The moon hung low over the kingdom of Montagne Noire, casting an eerie glow over the palace. It stood tall, white stone glistening like the symbol of opulence it had always been. For years, it was a fortress to the crown-unshaken, untouchable. Tonight, that would change.
Beneath the palace’s shadow, Rody Lamoree stood at the head of his men. The dim light from a tavern fire flickered in his eyes, reflecting the rage that had burned inside him for years. He was a man molded by hardship-broad-shouldered, scarred, and utterly determined. He’d seen his village starve, his people suffer, all while the king lived in luxury, untouched by the struggles of the common folk. It was time for that to end.
“We take him tonight,” Rody said, his voice low and gravelly, filled with resolve. “The prince. He’s the key. We get him, and the king will have no choice but to listen.”
Around him, the rebels nodded. They had suffered the same losses. Homes burned, families lost, lives ruined by the cruelty of a monarchy that had drained the kingdom dry. They didn’t flinch at the brutality of the plan-they welcomed it.
“We send him pieces of his son,” Rody continued. “A finger, an ear. Whatever it takes until the king gives in. We’ll make him bleed through the one thing he cares about-the crown prince.”
No one hesitated. The plan was cruel, but there was no room for mercy now.
—
Rody led his men through the storm-soaked night, slipping through hidden tunnels that led beneath the palace. It had taken weeks of planning, bribing servants and gathering information, but now they were here-mere steps from the crown prince’s chamber. The rebellion had never come this close to victory before.
They emerged in the cellar, creeping like shadows through the lavish corridors. Guards were few, and those who remained were easily dispatched, their bodies left to bleed on the stone floors. Rody’s heart pounded, not with fear but with the thrill of what was to come. They were going to make the royals pay.
When they reached the prince’s chamber, Rody motioned for his men to wait. He wanted to do this part himself.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single flickering candle. The walls were adorned with tapestries, the bed draped in fine silks. And there, lying in the center, was the crown prince-Vincent Charbonneau. The boy looked almost fragile in his sleep, his face soft and unmarked by the hardships that had ravaged Rody’s own features. His dark hair fell across his forehead in gentle waves, his skin pale and untouched by the sun.
Rody’s lip curled. This was the prince who had lived in luxury while his people starved? The thought only hardened his resolve. He moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpets. In a swift motion, he clamped a hand over Vincent’s mouth, yanking the prince awake.
Vincent’s eyes flew open, wide and panicked, but Rody was already pressing his knife to the boy’s throat. “Scream and I’ll slit your throat before anyone can hear you.”
The prince’s chest heaved with fear, but even in the dim light, Rody saw something in Vincent’s dark eyes-defiance. The boy was struggling. He was scared, but there was something else there too. A belief. It angered Rody even more.
“Get up,” Rody growled, hauling Vincent from the bed and binding his wrists. Vincent struggled, but the boy was no match for Rody’s strength. “You’re coming with me.”
Vincent stumbled to his feet, glaring up at Rody. “You won’t get away with this,” he said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “My father will-“
“Your father will do nothing,” Rody snapped, tightening the rope around the prince’s wrists. “He’ll get your fingers in a box, and then maybe-maybe-he’ll listen.”
Vincent’s face paled, but there was no fear for himself. “You’re wrong,” he whispered. “My father will never let you hurt me. He’ll stop you.”
Rody’s grip tightened on the prince’s arm as he dragged him from the room. “We’ll see about that.”
—
The dungeons were cold, the air thick with damp and the scent of rot. It was far from the luxury Vincent was used to, and the shock of it was plain on his face. He had been stripped of his fine clothes, his royal robes replaced with rags. His wrists were raw where the ropes had cut into his skin, his breathing uneven from the fear he tried to suppress.
Rody watched him from across the room, arms crossed over his chest. The other rebels were silent, waiting for their leader to make the first move. The plan was simple: break the boy. Send the king pieces of his precious son until he was forced to meet their demands. But now, as Rody stared at the prince, something about Vincent’s unwavering faith grated on him.
“You still think your father’s going to save you?” Rody asked, his voice rough, almost mocking. “Even after everything he’s done to this kingdom?”
Vincent lifted his head, meeting Rody’s gaze with a defiance that seemed misplaced in a boy so innocent. “My father is a good king,” he said softly, but firmly. “He’s done what he had to for the good of the kingdom. You wouldn’t understand.”
Rody’s jaw tightened. “Good king? You call starving your people good?”
Vincent shook his head, his dark eyes filled with a strange, unshakable belief. “You don’t see the whole picture. My father has kept this kingdom from falling into ruin. He’s made sacrifices to protect us.”
“Your father hasn’t sacrificed anything!” Rody snapped, his voice echoing in the stone chamber. “It’s us-your people-who’ve suffered, while you’ve lived in luxury!”
“I’ve never wanted for anything, it’s true,” Vincent said quietly, his eyes flickering with guilt. “But that doesn’t mean my father is evil. He loves this kingdom. And he’ll come for me. You’ll see.”
Rody’s stomach twisted with anger, not just at the prince’s words, but at how sincere he sounded. Vincent truly believed that his father, the man responsible for so much suffering, was somehow good. Innocent. The idea made Rody sick.
“Let’s see how much he loves you,” Rody growled, drawing his knife.
Vincent’s eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch. Even as Rody grabbed his hand, forcing his fingers apart, Vincent held his ground. The prince trembled, yes, but he didn’t beg.
Rody hesitated for just a moment, but then his blade flashed in the dim light, and the prince’s scream filled the room as blood splattered across the stone floor.
—
The days that followed were filled with pain for Vincent. They had taken his finger first, sending it to the king in a box wrapped with a grim message. Then, they had moved on to his ear. Each time, Rody had been the one to hold the knife. Each time, Vincent had refused to beg.
The king had responded after the second package. Pleas for mercy, promises to meet their demands. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
Vincent’s defiance only seemed to harden, despite the pain. He still spoke of his father as if the king were some kind of savior. As if the man hadn’t condemned them all.
“You’re a fool,” Rody said one night, standing over the boy. Vincent was pale, his body trembling from the fever that had set in. But his eyes were still sharp, filled with that infuriating belief.
“You’re the fool,” Vincent whispered, his voice weak but unwavering. “You don’t understand what my father has done for us.”
“For *us*?” Rody spat, anger bubbling up again. “You think he’s done anything for us?”
Vincent looked up at him, eyes filled with sorrow. “He’ll save me. And when he does, you’ll see that everything he’s done was for the kingdom. Even if you don’t want to believe it.”
Rody clenched his fists, rage and frustration warring inside him. How could this boy, after everything, still believe in the king? Still believe in the lies? And why, despite everything, did Rody find it so hard to look away from those innocent, defiant eyes?
—
On the final night, the king’s letter arrived.
He would meet their demands. The people would be fed, the taxes reduced. The rebellion had won.
But as Rody read the letter, a strange emptiness settled in his chest. Victory, after all this time. And yet, as he looked over at Vincent, his chest tightened.
The prince was broken, his body mutilated, but his spirit-his belief-had never wavered. Even now, as Vincent lay weak and trembling in the cell, he still whispered that his father would come, that the kingdom would heal.
And for the first time, Rody wasn’t sure if he could meet the boy’s gaze.
Rody stared down at the crown prince, his chest tight with frustration and something else—something far less familiar, creeping through him. Vincent lay crumpled in the cell’s corner, his pale skin bruised and marred by the wounds inflicted over days of captivity. His breath was labored, each rise and fall of his chest slow and painful, yet in his eyes, there was no fear. Only a stubborn, unwavering faith.
Rody stepped closer, his boot scraping against the stone floor. “Your father agreed to our demands,” he said, his voice low, holding back the heat of his emotions. “The king will feed the people, reduce the taxes. Your suffering worked.”
Vincent’s eyes fluttered open, half-lidded, struggling to stay focused on Rody. The faintest hint of a smile curled on his bloodied lips. “I… told you,” he whispered, each word seeming to cost him more than the last. “He… loves me. He would never… abandon me.”
Rody’s jaw clenched. How could he still say that? After all the pain, the cuts, the slow, deliberate dismantling of his body—how could Vincent still believe in the king?
“You think this is love?” Rody spat, crouching down so he was at Vincent’s level. He grabbed Vincent’s chin, turning his face upward. Vincent winced but didn’t pull away. “You think your father cares about you? He only gave in because he knows he’ll lose the kingdom without you.”
Vincent blinked slowly, his body trembling with fever and fatigue. “He’s… doing what’s right. For… the kingdom.” His voice was barely audible now, but the defiance in it was unmistakable. “You… don’t understand. He’s not… a monster.”
Rody released him with a growl, standing abruptly. He paced in the small cell, his frustration mounting. How could Vincent not see it? His father had let him rot in this dungeon for days, only giving in when there was no other choice. How could Vincent still defend him?
“After all we’ve done to you,” Rody said, his voice tight with disbelief, “you still defend him? Your father, the king, let this happen. He let us cut you apart, piece by piece. And still, you think he’s right?”
Vincent’s breathing was shallow, his body curling in on itself from the pain. His right arm, now missing two fingers, twitched involuntarily as if the ghost of his former self lingered. Yet, his eyes remained fixed on Rody.
Rody felt something tighten in his chest. In that moment, the prince looked more like a fragile doll, barely held together by the thin threads of hope and faith. But beneath that frail surface, there was an unyielding core, a strength Rody hadn’t expected—couldn’t comprehend.
It was maddening.
“How can you still believe in him?” Rody’s voice broke through the silence, quieter now, laced with something that felt almost like desperation. He couldn’t understand it. The prince had been abandoned, betrayed by the very man he worshipped. And still, he looked at Rody as if none of it mattered.
Vincent blinked, slowly, painfully, before his lips parted to speak. His voice, though weak, carried an eerie calm. “Because… he’s all I have,” he whispered. “No matter what happens… he’s still my father.”
Rody froze, the words hitting him harder than any blade. He wanted to scream, to shake the prince and make him see the truth, but something inside him knew it was pointless. Vincent’s loyalty ran too deep. It wasn’t just devotion to a king—it was a desperate, childlike need to hold onto the only thing he had left.
Rody straightened, the weight of what they had done settling over him like a suffocating cloak. He had thought breaking the prince would be easy—that once Vincent realized the truth, the rebellion would have its final victory. But Vincent wasn’t broken. Not in the way Rody had imagined.
“You’re a fool,” Rody muttered, more to himself than to Vincent.
Vincent closed his eyes, sinking further into the cold stone, his breath shallow but steady. “Maybe,” he whispered. “But I’ll… always be… his son.”
Rody stared at him for a long moment, the words echoing in his mind. There was nothing more to say. He turned and walked away, the prince’s steady breathing fading behind him, leaving only the quiet crackle of torches in the dim hallway.
As Rody emerged from the dungeon, the weight of his rebellion felt heavier than ever. He had won, hadn’t he? The king had bent, the people would have their food, their land—but the price had been too high. The image of Vincent’s battered, bleeding body wouldn’t leave him. Nor would the prince’s defiant eyes, still full of unwavering faith.
For the first time in years, Rody felt unsure. Victory had come, but the taste of it was bitter, and in the end, he couldn’t help but wonder if they had truly won at all.
Because no matter how many pieces they took from Vincent, they would never take his belief.
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