The Prince's Script

Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Training the Villain

The darkness wasn't empty; it was filled with the smell of damp earth and the distant, rhythmic drip of water. Bakti groaned, his ribs feeling like they’d been crushed by a carriage. He pushed himself up, his hands scraping against cold, uneven stone.

"Dead? No, not yet," he wheezed, rubbing his throbbing temples. "Still in the basement. Still alive. Still miserable."

He felt the floor, searching for the diary, but his fingers met only gritty dust. "Great. I lost the damn thing in the explosion. Without that manual, I’m just a guy in a fancy shirt waiting to get executed."

"You look like a wet dog, brother."

Bakti spun around, wincing as his side flared with white-hot pain. Standing in the shadows was a man with sharp features and a gaze that radiated pure, unadulterated annoyance. Rajasa—his half-brother.

"Rajasa?" Bakti spat, clenching his fists. "What, did you come down here to finish what Sartika started?"

"Sartika? That woman is a viper," Rajasa sneered, stepping into a patch of moonlight filtering through a grate high above. "She’s reckless. She didn't want you dead in a hole; she wanted you gone entirely."

"And you? What do you want?" Bakti stood, his legs trembling.

"I want the crown, obviously," Rajasa chuckled, tossing a wooden training sword at Bakti’s feet. "But I don't want it by default because my brother is a spineless, pampered idiot who can’t hold a blade."

"You want to train me?" Bakti eyed the wooden sword. "Is this a joke?"

"Pick it up, Bakti," Rajasa commanded, his tone hardening. "If you’re going to be a corpse, at least be a well-trained one. The court won't respect a prince who breathes like he’s running out of air."

"I've got a gaping hole in my side, you jerk," Bakti countered, but he stooped down and gripped the handle. It felt heavy—uncomfortably so.

"Excuses are for the dead," Rajasa said, whipping his own sword through the air with a terrifying whistle. "Guard."

"I don't know how to guard," Bakti muttered, raising the wood clumsily.

Rajasa lunged. The tip of his blade tapped Bakti’s shoulder, then his ribs, then his neck—all in a blur.

"Again," Rajasa barked.

"You’re serious? You're actually going to beat me?" Bakti panted, sweat already stinging his eyes.

"I’m going to make you useful, or I’m going to break you," Rajasa retorted, sweeping Bakti’s legs from under him.

Bakti hit the dirt hard. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?"

"And you’re a liability," Rajasa replied, offering no hand to help him up. "Get up. Again. Faster this time."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Bakti asked, rising slowly, his limbs feeling like lead. "You hate me. You’ve hated me since I got here."

"I hate incompetence more than I hate you," Rajasa said, his voice dropping. "If you die now, the throne goes to a council of vultures. I’d rather face you in a fair fight for the kingdom than watch these bureaucrats pick it clean."

"So, I’m your practice dummy until you get bored?"

"Precisely. Now, watch your footwork. You’re tilting to the left."

The hours bled into each other. Bakti’s lungs burned, his muscles screamed, and his side felt like it was being stitched back together with hot needles. Every time he slumped, Rajasa was there, his sword a relentless, stinging shadow.

"You’re slow," Rajasa hissed.

"I’m... dying," Bakti wheezed.

"Then die standing," Rajasa countered, parrying a desperate swing. "Why are you fighting back now? What changed?"

"I don't... want to be... a puppet," Bakti gasped, finally landing a clumsy blow against Rajasa’s forearm.

Rajasa paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "A puppet? You think you’re in control?"

"I’m starting to think... nobody is," Bakti groaned, wiping blood and sweat from his lip.

"Finally, some wisdom," Rajasa smirked, though his eyes remained cold. "But you’re still a amateur. You have no finesse, no rhythm. You move like a man who’s afraid of his own shadow."

"Maybe I am," Bakti muttered, dropping his arms.

"Look alive," Rajasa suddenly snapped, his demeanor shifting. He pointed toward the heavy iron door at the end of the dungeon.

The door creaked open, and a messenger stepped in, looking pale. "Your Highnesses. The morning court is whispering. The Duke of Wahid has issued a formal challenge."

Bakti’s blood ran cold. "A challenge? To me?"

"He says the Prince is a coward who avoids the traditional duel to prove his fitness to rule," the messenger stammered. "He demands a duel at dawn."

"A duel? With steel?" Bakti looked at the wooden sword in his hand, then at his own trembling fingers.

Rajasa stepped forward, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, predatory curiosity. "Well, brother. Looks like your crash course in survival just reached its final exam."

"The Duke is a master swordsman," Bakti whispered, the reality crashing down on him.

"And he’s an old man with gout," Rajasa said, tossing his own steel blade to Bakti. "Don't disappoint me. If you’re going to die, do it with style."

"I’m not dying," Bakti gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of the real steel. "I’m going to make him pay for every second of this headache."

"Dawn," Rajasa reminded him, heading for the exit. "Don't sleep. You’ll need the terror to keep your reflexes sharp."

Bakti stood alone in the dark, the steel sword feeling heavier than his own life. He looked at the wall, half-expecting the diary to manifest, but there was nothing. No ink. No warnings. Just the crushing silence of the dungeon and the terrifying promise of the sun rising on his own execution.

"Dawn," he whispered to the shadows. "Let's see if I’m as good at dying as they say."