With chin held high and his cheek still burning from Uncle Tom's slap, Sebastian strutted through the nether regions of the castle. Lieutenant Stephen followed close behind him, keeping the chains so loose Sebastian could bring his shackles to his face and rattle them. Serving girls on their way to the servant quarters stopped as they heard the noise, and he was sure to look them straight in the eye and sneer, "There's nothing to see—just a Prince getting thrown into the dungeon."

Pathetically predictable, they bowed and muttered his title, then scurried away like mice, their heads low yet already murmuring and whispering the tittle-tattle that would dominate the Sundale's streets for weeks to come.

His brave facade of defiance crumpled as Stephen removed the shackles and twisted a key into the hole of a massive iron door. As the Lieutenant slid the triple locks aside, the door creaked open and a vile smell wafted out. Sebastian held his breath, but it didn't help; the stench of death still pierced his nose and almost made him gag.

Stephen gestured him to go in, but Sebastian stayed put, shaking his head. The Lieutenant rubbed his cheekbones, then his sunken eyes. He sighed softly, more a yawn than a real sigh. "My Lord, His Majesty only wishes you to overthink what you have done."

"I could have just as easily done that in my chamber." He clutched his arms to his chest, refusing to enter. "Put you in front of my door."

"It is not what he ordered, My Lord."

"No, he hit me. And..." Sebastian rubbed his painful cheek. "...now I have to live like a criminal. I'm not a bad person."

"Nobody says you are." Stephen gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "And it's not so bad. Most army lads go through it at some point in their careers—see it as an unofficial rite of passage. " A grin appeared on his tired face. "When His Majesty and the General were but Serjeants in the patrols, the both of them even spent a week in here—your grandfather was quite persistent."

Sebastian snorted. "It's not funny. I'll never send innocent people to the dungeon when I'm King."

"And the realm will thank you for that," Stephen said, more out of courtesy than anything else.

When the Lieutenant kept staring at him, Sebastian tilted his head back and held his breath as he shuffled in. With each step, his throat tightened more; his lungs began to burn. And then there was the overwhelming darkness.  The jute bag in which Master Dicky and Captain Jonathan had brought him back to Sundale was nothing compared to this hole. 

Behind him, Stephen placed a burning candle on the ground, then the man shut the door with such a loud bang that Sebastian leapt up, letting out a squeak of despair. 

He rushed towards the wooden bench that hung chained to the wall and crawled on it, his legs pulled against his chest. In the weak light of the candle, the walls were mountains with stones threatening to fall on his head. Slowly, he inhaled through his nose, his tongue pressed against the dry roof of his mouth but his breath quickened nonetheless, following the beat of his pounding heart.

Tears poured out, streaming over his face. For Father being a liar, for Uncle Tom treating him like a pawn in a game he didn't understand. And for Fox—once his bestest friend, now brother—who now lay rotting in a Silvermark field.

The God of Wrath descended on him. He tugged his left boot out and kicked it towards the door. It fell against the candle, the darkness swallowing the light so quickly, the final strand of smoke was but an additional smell in the air. The other boot Sebastian threw against the wall; he didn't care where it landed. He didn't care about anything.

When there were no more tears left to cry, he paced from wall to wall, ignoring the sticking of his socks to the syrupy floor. When Uncle Tom came to fetch him, he wouldn't apologise. His uncle had exaggerated. He would have to apologise to him.

Yet when there came a sliding noise and the dim light of a small torch entered the room, it wasn't the sturdy silhouette of Uncle Tom that approached him, but the slender figure of Lana who had brought her jest-filled voice. "Gods, cousin, you're not a cat—you don't have to spray in each corner to mark your territory."

Sebastian grumbled, "You're not supposed to be here."

"You're not supposed to be here," Lana mimicked him, turning her pitch from low to high and back to low, as if he could help it that his voice sometimes cracked uncontrollably. She placed the torch in a sconce by the door and coughed. "Gods, Papa wasn't kidding when he said this place smelled like a dead f..."

She didn't finish her sentence. Sebastian turned his head away from the light that was suddenly too bright. "What do you want?"

"You and I need to have a chat about what happened."

"I have nothing to say."

"But I do, Seb. I'm all about challenging Papa, but what you did was reckless and immature." Lana had never sounded this serious. "Master Dicky had to put the horse down. The snare had cut right through the stallion's leg—he would never trot or gallop again. He's dead because of you."

"He's not the first one—I don't care."

"You're just saying that because you're angry at Papa." Lana placed her hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off. "You don't have to appear so heartless. I can see you do care."

"I don't," Sebastian retorted. Guilt was creeping up on him and giving him a headache. He wanted to be left alone.

"I hope you do understand now why Papa didn't want to tell you about Uncle Bran and little Henry yet—why he wanted to wait until you were older."

"But you know?" Sebastian asked. "How long have you known?"

There was a pause. "A long time." She opened her mouth, hesitating, "I was close to Grandpa William, Seb. He told me—it was our secret."

It wasn't fair—Grandpa William had died years ago. Sebastian leapt off the bench and pointed at the door. "Get out. I told you I have nothing to say to you."

"Seb, you're being ridiculous. I'm your cousin, your friend. Whatever fear or thoughts you may have, you can share them with me."

"So you can pass them along to Uncle Tom. Don't think I don't know why you are here." He turned his voice to a low grunt, pretending to his uncle. "Lana, darling, I want you to go to the dungeon—talk some sense into Seb. He'll trust you more than me." He changed his voice back to his own, shouting, "You're both sly scheming demons. I hate you!"

The chains of the bench jangled as Lana leapt up, her face so close he could feel her breath on him. "You're a sensitive, broken boy, cousin, and you're wrong. It was Mama who sent me because she felt sorry for you, because she insisted on telling you when you clearly weren't ready."

"Then why isn't she here?" Sebastian could no longer keep his voice down.

"Because she can't."

Sebastian turned his back on her, clenching his teeth to keep Wrath at bay. "Get out. I'm done listening to excuses."

"Seb, I'm not your enemy, and neither is Papa. The real villain is sitting on the throne in Moondale, messing with our heads from afar." She paused, waiting for a reaction he didn't want to give. "But you know what—I'll go to Papa now, tell him you'll gladly hand the throne to King of Silvermark."

"I said get out!" Tears sprung back to his eyes as the God of Wrath conquered his mind. It took all effort to fight the urge to grab Lana by her braid and drag her to the door. "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

He sunk to the floor, repeating the words until his shouting drowned the world around him. He didn't notice when his cousin left him, but when he looked up, he was all alone again in the darkness, sobbing and being angry at every human being in the world, including himself.

Ten thousand heartbeats must have passed before he heard a shaft being moved. A smaller door within the door opened and something was shoved through it. 

"Y-Your dinner, M-M-My L-Lord," said the voice that could be no one but Pale Rabbit.

"I'm not hungry."

"T-There's more, M-My Lord." She took a sharp breath. "Some-something ex-extra, s-something to make you... make you f-f-feel better."

He arched his brow, sitting up straighter. "What is it?"

"A tonic." Her feet scuffled back and forth. "Healer Mark prescribed it to you before."

The poppy potion. Sebastian got up. "Did Healer Mark tell you to make this for you? I thought Uncle Tom had sent him on..." He didn't remember the word. "... sent him away from court."

The tray slot shut in front of his eyes, Pale Rabbit's footsteps departing and growing faint quickly. He still banged the door. "Pale... Evelyn, who told you to give this to me? Evelyn!"

There came no reply.

After an initial hesitation, he groped for the plate, finding a cup that smelled of sweet apple juice, and a plate with lukewarm mashed potatoes and a chicken thigh; a meal richer than any other prisoner would get. Then he felt a small vial, no bigger than his thumb, and sniffed it, the smokey earth-like scent filling his nostrils.

Uncle Tom had been against him getting that potion on a regular basis, but he was tired of constantly fighting the Gods of Sin and feeling worthless. His secret supplier—perhaps Aunt Crystal—must have thought so too.  In one gulp, he downed the tonic and drowned the deep nutty flavour in apple juice.

As he gnawed on the chicken bone, a calming wave of numbness washed over him and fed his hunger. He ate all of the mashed potatoes and licked his plate when he found out there was no dessert. Disappointed but strangely content, he shoved the tray under the bench and laid down on the hard wooden surface. He didn't mind; his windowsill upstairs was just as hard.

With nothing else to do, he listened to the sounds of the dungeon: the rattling of chains in faraway cells, the pitter-patter of water falling down, and the thumping of the guard's boots in the hallway. A hundred heartbeats it took for him to come, disappear, and come again. When it took a hundred-fifty, he began to chuckle.

"The guard is slow—infested by Sloth. Maybe the son of Sloth reborn." He sniggered. "Is that you, Nick? No, you were sent away because you're a bad boy." He sighed. "And now I'm a bad boy too. Bad boy King and bad boy General—together we shall rule The Greenlands... the Sinlands... The Green Sinlands." He yawned. "I'm bored and tired, so tired... and bored."

That night he dreamt of Alex and him hopping from pirate ship to pirate ship, hoisting the Greenlander sycamore leaf on every mast until they found the grand ship on which Nick was held captive. When her arrows and his sword had pierced every Pirate's heart, Nick told him to wait for a second because he wanted to finish the book the pirates had given him.

When he woke up, it took him a moment to realise it had just been a dream. A small tealight was burning by his bench. The dinner tray was gone, replaced by a breakfast of jam pancakes, a large glass of milk, and another small vial. He hadn't heard anyone coming in; the last time he had slept this soundly was when Laneby still existed; back when he was a Lord's son and not a Prince.

Taking the tray onto his lap, his stomach rumbled and his mouth watered. He gulped down the vial and shivered, still finding it horrendous. But it numbed the bad thoughts and gave room to happier ones.

To fight off the drowsiness, Sebastian ran laps in his cell. He pretended it was already the start of summer, that the first-ever tournament of Sundale had begun. By a miracle of the Gods, Uncle Tom had changed his mind, and Sebastian was allowed to participate. Using the techniques Master Paul had taught him, he defeated the army lads, one by one, then was crowned the grand victor. All hail Prince Sebastian, he cheered for himself. 

He chuckled. Alex would roll her eyes and call him a Muttonhead. She would kick his butt too.

When the candle went out, he retreated to his bench, his fingers ticking the wood; first soft then harder. He still had too much energy he couldn't get rid off.

There came a knock from the other side of the wall. He let out a gasp, then chuckled, pounding his fists against the stones. THUMP-thump-THUMP.

The reply was a long tapping sound and a muffled human voice.

"What?" Sebastian asked, sitting on his knees and placing his ear against the stone. When he still couldn't understand what his neighbour was saying, he placed his hands to his mouth and shouted in between two stones, "WHAT?"

"...sl...own...head."

"You have to speak up. I can't hear you very well!"

"...d...eep...own...uttohead."

"Are you calling me a Muttonhead? Do you know who I am?"

A noise by the door drowned any further reply. A key was turned and a tall and broad silhouette stood in the doorway. Uncle Tom.

His uncle entered, not closing the door, flicking his eyes from one side of the wall to the other before landing on him.  "You've been entertaining yourself here, haven't you?"

Sebastian lowered onto the bench, giving the tray a soft kick to assure Uncle Tom wouldn't find the vial, and shrugged. "There isn't a lot I can do here."

Uncle Tom halted in front of him, looking down on him with mild disdain. "Did you think about what you have done?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"You overreacted, Uncle Tom."

"As did you, when I told you about your father and his..." He touched the black jewel on his ear. "... condition... accident."

The Goddess of Humility made him sit up straight, or perhaps it was the tonic. "I shouldn't have run away and stolen that horse—I'm sorry he had to be taken down. I already apologised for my behaviour when you felt the need to see me in the throne room like I'm a criminal. You made no effort to listen to my story, and you hit me."

"I lost a fight to Wrath, yes." Uncle Tom sniffed. "You were driving me up the wall, so I wanted to drive you up a room with walls you couldn't escape from, give you time to reflect on your behaviour. Looks like it didn't work."

"Which your Lana-pigeon already told you last night."

"Aye, but you're young. A lot can change in a night."

"It didn't. You can always leave me here—I don't mind."

Uncle Tom didn't respond right away, too busy rubbing his ear. "I could leave you here." He paused, realising what he was doing. "If it weren't for Nick's return to Sunstone Castle."

Sebastian tilted his head, no idea why his uncle would find that a good reason to get him out. "So? We didn't leave on good terms, Uncle Tom. I think you're happier about George returning than me about Nick returning."

"It's just Nick, Seb."

Sebastian couldn't help but smile and chuckle. "Don't tell me he ran away from the army again. That lad is a walking nightmare, Uncle Tom."

"He got hurt... badly hurt."

"How did it happen?"

"A magician. She hit him in the eyes."

The pleasant effect of the tonic melted like snow on Sundale's square, replaced by an uneasiness that crept over him. "But he'll be fine, won't he? It's not like he's dying, right?"

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't serious because Gods—you deserve another night in this place—but Nick's condition is critical. He might not see the dawn of a new day."

The differences he and Nick had suddenly didn't matter anymore; neither did his fight with Uncle Tom. "Can I see him?"

"Why do you think I'm here?"  Uncle Tom picked up Sebastian's boots and handed them to him. "But prepared—it might remind you of Laneby."

The sour stench of spoilt meat hung in Nick's chamber, a scent that reminded him of Abby. And then there was the screaming, the squealing of a hoarse pig that had received the slaughter cut with a knife so blunt death would come one drip of blood at a time.

But Nick wasn't bleeding. The flesh around his eyes was one giant black crust with white spots that could only be bone. His upper part of his nose looked like it had melted. Without the poppy potion in his belly, he would have turned around and left, but he felt strong enough to persist this time. Unlike Lana, who got up from the bed and clutched to Uncle Tom, crying.

Healer Ed and Martin were hovering above the bed with all sorts of metal tools in his hands. Lieutenant Michael was holding his legs. Aunt Crystal sat at the head of the bed, shushing him and pressing a package of wet cloths onto Nick's forehead.

As Healer Ed lifted the swollen red lump that once was an eyelid with a clamp and Healer Martin poured a liquid onto it, Sebastian felt his pancakes churning in his stomach. The blue colour of Nick's eye was no longer there; his iris a giant black hole bathing in red.

"Any progress, Ed?" Uncle Tom asked.

"Fever remains high," Ed said, disobeying protocol while talking to the King with his back towards him. "I'm cleaning the left eye—it's the worst."

"Thomas," Aunt Crystal said. "I propose to remove the eye. It might take away the source of the infection. The Healers can focus on saving the other eye."

"You can't—can't..." Lana muttered.

"Any chance it will heal if you leave it." Uncle Tom asked.

Ed spoke up. "If the Gods want it so, but I think his chances are slim."

"And his right eye?"

Healer Ed sighed deeply, looked at Martin, Nick, and then to Uncle Tom. "It's hard to say at this stage, Your Majesty. His left eye is lost to this world, maybe his right one might not be if we manage to bring the fever down first."

Uncle Tom nodded. "The boy is useless without his sight—do it."

"No!" Lana wailed, tugging at Uncle Tom's jacket. "You can't make a decision like this, Papa. You might as well kill him."

"You heard Healer Ed, Lana."

"And you heard Michael." She was sobbing. "George said Healer Mark should treat him. And I agree—he's the best Healer we've had."

"Healer Mark is enjoying the remainder of his autumn years away from court." Uncle Tom brushed his hand over Lana's cheek, wiping away her tears. "I don't want to disturb him, not while we have Ed and Martin here to help us, to help Nick."

"But he'll die, Papa. I've read Healer Mark's research books—the surgery kills more people than it saves them. We need to ask him for a second opinion. George..."

"I think you should ask him too," Sebastian said. Nick had gone to Whitepeak because of him. "You once told me that a King should always listen to his best men before making a decision. Healer Ed and Martin are good, but they're not Healer Mark."

"Your Majesty," Healer Ed interrupted. "This ain't no ordinary wound for a court physician during times of peace. Mark has seen a lot in his lifetime. I would feel more confident if he were here to advise on how to proceed."

"The boy needs all the help he can get, Tom," Aunt Crystal said. "He's in a lot of pain."

"Please, Papa." Lana folded her hands and pleaded.

As Nick uttered heart-wrenching groans, squirming and clawing at the dirty, wet sheets, Sebastian joined his cousin. "Please, bring Healer Mark back. I'll be on my best behaviour from now on if you do—I promise. Even if Nick..." He couldn't bear to utter the word 'dies' "... if he doesn't make it, I wanna know that I've done everything in my power to save him."

"Best behaviour?" Uncle Tom repeated.

Sebastian nodded fervently, unable to look anymore as Martin poured more liquid over Nick's eye. "I'll do anything you ask me, but get Healer Mark, Uncle Tom. Everybody wants it. I don't see..." He wasn't going to tell his uncle he was a stubborn Muttonhead.

"Fine," Uncle Tom gave in. "Michael, fetch Mark. Tell him I rescind his retirement, and that it's urgent. I'll double his wages."

As the Lieutenant got up, Lana hissed, still sniffing, "Your night in the dungeon did miracles, cousin."

Sebastian shrugged. The tonic was responsible, but he kept that a secret. To be on his best behaviour all the time, he was going to require a thousand more vials.

"Do I have permission to leave?" he asked Uncle Tom.

Uncle Tom responded with another question. "Where are you going?"

"I need to pee."

It was only half a lie. He needed to find Pale Rabbit.