POV: Christiana Blackwood
I walked into the dim holding cell with calculated steps, the metal door shutting behind me with a sharp clang. The two guards posted inside stiffened. They weren't expecting me—and that's exactly how I liked it.
My gaze swept the room quickly. The beggar sat on the cold bench, hood still low, hunched like a wilted tree, pretending to shiver though the air was not that cold.
I looked at the officer who summoned me. "Leave us."
The guards hesitated, but they obeyed. When the door slammed shut again, I stepped forward slowly.
"You've caused quite the mess," I said quietly. "The King's week of peace, disrupted by a man who stole nothing… and asked for everyone."
He didn't move. Didn't flinch.
"Do you know how many people name me and Amara in desperation?" I asked, circling him. "Yet you... you didn't plead. You claimed. That's different."
Silence.
"You know the rules," I continued. "Anyone who calls on the Dictator by name is either a fool... or someone who once held power."
Still no reply.
"Remove the hood," I demanded.
He didn't.
"Did you not hear me?" I said, firmer now. "I said—"
"I heard you, Dictator," he finally spoke, voice hoarse... but steady. "But I am not ready to remove it. I want you to judge my words, not my face."
That voice.
Something in it hit my chest like a forgotten melody. Familiar. Too familiar.
I stepped closer.
"You're walking a thin line," I warned.
"I've walked thinner," he whispered. "You think your brother's recovery is the only miracle this month?"
My eyes widened.
He continued, calm. "The question is not who I am… the question is… will you recognize your own blood… when it doesn't announce itself?"
I stared at him.
Silence stretched.
My fingers trembled near the hilt of my dagger—not out of fear. Out of instinct. Out of disbelief.
"Who sent you?" I asked slowly.
He chuckled under the hood. "I sent myself."
That laugh. My knees nearly buckled.
"You're lying," I whispered.
"Am I?" he murmured. "Then why do you feel like you've seen a ghost?"
I stepped back. "This is insane."
"No," he said, finally lifting his head just slightly, shadows parting just enough to reveal a hint of sharp jawline, regal cheekbone, and a glint in the eye that haunted my childhood.
"I'm just reminding you," he said gently, "that gods don't die. They disguise."
To Be Continued…
Want me to continue as Christiana starts to unravel the truth?