The hours passed in a blur, the heavy silence of the cell pressing down on Gale like a weight. His body ached from the poison, his mind swirled with the lingering aftereffects of the torture. But his resolve was still intact—he was still fighting. Or at least, he tried to be.
He sat against the cold stone wall, knees drawn up to his chest, hands wrapped around his shins as if it could somehow protect him from the darkness that had seeped into every corner of his soul. He tried to focus on something, anything, that could help him forget the relentless ache, the hunger gnawing at his insides, the emptiness that had taken hold of him.
But then the door opened again, and the guards were back.
This time, it wasn’t the indifferent guard who had come earlier. It was two of them, large and broad, their armor clanging as they entered the cell. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. Their actions spoke volumes.
Gale didn’t resist when they grabbed him, hauling him to his feet with rough hands. His body screamed in protest, but he couldn’t do anything to stop them. The poison still coursed through his veins, robbing him of strength and clarity. They dragged him through the dim hallway, past other cells where the faint sound of muffled cries and groans reverberated off the stone walls.
They brought him into the throne room—a sterile, cold space where the oppressive weight of power hung like a shadow over everything. The King sat on his throne, his eyes cold and unblinking as he regarded Gale. The throne room was grand, full of tapestries and silver candelabras, but to Gale, it was nothing more than a gilded cage.
Gale was shoved roughly onto the stone floor in front of the King, and as his limbs were fastened down, he barely flinched. His mind was fogged, his body sore and weak. But he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him broken. Not yet.
The King’s gaze settled on him, and the air seemed to grow even colder as he stepped down from the throne. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of command.
"You know why you're here," the King said, his tone almost too casual, as if they were discussing matters of trivial importance. "You think you're strong, that you can resist. But you should know by now, Gale, there’s only so much a man can endure before he breaks."
Gale didn’t respond. His mouth was dry, his mind numb. But even in his weakened state, something within him resisted the urge to speak. He wouldn’t give the King the satisfaction of hearing his voice.
The King circled him like a predator, his eyes never leaving Gale. "I’ve been patient with you," he continued, his voice growing colder, sharper. "But you’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Every time I think you’ll crack, you show me more defiance. I admire that... but it’s only a matter of time before your spirit fades."
Before Gale could even react, the King raised his hand. The guards moved swiftly, strapping him to the executioner’s chair that stood near the King’s throne. The tools on the table beside him glinted in the torchlight, and Gale knew what was coming next. His stomach churned at the thought, but he refused to show fear.
"Perhaps a new approach will help you understand the reality of your situation," the King mused, his voice taking on a cruel edge. "Pain... can be a powerful motivator."
The King didn’t speak again. He simply signaled for the guards to begin.
And the pain came.
It started slowly, with a sharp, piercing sensation in Gale’s chest. His body tensed as he fought to suppress the scream building in his throat, but it was futile. The King watched with detached interest as the guards worked, using a variety of tools, their precision meant to break Gale, physically and mentally. The poison still clouded his thoughts, and every time his mind started to drift, another strike, another burn, brought him back into the agonizing reality.
Through the haze of pain, Gale couldn’t help but think of the girl—the kindness she had shown him before. Her face flashed through his mind, and for a moment, a sense of warmth surged within him, followed quickly by guilt. He should have trusted her more, should have tried harder to escape. The thought of her, the gentleness she offered, made his chest tighten, but that same surge of emotion ignited something darker within him.
And in that instant, something inside Gale snapped.
His body, wracked with pain, convulsed with a strength he hadn’t known he had left. His muscles twitched, then tensed with a raw force. He jerked against his restraints, the agony intensifying, but he fought through it. His vision blurred, and he could feel the blood dripping down from his wounds, but none of it mattered.
"I’m not breaking," he growled, his voice hoarse and ragged, barely above a whisper, but it carried a dangerous promise.
The King stopped, his expression one of mild surprise, but not fear. "Impressive," he said, almost admiring the resolve. "But resolve doesn't last when it's crushed under the weight of your own body. We’ll see how long you last."
Another wave of pain crashed into Gale, but this time, he embraced it. Each strike fueled the fury building inside him, the anger, the hatred, the refusal to let the King claim even one piece of his soul. As the interrogation continued, Gale’s defiance became his armor, harder and more unyielding with every blow.
It felt like hours—maybe even days—before the King finally stepped back, his voice laced with disappointment. "It’s a shame. You were an interesting one, Gale. But all things break in the end."
The King signaled for the guards to take Gale back to his cell, and the cold stone of the dungeon welcomed him once again. This time, however, Gale was different. His body was battered and broken, his head throbbing, but the fire in his chest burned hotter than ever.
The guards shoved him back into the cell, and he collapsed against the floor, gasping for breath. His body screamed in agony, but his mind was clear. The King had failed. He hadn’t broken him. Gale could still feel the fire within him, unshaken, unfazed.
The days blurred by in a haze of pain and recovery, but each day, Gale fought to grow stronger. His body healed, little by little, but his spirit never wavered. He had seen what the King was capable of, and though it had hurt, it hadn’t defeated him.
And now, Gale was ready. Ready to take back everything they had taken from him.
When the door opened again, Gale was waiting.
Before the guards could react, he exploded into action—his body moving despite the pain, his fists flying. The first guard crumpled with a punch to the jaw. The second was sent crashing into the wall, knocked unconscious by a vicious blow to the temple. Gale’s body felt like it might give out at any moment, but the fire inside him burned so brightly that it gave him strength he didn’t know he had.
The cell had been his prison, but now, it was his battleground. And Gale was done being a victim.
Done being broken.
He would break them first.
Sunny
