Water drips against the stone floor. It's damp in the dungeons, and quiet.
The king kicks his foot against a puddle, scattering droplets against the mossy floor. Sunlight crashes down from the nearby cell.
"Board up the skylight," the king tells the guard on his left. The guard nods timidly and backs away.
The Thief knows who he is. She knows the Fate is a fraud. He doesn't have much time to catch her, and the next time he has her, he'll make sure to press his blade deep into that pale throat of hers.
It was curious that the Thief came back for them, that was unexpected. But now he knows. Now he knows how to break her.
The king steps toward the cowering figure huddled in a corner of the iron-barred cell. She'd put up a fight when they'd brought her in. She'd scratched and screamed and kicked, but they'd bound her hands and feet in irons and wrapped a chain collar around her neck, and she'd quieted then.
"Looks like I'm not through with you yet," the king says, standing over the dungeon's newest resident.
The prisoner stares back at him, murder written in the slits of her vertical eyes. She bares her teeth, her ears flat against her head, and flicks her blue-furred tail back and forth.
It only serves to broaden the king's smile. He curls his lips as he says her name.
"Binks."