Drip… drip…
The sound of dripping water echoed through the stone corridor.
Each drop landed in a small puddle near the wall, scattering in ripples that quickly vanished in the dark.
Deep beneath the ground, where sunlight could never reach, a boy sat chained to the wall of a damp cell.
His wrists were raw, his throat burned with thirst, and his once-proud mane of hair was matted with dirt and blood.
"Heh…"
A dry, broken laugh slipped from his cracked lips.
That boy was Ivan Olfram.
A knight. A student of Stellaris Academy. A count's son.
And now, a criminal.
It had been almost a week since he had last seen daylight.
He didn't know if it was morning or night anymore.
Down here, time didn't move; it just hung heavy, like the air, like the shame pressing down on his chest.
He had stopped counting the hours two days ago.
Or maybe it was three, he wasn't sure.
Every time he tried to sleep, he would jolt awake again, haunted by the same memory: white hair, red eyes, and confident smirk he wore.
And the moment when everything went black.
"It should've worked…" he muttered under his breath. "It should've worked…"
His voice cracked.
His throat was too dry to form proper words, but the bitterness still came out.
Ivan had been considered talented once.
Not a prodigy, exactly, but a warrior with a bright future.
Ranked sixty-fourth in his first year, a solid position for someone not born into royalty.
People had envied him, envied his noble background, his strength, his confidence.
He had been proud of it, too.
He had been proud of everything: his swordsmanship, his bloodline, his lion heritage.
His family's style, the Olfram's Fang, was a swordsmanship that thrived on strength, endurance, and bloodlust.
A style that demanded you to embrace pain and turn it into power.
He had bled in training until he couldn't stand, until his vision blurred, and his bones screamed, but he'd never once complained.
Because that was what it meant to be a lion.
To be an Olfram.
It had all been so promising.
And yet here he was, rotting in a cell, his name spat on by the same nobles who once praised him.
His crime: attempted murder.
He almost laughed again at the irony.
If he'd killed some commoner on the street, nobody would've cared; he might have even been celebrated for "putting a mutt in its place."
If he had killed a lower noble, he could have buried the scandal easily enough.
But no, he had chosen to attack another noble, during a duel, in front of an audience that included dukes, nobles, and even royalty.
And he hadn't just attacked, he had tried to kill.
Not a mock duel, not a simple exchange of blows, a full, deliberate execution.
Even now, thinking about it, he didn't understand what had taken over him.
The white-haired boy's arrogant eyes had infuriated him.
The way he had stood there, unflinching, like Ivan's threats meant nothing.
And when he had gotten cocky, attacking in such a self-destructive way, something inside of Ivan had snapped.
After that, everything went red.
When his blade sank in, when he felt the sword come free from the other side, there had been satisfaction; pure, twisted satisfaction.
But it hadn't lasted.
Because the boy had not died.
And Ivan's entire world had ended the moment that truth reached him.
Now he was here, chained and forgotten, waiting for judgment.
Drip… drip…
He had almost grown numb to the sound.
Almost.
"Oi, you've got a visitor."
The guard's voice broke through the silence.
Ivan didn't lift his head.
He sat still, eyes glazed, lips twitching with that same empty smile he had worn for days.
"Heh… hah…"
The laughter came again, dry, meaningless, and cracked.
The guard sighed, muttering something under his breath as he turned the lock.
Clunk.
Creeeak—
The heavy iron door swung open.
Footsteps echoed against the stone floor, calm and unhurried.
Even before the guard spoke again, Ivan felt his heart lurch in his chest.
"You've got five minutes," the guard said. "No more, no less."
"Yes, I'm well aware."
That voice.
Cold and controlled.
Polite enough to sound proper, but sharp enough to make your skin crawl.
Every syllable carried authority; the kind that didn't need to shout to command obedience.
Ivan's body went rigid.
The laughter stopped instantly.
His feigned madness melted away like wax under fire.
Cold sweat ran down his back as his breath hitched.
'No… why… why is he here?'
He didn't have to look up to know.
"My dear son," the man said softly, "care to tell me what you've done?"
Kaelin Olfram, Head of House Olfram, Count of the Einhardt Kingdom, and Ivan's father.
Ivan's lips quivered. His throat constricted.
"F… Father, I—"
"Silence."
The single word cut through the air like a blade.
Kaelin stepped forward, each footfall echoing like the toll of a bell.
"Did I not tell you," Kaelin said quietly, "how to conduct yourself? Did I not warn you never to shame our house?"
Ivan's shoulders trembled.
Kaelin's tone remained calm, but calmness from Kaelin Olfram was more terrifying than any rage.
"Do you know what they're calling you now?" Kaelin asked. "The mad cub of Olfram. The rabid lion who lost control."
He let out a bitter chuckle.
"How poetic. A beast who bit above his station."
Grab
Ivan's neck was seized, hard enough to make his vision blur.
"Ggh—!"
Kaelin forced his son's head up, their eyes meeting for the first time.
Ivan froze.
Those eyes, the same golden hue as his own, were filled with cold disgust.
"I cannot believe this," Kaelin murmured. "My own blood… behaving like a witless cub. Have I not raised you better?"
He didn't shout. He didn't even scowl.
That was what made it worse.
Kaelin's disappointment wasn't fiery; it was absolute.
He wasn't angry at his son's mistake; he was embarrassed that such a mistake existed in his bloodline at all.
"Cough—ghkk!" Ivan choked, clawing at his father's arm.
His lungs screamed for air, and black spots danced in his vision.
"Was it so hard," Kaelin hissed, "to follow orders? All you had to do was charm the princess. Smile. Play your part. But no—" His eyes darkened. "You had to act on impulse. You had to bear your fangs like a common mutt."
Then abruptly…
Drop
Kaelin released him.
Ivan collapsed to the floor, clutching his bruised throat, gasping for air.
"Cough! Cough—!"
He trembled violently, tears stinging his eyes.
'I'm alive…'
Barely.
Shaking, he dared to lift his head.
"F-Father, please… I know I've failed you, but don't abandon me. I can do better. I'll prove myself, I swear it. Just give me one more chance!"
Kaelin looked down at him silently, unblinking, then sighed like a man tired of a bad investment.
"A pity," he murmured. "Such a pity. I had high hopes for you. A lion with royal blood in his veins, reduced to this."
His gaze hardened. "You have no purpose anymore."
Ivan blinked.
"Wh… what?"
"The unworthy king has demanded your execution."
The words hit harder than any blow.
Ivan's heart stopped.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"No… no, that's not—Father, please—"
Slap
The backhand struck cleanly across his face, leaving a sharp red mark on his cheek.
Kaelin sneered.
"Do not disgrace me further with your whimpering. Speak like an Olfram."
Ivan's whole body shook.
He wanted to scream, to curse, to beg, but his voice betrayed him.
He could only whisper.
"Execution…?"
Kaelin adjusted his gloves, expression calm.
"You brought shame to the family. You attacked a princess's companion in front of nobles. Your actions insulted royalty. What did you expect, my son? Mercy?"
Tears welled in Ivan's eyes.
"I… I didn't mean—"
"Silence."
Kaelin crouched, lowering his voice.
"Ignorance is for prey. Lions do not make excuses."
Ivan froze.
Kaelin's lips curved faintly, almost in amusement.
"I hear it was the princess herself who demanded it. Tell me, my son, how did you anger her so deeply?"
Ivan's teeth ground together.
The image of white hair and crimson eyes flooded his mind.
That smug, calm look.
"It's all because of that… filthy creature."
Fire burned in Ivan's eyes as he thought back to the human who should have died.
"Oho?" Kaelin tilted his head. "No need for names. Describe them."
"White hair. Red eyes. Looks like a girl." Ivan spat out, hatred giving him strength.
Kaelin went silent for a long moment, deep in thought.
Then, quietly, he murmured.
"Rare indeed… very rare."
He smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it.
"Well done, my son. At least, in your final moments, you've given me something of value."
Ivan's eyes widened.
"Then… then you'll help me? You'll tell the king it was a misunderstanding? Please—Father—"
Kaelin chuckled softly.
It wasn't laughter, it was mockery.
"No, my son. That is impossible."
"W-what?"
"A lion accepts his failures with dignity," Kaelin said simply, standing tall. "You've lost your worth. You will not stain the name Olfram further. We are proud because we are worthy of it. Remember that."
He turned, knocking on the door.
"Wait—Father! Please!"
The heavy door opened with a creak.
Kaelin didn't look back.
"I do hope they make it quick," he said over his shoulder, voice casual, as though discussing the weather.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Ivan sat there, trembling, clutching his throat.
For a long time, there was only silence.
Then the fear came back, crawling up his spine, coiling around his chest.
He wanted to scream, to beg, to fight, but all he could do was sit there, alone, with the taste of iron in his mouth and the echo of his father's words in his ears.
And when the realisation truly hit, when the weight of it crushed him completely…
"Ahhhhhhhhhh—!"
His screams tore through the stone halls, raw and ragged, echoing endlessly.
The roar of a cub abandoned by its pride.
————「❤︎」————