,” he continued. “She was supposed to be erased. But she lived. She ruled. She united what my father said could never coexist.”
I felt something dangerous spark behind my ribs. “And that bothered him.”
“Yes,” William admitted. “Because if she exists, then everything he taught me might be wrong.”
I straightened slowly.
“You’re not a prisoner here,” I said. “Not yet. But you are not free either.”
“I know,” William said.
“If you want to survive this,” I continued, “you will speak. You will tell me everything Alexander is planning.”
William shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Or you won’t?” I challenged.
His fingers curled into his palms. “If I betray him, he will burn the world,” he said. “If I don’t, you will.”
I held his gaze steadily. “That’s the lie he taught you,” I said. “That there are only monsters left to choose from.”
William laughed softly, brokenly. “And you think you’re different?”
I thought of Elara again. Of my daughters. Of the kingdom we were trying to hold together with bare hands and stubborn hope.
“Yes,” I said. “I know I am.”
The torchlight flickered. Somewhere above us, the palace lived and breathed, unaware of the fault lines splitting beneath its feet.
William exhaled slowly and finally looked at me without armor, without defiance.
“I want to speak with the Queen,” he said. “Alone.”
I studied him for a long moment.
“That’s a dangerous request,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “But if anyone can decide whether I am my father’s son or my own man, it’s her.”
I turned away from the cell, the weight of the choice settling heavily on my shoulders.
As I walked back up toward the light, one truth followed me like a shadow.
This war wasn’t just about Alexander. It was about what sons inherit—and what they dare to unlearn.