PRISON KING'S RETURN

"Is he dead or something?” Drayce muttered under his breath.

The spoon clinked against the tin plate as Drayce scooped up another lump of grayish stew. He stared at it like it had personally offended him.

Silence spread.

Nearby prisoners stiffened. Hands hovered over trays. No one swallowed it. No one breathed too loudly. The simple act of eating suddenly felt dangerous with Drayce sitting among them.

In Ironspike Bastion, even a whisper felt like it could draw blood.

The prison crouched beneath the jagged Blackridge mountains, its name whispered like a curse among the underworld: a stone tomb where the empire buried its worst political blades who’d slit the wrong throat, warlords who’d turned battlefields into charnel houses, arms dealers who supplied both sides until the gold ran dry. Men who once made kings tremble now hunched over their trays, shoulders rounded, eyes fixed on their food as though staring too long at anything else might invite trouble.

And yet the hall was unnaturally quiet today. No brawls. No barked challenges. No one even scraped their chair back too loudly. Drayce felt the weight of all those averted gazes pressing against his skin like damp cold. Five years in this pit, and the most dangerous thing here had turned out to be boredom itself.

He dragged the spoon through the congealing mess again, slower this time, mind drifting back to his Master.

Master Thorne.

The old man had all wiry muscles and white-streaked beard, hands gentle when they bandaged scrapes, merciless when they corrected a sloppy stance.

He’d raised Drayce from a half-starved street rat, taught him how to breathe through pain, and how to turn rage into something sharper than steel.

Five years ago, on the eve of what should have been a final test, Thorne had pressed a folded parchment into his palm.

“There’s a man inside Ironspike,” the master had said, voice low and rough. “He's a worthy opponent. The kind who’ll push you farther than I ever could. Find him. Learn from him. He’ll be… difficult to miss.”

Drayce had grinned then, cocky, eager at the promise of a real challenge.. He’d pictured a towering brute, scars like maps, eyes that burned with the kind of fire only legends carried. Someone who’d make every grueling dawn spar feel like child’s play by comparison.

But…

He’d been wrong.

In his first twenty-four hours he’d laid out seventeen men.

Warlords had snarled. The assassins sneered. One after another, they all fell staring at the ceiling or crawling away with their pride shattered.

Drayce waited for the real threat to appear.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks dragged into years.

The legend never showed.

Now the excitement had soured into something heavier.

A dull ache settled behind his ribs whenever he remembered Thorne’s look that final morning, steady and expectant.

Five years of silence from the outside world. No messages. No ravens. Not even a rumor that the old man was still alive.

Only the same gray walls. The same sour stew and the same hollow echo of boots against stone, day after day.

Drayce let out a slow breath, his shoulders sinking just a fraction. He hated how much he missed the old bastard. Hated even more that some part of him still hoped Thorne had a reason for the silence. That this, too, was a lesson. Just crueler than any beating.

A sudden commotion cracked the stillness.

“Boss!”

A squat warden with a face like chewed leather burst through the side archway, breath ragged. His eyes flicked to Drayce, then away just as fast.

“Someone’s here to see you!”

The words hit like a stone thrown into still water. Tension rippled through the hall; heads lifted an inch, then dropped again. Drayce felt his pulse thrum against his throat.

He set the spoon down deliberately.

He hadn’t moved yet. Didn’t let the sudden heat in his chest show.

But his fingers curled slowly around the table edge.

The first thought that struck Drayce as he approached the visitor’s room was sharp and immediate—could it be the old man?

He pushed himself upright, rolling up his sleeves. Every muscle tensed, ready to show the man exactly what he had mastered over these years. Every scar, every punch, every calculated move—he was ready.

But then he skidded to a stop.

A woman!

Selara Veyrin. Heir to half the black-market shipping lanes on the western coast. Poisonously beautiful in the way winter roses are: perfect, untouchable, and guaranteed to draw blood if you got too close.

Dressed in the finest silk from Duranelle, cost a fortune, of course.

The diamonds at her throat catching the weak light like trapped stars. Her gloves were kidskin dyed the color of fresh blood. Everything about her screamed money that had never once known hunger.

“Drayce,” she said, drawing his name out like she was disappointed. “There you are.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched her lips curve into a cruel smile.

“I’m your fiancée,” she continued, “Or at least I was supposed to be, before you decided to become a convict for half a decade.”

She lifted one gloved hand, letting the light slide across the enormous sapphire on her finger. “Do you have any idea how much this little trinket cost? Eighty thousand crowns, darling. And that’s just the ring. This coat?” She smoothed a palm down the velvet as though petting something alive. “A hundred and twelve. The house I keep in Cresthaven alone is valued at fifty-three million. Marble from the quarries of Solspire, crystal chandeliers imported from the Isles, gardens that take sixteen gardeners to keep perfect. I could buy this entire prison and still have change for breakfast.”

Her gaze flicked over him, stained shirt, scarred knuckles, the faint tremor of old bruises that never quite faded then away again, as though the sight of him offended her sensibilities.

“I’m sure you couldn’t afford to give me anything half as nice,” she added. “Could you, sweetheart?”

Drayce’s lips curved into a faint, controlled smile. “I wasn’t planning to,” he said evenly, stepping closer. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.”

Her eyes flicked to him, a flash of disbelief buried behind her carefully constructed arrogance. She had no idea. Buying all of that, the silks, the house, the extravagant pretensions would have been a trivial matter for Drayce. Five years in Ironspike had left him with more than enough. Most prisoners had paid him monthly just to avoid crossing him, and he’d saved every coin.

“Of course this is who I came for,” she murmured. Then her eyes darkened.

“So that’s your plan, is it? Play the humble prisoner, get yourself released, then latch onto someone like me? A kept man. How very… modern.”

Selara Veyrin had thought coming here alone, to dissolve their arranged marriage, would be the right thing to do. How could a bum like him possibly deserve her?

Drayce’s jaw tightened. Her arrogance stirred something sharp in his chest. If she weren’t a woman, he would have taught her a lesson already. Instead, he let his eyes lock on hers, cold and unflinching.

“How did you hear I was being released?”

“You… gah!” Selara fumed, waving a manicured hand. “I’m a successful businesswoman. You… you’re nothing but a—” She hesitated, glancing down, “a bum stuck in that prison.”

Selara thought she had been generous. After all, every prisoner craved freedom, didn’t they?

Drayce didn’t flinch. He simply said, flatly, “No.”

Her eyes widened. He didn’t even argue. He didn’t waste another breath. Instead, he remembered the box his master, Master Thorne had given him when he first arrived at Ironspike. He called the warden over. When it was brought, he opened it slowly, and gave Selara an almost apologetic smile.

“I’m not sure it’s in here,” he said smoothly. “If it isn’t… we can just pretend none of this ever happened.”

Selara scoffed, a laugh curling bitterly from her lips. Pretend it never happened? So he was trying to keep this arranged marriage going? In his dreams.

“Even if it isn’t,” she snapped, “I’m still calling it off!”

Then her sharp eyes caught the contents of the box.

Then she froze.

Nine separate marriage agreements stared up at her—each one bearing a different seal, a different signature, a different name. All of them are betrothed to the same man.

Drayce.

Her gaze snagged on the very top sheet. The one written in elegant violet ink.

Liora Valtarre!

Her own jaw went slack. Color bled from her cheeks so fast it left her lips almost blue.

Liora Valtarre is Aurelia’s undisputed number one socialite, darling of every ballroom from the Crystal Promenade to the Starlit Terrace. Heiress to the Valtarre Consortium, the family whose shipping fleets and arcane forges kept half the western provinces running.

“Found it.”

Drayce slid a single sheet of paper from the stack, Selara’s name printed neatly at the top.

She took it from him, fingers stiff, forcing her expression to stay calm. Her eyes skimmed the page once—then narrowed.

“Are you here for fraud?” she asked flatly.

“How else does a man end up with nine betrothal contracts? How many women did you lie to? How many did you bleed dry before they finally locked you away?”

Drayce rolled his eyes. Without bothering to answer, he turned and walked out.

Back in his cell, he dropped onto the narrow bed and stared at the paper in his hands. His mood darkened. For years, he’d thought these agreements were nothing more than some elaborate joke. After all, who in their right mind would agree to marry multiple people at once?

But seeing Selara’s reaction changed that.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face.

“If someone else shows up over this…” he muttered, shaking his head.

A thought struck him mid-sentence.

What if I dissolve them myself? Before they come looking.

His lips twitched.

“Not a bad idea.”

Drayce didn’t waste another second. Box tucked under his arm, he left his cell and headed straight for the main gate.

The towering metal doors loomed ahead. He kicked one open without slowing, the impact echoing through the entrance hall. A few wardens stiffened but none moved to stop him. They remembered the last time he’d walked out like this, five years ago.

Outside, Drayce paused and scanned the barren stretch beyond the prison walls. Mountains. Dust. Nothing else. The nearest proper city was hundreds of miles away.

Walking wasn’t an option.

Footsteps hurried toward him.

“Boss!” the chief warden called, slightly out of breath. “You’re… leaving?”

Drayce tilted his head. “Can’t I?”

The man shook his head quickly. “Of course you can. Anytime you want.” Then, hesitating, he added, “I just wanted to ask—can we start serving lunch now?”

Drayce snorted. He knew what that meant. Once he was gone, the warden could finally reclaim control of the prison.

“Sure. Do whatever,” Drayce said, already turning away. Then he paused. “Oh and get me a taxi.”

The warden blinked. “To where?”

Drayce glanced down at the agreement in his hand before answering.

“Aurelia.”

###### ####### ######## ######

Five hours later, he boarded a flight bound for the city.

“Small world,” he muttered.

Selara sat a few rows ahead in first class. She noticed him almost instantly, her spine stiffening.

“You’ve been released?” she asked sharply.

Drayce didn’t feel like explaining it. “Yep.”

Her eyes darkened. So that’s why he rejected my offer, she thought.

She folded her arms. “Let me make this clear. We come from different worlds. We’ll never be together. So give up now and get off this plane.”

Why else would he be here, on the same flight, right after getting out?

Drayce closed his eyes, already done with the conversation. “You should get your brain checked.”

Her jaw clenched. He wasn’t just irritating, he was infuriating.

“You—” She stopped herself, turning away instead. Too many people were watching.

When the plane finally landed in Aurelia, Selara rose at once and strode toward the aisle. She paused beside Drayce and leaned in just enough for him to hear.

“Don’t you dare follow me,” she warned quietly. “In this city, I can make your life very uncomfortable.”

Then she turned and headed for the exit.

Before she could step off the plane, a stewardess raised a hand.

“My apologies, miss. The airport is currently on standby for a VVIP passenger. Please remain seated.”

Selara froze.

Standby? For someone else?

Interest flickered across her face. Aurelia rarely made such arrangements. Whoever this was, they had to be someone extraordinary.

Murmurs rippled through the cabin.

A VVIP?

The stewardess walked past Selara, past the stares, and stopped beside Drayce’s seat. She inclined her head respectfully.

“Apologies for the wait, Mr. Drayce. You may disembark now.”