Chapter 3
“Cell 707! It’s morning! Hurry up and eat—I’ll be timing you!”
The head jailer banged noisily on the bars to wake Charlot and tossed her a loaf of bread.
The bread rolled across the filthy, dirt-covered floor, and a new assistant jailer, watching from the side, spoke up hesitantly.
“Chief, couldn’t we hand over her food a bit more… decently?”
“Hey, rookie. You pity her just because she’s a woman? You think she’s some petty crook from the marketplace? She’s an elite assassin who tried to murder the Empress herself. Keep quiet if you don’t want a hole in your own head, got it?”
Charlot crawled on the ground like an animal, silently enduring it. The heavy chains on her wrists and ankles rattled with each movement.
Opening her mouth, she tore into the fallen bread. Today, it tasted particularly of sawdust. She wanted to spit it out but forced herself to swallow, knowing that if she didn’t eat, her strength would dwindle.
Overhearing the jailers murmuring to each other, she caught fragments of their conversation.
“Is she really that dangerous? This whole ice prison is holding just her alone.”
“Look at those chains. They’re made for an ox. And when her attitude’s bad, it takes five or six men to beat her down. She’s a viper, I tell you.”
“Isn’t the prison responsible for ensuring a prisoner stays alive unless it’s a death sentence?”
The chief jailer smacked the assistant over the head.
“Alive, my ass! Can’t you see? The Emperor hasn’t sent anyone to check on her even once. It’s clear—he doesn’t want to kill her outright, just wants her to rot to death here!”
The assistant’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down, nearly in tears. Charlot chewed on the remaining bread piece silently.
‘Poor kid, stuck with such a cruel boss.’
In the five years she’d been imprisoned, Charlot had rarely put up a fight. The truth was, she’d been too consumed by trying to understand how she’d ended up here to waste energy on rebellion.
Yet, the head jailer took every opportunity to torment her in various ways.
One day, he released a swarm of centipedes into her cell; another day, he took her clothes under the pretense of washing them and never returned them.
If his goal had truly been to kill her, there were simpler ways. But the jailer seemed to enjoy keeping her barely alive, as part of the torture itself. The daily allowance of bread, laced with sawdust, was part of this sadistic ritual.
It felt pathetic that it had taken her five years to finally resolve herself to revenge.
‘Who knows when he might finally decide to kill me? Or perhaps the Emperor might order my execution on a whim.’
She had already wasted too much time. Now that the flame of vengeance had ignited within her, the only answer was escape.
‘But how?’
This northern ice prison was notorious. Originally a vertical cave in a remote mountain, it was turned into a manmade labyrinth at the very bottom of a deep shaft.
Even if a prisoner somehow made it out of their cell, they would have to find the tunnel exit like a mole. Then, to reach the top, they would need a pulley system—and the guards would never allow that.
The stone walls were coated in frost and ice, hence the name “Ice Prison.” Climbing them barehanded would result in an immediate fall.
‘And on top of that, I… I can’t even walk.’
From her utterly crushed knees downward, she had no sensation left. Her calves down to her toes had turned an unhealthy black.
Yet, the Emperor and her former friends took no chances. They had disrupted her energy channels, ensuring she could never use aura again.
For five years, Charlot had tried to restore herself. She’d attempted basic breathing exercises, like a beginner, hoping to pull in aura from the air. But with her body so severely damaged, her condition only worsened.
‘If I could only use aura again…’
It was a vital ability for someone who could no longer walk.
If she could regain it, she could find a way out of this prison.
But Charlot was never one to give up easily. She had always been strong in her convictions. Hadn’t she once crowned a new Emperor with the same tenacity?
She would survive and escape from here.
Clearing her mind, she renewed her focus. She forced herself upright, the chains rattling, and began to breathe, taking in the air around her with determination.
“Look at that, sitting there like she’s in a trance after eating. You’d think she’s some kind of beast.”
The head jailer snickered as he moved on. The assistant, still rubbing his head from the blow, scurried after him.
Despite her efforts, Charlot’s physical condition showed no improvement.
It was no surprise. Her energy channels had been shattered when her former allies forced her aura to surge out of control, throwing her body into chaos. That day had left her irreparably damaged.
To wield aura in her condition, she would need someone else’s aura infused into her, like a blood transfusion. And even then, it would only grant temporary recovery.
But for Charlot, it was worth any chance, no matter how brief.
‘But who, in this prison, would even…?’
One day, in the midst of her contemplation, a commotion erupted.
Her stone cell received no sunlight, making it difficult to tell the time, but it was likely around midday. The jailer, usually intimidating, was now groveling, his voice carrying from the distance.
“My goodness, Lord Count, what brings you to this wretched place? This is hardly a place fit for a Duke’s son!”
Footsteps, firm and unfamiliar, echoed through the hall.
Charlot perked up in her dark cell, instinctively listening. Her assassin’s senses, honed over countless battlefields, kicked in.
‘He’s tall, judging by the sound of his steps. Fairly lean build. He’s likely agile. Those are riding boots, so he rode up the mountain. Age…’
As if responding to her thoughts, a young man’s voice reached her.
“As the son of Grand Duke Licht, I came to pay my respects. You didn’t figure that out?”
“Pardon? I-I’m afraid I don’t understand, my lord.”
“If you’re from the North, surely you’ve heard that the Grand Duke recently passed.”
Cut off from outside news, Charlot was startled by this revelation.
‘The Grand Duke Licht is dead? So young, and he’s already…?’
Charlot had never met him personally, but she knew he was the head of a respected northern family, reputed to be steadfast and honorable, close in bloodline to the royal family, and supported by the people of the North.
Just then, someone stopped outside the bars.
Charlot kept her head down intentionally, yet she could tell from his fine riding boots that he was indeed a Count.
“The doctor claimed he died from a sudden blood clot, but with a prison holding the wickedest woman alive nearby, I can’t help but feel uneasy. How many royals has she killed, anyway?”
“No need to worry, my lord. She may be a challenging prisoner, but look at her!”
The head jailer gestured wildly in Charlot’s direction.
“She can’t even walk. How would she escape her cell, let alone climb the cave tunnels? Rest assured, my lord.”
The Count let out a dismissive laugh.
Charlot’s heart twinged unexpectedly.
She had grown numb to the contempt of the jailers.
But for some reason, being mocked by a man who didn’t even know her and had nothing to do with her stung, making her feel humiliated.
No matter her lowly origins, Charlot had grown up as a viscount’s daughter. She had served a future emperor and once enjoyed brief glory as a loyalist.
Now, she was little more than livestock in a cage. Her ragged hair was unevenly chopped, and her clothes barely covered her.
Seeing an outsider for the first time in five years exposed her long-buried pride, and shame welled up within her.
Unaware or indifferent to her feelings, the Count continued his conversation.
“If you’re so confident, I’ll leave her in your capable hands, Chief.”
“Of course, my lord! I offer my condolences on the Grand Duke’s passing. I know it must be difficult, but please stay strong.”
“Oh, well. Life’s for the living, isn’t it?” The Count’s tone shifted to one of flippancy as he grabbed the iron bars and shook them with a clanging sound.
“So, how do we open this?”
“Sir…what are you…?”
“She was once the Emperor’s woman, no? I’d like to take a look at her face while I’m here. Is that wrong?”
Charlot tensed at the unexpected request.
Was this man mad? To want to look in on a prisoner personally detained by the Emperor? And one infamous for assaulting the current Empress?
“My lord, as interested as you might be, opening a cage with a wild beast inside…”
The jailer’s protests were silenced when the Count nudged something against his side. Charlot caught the faint sound of coins clinking.
Finally succumbing to the bribe, the jailer unlocked the cell door.
The man stepped inside slowly.
Charlot still didn’t lift her head. Her body, accustomed to the isolation, instinctively recoiled from the presence of an outsider. The very idea of him inspecting her filled her with dread.
Yet, the man did not stay at a distance to look down on her. Instead, he approached and knelt right in front of her.
“So, you’re Charlot Morden?”
Not “that woman,” “villainess,” or “bitch,” but “you.”
The man lowered himself, forcing Charlot’s gaze to take in his face.
“For someone who’s been locked up here so long, you’ve got a remarkable look in your eyes.”
It was the smell of the distant outdoors.
His coat carried the crisp, cold scent of fresh air. She felt the chill of the outside seeping toward her.
Perhaps the clearness of his presence struck her because he looked barely over twenty.
His face was sharp, his skin cool like polished ice, with dark hair cascading over his forehead. Underneath, his eyes blazed red, smooth and lustrous like polished enamel.
Unlike Albert, who had once looked like a star in the morning mist, this man felt more like an eerie moon glowing in the dead of night.
Charlot was momentarily entranced. Even accounting for her disorientation from isolation, it was not a face she had expected to encounter.
“What’s wrong? Are you plotting how to kill me, just as you did with the other royals?”
The man’s lips twisted into a slight smile, as though he could read her thoughts.
Then, without warning, he leaned in and pulled her closer, his lips pressing down on hers from above.
“Mm…!”
Charlot instinctively tried to raise her arms, only to be stopped by her restraints. She even tried to bite him, but the man pulled back before she could resist further.
He wiped his lips with his thumb, an amused smirk on his face.
“If you could kill with just a look, this would be much simpler, wouldn’t it?”
“You bastard!”
“Oh, still able to speak? Then consider which of us here is closer to a dog.”
With that, the man left the cell. The jailer, flustered, trailed after him.
“My lord! However stirred you may be, laying hands on a prisoner….”
“Shouldn’t you worry about the fact that this prisoner has burn marks? You’d better keep quiet before I order an investigation.”
The jailer flinched, unable to respond.
The Count disappeared from view, and Charlot, still reeling, glared after him. Suddenly, she realized something and shouted after him.
“Rus… yes, Ruslan von Licht!”
At the sound of his name, the man turned his head slowly.
“You know who I am?”
“I heard the Grand Duke had an adopted son—only a daughter by blood. So it’s you?!”
Ruslan tilted his head, a faint smile on his face.
“My adoptive mother granted me the title of Count Kaitel. With my half-sister still young, I’m acting as Duke in her stead. Your mind’s still sharp, isn’t it, esteemed assassin?”
With a carefree laugh, he spun on his heel and disappeared.
Charlot brushed back her tangled hair, a sudden clarity washing over her like ice water.
She couldn’t guess what Ruslan’s intentions were.
But she could still feel the lingering sensation of his kiss. It wasn’t the heat of excitement that arose from contact with a man but something else entirely.
She’d felt the change since the beginning. Charlot took a slow, steady breath, focusing inward.
Within her body, she could feel her aura once more.
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