Chapter 58 – The Party Begins

  Prince of Hell

  The second morning was worse.

  The bruises had settled. That made it worse.

  The first day, everything hurt.

  The second, only some things did.

  Which meant others would start.

  The cell was colder. Or maybe Grim just noticed.

  Stone leeched heat like it had a grudge.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Didn’t resist when the door ground open and fists grabbed rust.

  Just moved.

  No one explained Bastille II.

  It explained itself.

  In the sound of buckles slamming shut.

  In the metal scream of something breaking—bone or steel, didn’t matter.

  In the way men stared at their feet like eye contact might get them eaten.

  And sometimes, it did.

  Three days.

  That’s how long it took for time to die.

  They were herded every morning—limbs stiff, shoulders heavy with borrowed pain.

  And at night...

  He climbed the stairs.

  Not out of fear. Not anymore.

  Out of habit.

  Out of expectation.

  Because fear meant you still thought you mattered.

  And he didn’t.

  So when the fourth night came—

  No footsteps.

  No latch.

  No summons.

  He sat.

  Back against stone.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Something was wrong.

  Then came the sounds.

  Machinery. Screams. Steel dragging steel.

  Laughter. Laughter?

  The hallway outside howled like something was being built—or torn open.

  Like the prison was prepping for a celebration no one wanted to attend.

  Grim leaned back.

  Eyes closed.

  Bare breath.

  Maybe it’s the party, he thought.

  Didn’t believe it. Didn’t trust himself enough to be right.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The fifth day—

  No labor.

  No schedule.

  No rules.

  Just footsteps.

  A guard kicked his door.

  “Up.”

  He stood. Didn’t ask.

  Didn’t need to.

  They were marched down a corridor no one remembered.

  Walls darker. Air thinner.

  The floor sloped downward like a throat.

  Grim walked middle-file.

  Three strangers ahead. Hollow-eyed. Slouched.

  He lifted his head, cataloging movement—shoulders, gait, breath—

  Then felt it.

  A hand.

  Heavy. Intentional.

  Resting on his shoulder.

  Didn’t shake. Didn’t grip.

  Just... sat there. Like it belonged.

  He didn’t turn.

  Didn’t have to.

  The bully.

  The one with the laughing teeth.

  The one who’d been waiting.

  Grim’s spine coiled.

  And then—

  “That’s not yours, friend,” a voice said.

  Casual. Warm.

  Wrong.

  Grim turned his head.

  Red hair.

  Smirkless.

  Face like he’d preach forgiveness before he watched you hang.

  Eyes soft—not pretending. Convincing.

  Sael.

  The bully blinked.

  Stepped back.

  Grim didn’t move.

  “You should’ve hit him,” Sael said.

  Grim said nothing.

  “You think they stop because you bow deeper?”

  Calm voice. The kind teachers use when they already gave up on you.

  “They don’t stop. They savor.”

  Grim met his gaze. Not grateful. Not hostile. Just... there.

  Sael smiled. Not a grin. Just a hint.

  Like he meant it. Like he cared.

  “Next time,” he said, “swing first. Even if you lose.”

  They kept walking.

  Silence returned.

  Eventually, the hall split.

  Three directions.

  No signs. No answers.

  Just fingers pointing.

  Grim followed. Sael beside. Others behind.

  Faces meant nothing here.

  They were breath. Footsteps. Meat.

  The hallway narrowed.

  The lights didn’t fail. They gave up.

  And then—

  Light.

  Harsh. Brutal.

  Like guilt in a hospital room.

  Grim flinched. The others collapsed.

  Sunlight after days in rot felt like exposure. Like punishment.

  They stepped out.

  Sand. Dry, warm, grating underfoot.

  A silence so wide it pressed on the lungs.

  The wind moved.

  The weapons spoke.

  Swords. Spears. Halberds.

  Half-buried. Glittering like bones that didn’t know they were dead.

  Hundreds. Thousands. Not a single one touching.

  The prisoners shuffled in.

  Above them—high in the wall of the mountain the arena leaned against—was a platform.

  No windows.

  No walls.

  Just air. Just altitude.

  A perfect view. Like the gods wanted a front-row seat.

  The Warden stood there.

  Arms behind his back.

  Uniform black.

  Boots spotless. Smile absent.

  He looked down—not like a man.

  Like a butcher waiting for meat to stop moving.

  And then—

  He smiled.

  But the eyes—

  They didn’t follow.

  They burned.

  Bloodlust. Pure. Undiluted.

  The kind that wasn’t interested in death.

  Just suffering.

  Today, they said, I get to play.

  No mic. No echo. Just voice.

  “Welcome,” the Warden said.

  Voice like syrup poured over knives.

  “My lovely prisoners.”

  Arms opened.

  “We begin the party.”

  End of Chapter 58.