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Silas
Fuck the man.
Fuck the constitution. Whatever nonsense the humans have written down in their pathetic little laws about freedom and rights, none of it applies here.
This is a war crime.
I have rights.
And yet, here I am.
Trapped.
In a gilded fucking cage.
Oh, but it’s lovely, isn’t it? The height of luxury. Crystal chandeliers dripping with wealth. Soft carpets that probably cost more than most people’s entire bloodlines. A bed with so many fucking pillows it might as well be a cloud. There are trays of decadent food, wine older than some civilizations, and silk robes in every color.
It’s disgusting.
How dare they.
"Bastards," I mutter, sprawled across an obscenely comfortable chaise lounge, one arm thrown over my face in an act of great suffering.
Because this, this elegant, pristine prison, isn’t even the worst part.
The worst part is that I can see her.
Every time I look in the mirrors that line the walls, there she is.
Luna.
Sleeping, slumped against Elias on horseback, her face tucked against his throat like she belongs there.
And I, I!, am here.
Suffering.
Dying, probably.
Rotting away in a fucking palace.
"Unacceptable," I mutter, shifting just enough to glare at my reflection, my face mocking me from the gleaming silver glass. My dark curls are artfully tousled, my shirt half-open in a way that would be unreasonably attractive under any other fucking circumstance.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because I am alone.
I sigh. A long, soul-deep exhale. "This is it. This is how I die."
No one responds.
Because no one is fucking here.
"Days," I murmur to myself, "Days I have been trapped in this lavish nightmare. Separated. Banished. A prince cast from his throne."
I roll onto my side, dramatic and beautifully tragic, like a fallen god sculpted into marble. "The injustice. The cruelty. Where is the outcry? Where is the rebellion?"
Nothing.