Crescent Betrayal, The Ring That Remade Him

The worst part about falling into hell is that you can still hear the laughter of the people who pushed you.

Lincoln felt the rough grip of the guard gauntlet digging into his shoulder, tearing the fabric of his once fine tunic. They were dragging him across the stone courtyard of the Vane estate, the very place where he had spent eighteen years believing he was a prince. Now, he was just trash being taken out.

"Do you hear that, brother?" Angus asked, his voice dripping with a sickening kind of joy.

Lincoln spat on the ground, his face swollen from a dozen punches he had taken in the foyer. "Just kill me and get it over with, Angus. You have always been a coward."

Angus laughed, a high, sharp sound that grated against the damp morning air. "Kill you? No. That would be too merciful. Mother wants you to suffer. She wants you to rot in the dark until you forget what the sun even looks like."

Lincoln looked up, catching sight of Cressida standing on the balcony above them. She looked like a queen, cold and distant, watching her prize possession being discarded. He wanted to scream at her, to ask how she could throw away her own stepson, but he knew the answer already. She never loved anyone except her own bloodline.

"Cressida," Lincoln shouted, his voice cracking. "Look at me."

She did not even flinch. She simply turned her back to the railing and walked away.

The guard shoved Lincoln forward, forcing him to stumble over the uneven cobblestones. "Keep moving, boy," the man growled, his breath smelling of stale ale. "Nobody cares about you anymore. You are a ghost."

"I am still standing," Lincoln whispered, mostly to himself.

Angus stepped closer, leaning in until their noses were inches apart. "You are standing in the dirt, Lincoln. The Vane name belongs to me now. My father has already signed the papers. By tonight, the servants will be burning your clothes and scrubbing your name off the ledgers. You are not a ghost. You are nothing."

Lincoln tightened his fists. "You think a title makes you a Vane? You are a hollow shell, Angus. My mother built this house. My mother forged the steel that keeps this kingdom safe. You just inherited her work."

Angus backhanded him across the mouth. The taste of copper filled Lincoln throat.

The guard yanked him harder, pulling him toward the jagged opening of the mine. It was a massive, black scar on the side of the mountain, a place where the family sent their failed experiments and their political enemies. The air coming out of it was freezing, carrying the scent of damp earth and something rotten.

"Please," Lincoln said, and he hated himself for it. Not because he wanted to live for his own sake, but because he knew what would happen to the estate if Cressida truly took over. She would ruin everything his mother spent a lifetime creating.

"Are you begging?" Angus asked, his eyes lighting up. "I thought you had some dignity left."

"I am not begging for my life," Lincoln spat, wiping blood from his chin. "I am telling you that you are making a mistake. You have no idea what is down there."

Angus stopped walking. The guards paused, their heavy boots crunching on the gravel.

"What would you know about it?" Angus asked, his voice suddenly quiet. "You were a pampered heir. You never even stepped foot in the mines."

"I know enough," Lincoln lied. He knew nothing, but he saw the way the guards hesitated when they got closer to the entrance. He saw the way they clutched their swords, their knuckles turning white. They were afraid.

Angus sneered. "You are trying to scare me? That is pathetic. You really are desperate."

He shoved Lincoln toward the dark abyss. "Take him down to the core level," Angus commanded the guards. "Make sure the gate is locked. If I hear he has crawled out, I will have both your heads on pikes."

The guards grunted and dragged Lincoln the last few feet. He dug his heels into the dirt, but it was useless. They were too strong, and he was exhausted from the beating he had taken earlier.

"Wait," Lincoln gasped as they reached the edge of the descent. "Just tell me one thing. Did she suffer? Did my mother suffer when she died?"

Angus looked at him, and for a split second, the cruelty vanished, replaced by something even worse. Indifference.

"She was weak," Angus said. "She died exactly how she lived. Alone."

Lincoln felt a fire ignite in his chest, hot and searing. It was not fear. It was not grief. It was pure, unadulterated hatred. He stopped resisting. He let them drag him to the precipice, his eyes locked on his half brother until the very last second.

"Angus," Lincoln said, his voice calm, terrifyingly steady.

Angus frowned. "What?"

"I will be back."

Angus burst out laughing, a sound that echoed off the cavern walls. "Back? You will be bones in a week."

The guards threw him.

Lincoln felt the air rush past his ears as he tumbled down the slope. He hit the stone floor hard, the breath knocked out of his lungs in a single, painful wheeze. He slid until he slammed into a wall, the cold stone biting into his back.

Above him, he heard the metallic screech of the iron gate closing. It was a heavy, final sound. The light from the entrance vanished, replaced by a suffocating, absolute darkness that felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest.

He lay there for a long time, listening to his own ragged breathing. He could hear the receding footsteps of the guards, their laughter growing fainter until it was gone. Then, silence.

But it was not empty silence.

It was the kind of silence that held its breath. The kind of silence that was waiting for something to happen.

He tried to sit up, his muscles screaming in protest. He could not see his hand in front of his face. He felt the rough, jagged rock beneath him, the dust filling his nose and mouth. He was alive. That was the first victory.

He needed light. He needed to find a way to make a fire, to see his surroundings, to figure out where he was.

He reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. The ring. His mother ring. He had managed to keep it hidden in his sleeve when they searched him. He pulled it out, clutching it in his palm. It was the only thing he had left. It was the only piece of her that remained.

He closed his eyes, pressing the ring to his forehead. "Please," he whispered into the dark. "Give me something. Just a sign."

He heard it then.

It was not a wind. It was not the shifting of the earth.

It was a wet, meaty thud.

It landed just a few feet away, hitting the stone with the sound of dead weight.

Lincoln froze. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to run, but he did not know which way to go. He could not move.

Then came the sound.

Click. Click. Click.

It was the sound of something sharp, something multi limbed, skittering across the stone floor. It was fast, confident, and rhythmic. It was moving closer, circling him.

He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

The skittering stopped.

He felt a puff of hot, foul smelling air wash over his face. Something was there, standing right in front of him, breathing.

Lincoln did not scream. He simply gripped the ring tighter, his knuckles turning white, and waited for the end.

He realized then that the darkness was not just an absence of light. It was a hunting ground. And he was the prey.