Touching his collar, Hadjar immediately felt pain. The sensations resembled hot needles being stabbed into all of his nerves. One of these needles was embedded in the back of the neck. The thin spike, soaked in a special potion, cut Hadjar off from his abilities as a practitioner.
Over the course of fifteen years, Hadjar’s life had made a complete circle and he’d returned to what he’d been at the start: a mere mortal, deprived of his name and family. Only now he still had his arms and legs. How long would that last?
“I had hoped to never see you again,” Hadjar smiled a bit sadly.
Another difference was that his eyes now saw much better in the dark than they had before. In the corner of the cramped dungeon was the white skeleton of a small rat — Archibald, the name Hadjar had once given his only companion and silent interlocutor. Partly due to his presence, the young ex-Prince had once managed to stay sane.
Everything around him was the same as before. On the floor, there was a thin cover of tattered straw, instead of a mat. Over the years, the straw had become rotten and it smelled foul, and the floor had only gotten colder. Due to the dampness and moisture, the walls were covered with black mounds of dangerous mold. A heavy door with rusty hinges covered the entrance, ensuring he could not escape.
The moment Hadjar remembered that these hinges had used to make such awful sounds, heavy footsteps sounded outside. A key was turned in the lock and Hadjar’s suspicions were confirmed. The sound really was so terrible that he wanted to rupture his eardrums to avoid hearing it.
Hadjar closed his eyes for a moment so that the dim light of the torches didn’t hurt them. When he opened them again, he saw the visitor he’d been expecting right in front of him. Primus towered above his prisoner, who was chained to the wall. His gray hair was bundled together in a tight ponytail, smug mockery danced in his eyes, and his expensive silk clothes embroidered with gold were mopping up the mold on the floor.
In the corridor, with his shoulder leaning against the doorway, stood the Governor. This time, he was wearing a jacket that made him look like a warrior.
In his right hand, the King carried a stool, and in his left he held the dagger that Hadjar had received as a legacy from the poor General he’d killed.
After sitting down in front of Hadjar, Primus snapped his fingers and the heavy chains came to life. They wrapped themselves tightly around Hadjar’s legs and arms, preventing him from grabbing the dagger laid before him.
“Hello, uncle,” Hadjar croaked out through the pain.
The tight grip of the chains could still be tolerated, but every movement of his larynx agitated the collar, which produced very… ‘pleasant’ sensations.
“Hello, nephew.” The cell was so tiny that Primus, sitting on a stool opposite him, could quietly lean back against the wall. “Sorry for not visiting you all this time. That first year, there were simply too many things to do, and then, well... you ran away after that.”
Hadjar responded to his statement with a bloodthirsty smile. Well, as bloodthirsty as he could manage, anyway, given that he’d been shackled in the cell of his worst nightmares. He’d been deprived of his power, chained, and left all alone in the darkness. Even the honorable Archibald’s skeleton had been set down opposite him, may the forefathers be merciful to that kind soul...
“Didn’t your mom and dad teach you that it’s not nice to run away?”
“No,” Hadjar shook his head and immediately regretted it. He mustered all his willpower to avoid showing the enemy his pain and weakness. “But they did teach me that people without honor aren’t worthy of listening to. So, I’m sorry, uncle, but I probably won’t be answering your questions.”
Those words didn’t seem to hurt Primus at all. But that was a ruse. Judging by the flash of pain he’d seen in his blue eyes, Hadjar realized that his verbal jab had hit the mark. At that moment, Primus had possibly experienced more anguish than his prisoner was currently enduring.
“My questions?” The usurper grinned. “I thought you’d have questions of your own. For example, how did I recognize you?”
Hadjar turned away. He did his best to look like he didn’t even notice the man. This behavior made Primus feel another thoroughly hidden burst of pain and anger. The Governor laughed, showing his perfectly straight, snow-white teeth. That was a rather rare thing among practitioners, but common among true cultivators. They probably had more time and opportunities to fuss over their appearance.
“Well, I’ll tell you everything regardless,” Primus spread his arms, only to cross them again across his mighty chest. “Did you really think that I didn’t recognize you when you came to my house? To a celebration in honor of my daughter? Are you just as stupid as your father was?”
“She isn’t your daughter,” Hadjar growled out.
Primus arched his right eyebrow in dramatic amazement.
“What happened to your ‘I don’t speak to dishonorable people’ policy?”
Hadjar ignored the question.
“However, I must disagree with you,” Primus continued, pleased that he’d been able to hurt Hadjar. “If you asked Elaine, she would call me her father.”
“The fact that you used some sort of Technique on her doesn’t make you her father. I saw the scars that prove just how sick you are.”
The whirlwind of energy that arose around Primus would’ve torn an ordinary mortal apart. Fortunately, the collar only blocked Hadjar’s abilities, it didn’t render him completely powerless. Otherwise, he would’ve died right on the spot.
“Choose your words carefully, Hadjar. Don’t forget your life is in my hands.”
Hadjar grinned again. This time,
