He regarded the figure in front of him thoroughly. The white linen shirt hung loosely from the person's muscular frame, its open collar revealing a hint of dark chest hair. As he lifted his gaze, it met a pair of eyes staring intently back at him – two pitch-black orbs mirroring the gloominess and dread he felt inside. He found the sight before him strangely alien.

"Who are you?", he uttered his thoughts aloud and waited, as if expecting an answer. Naturally, none came. Thomas took one last glimpse at the man before he tore his eyes away from his reflection, the feeling of apprehension spreading gradually.

Soliloquising, huh? Great. It is evident then.

I'm going bonkers. Once and for all.

Be at the dungeon at ninth bell, Father had ordered the night before. Even though he had strained himself to sound as indifferent as ever, he couldn't quite conceal his excitement. And he had every right to feel this way - it was his son's eighteenth natal day after all. Each and every Void looked forward to this crucial point in their lives, counting down the days, even. And now the Prince himself was granted the honour to finally unfold his true nature, the epitome of his race's legacy.

But Thomas couldn't exactly share the enthusiasm.

In fact, he hated it. Despised it with every fibre of his being. He had dreaded the advent of this day for as long as he could remember, and now it was here. And there was nothing Thomas could do to escape his fate – like one couldn't prevent sunrise in the mornings and sunset in the evenings. So, instead of prolonging the inevitable any longer, he adjusted the ebony vest he slipped on a few minutes ago and threw on his robe, a dark crimson of colour. He didn't care to check his appearance as he composed himself and stalked out of his chambers, his trained walk giving off calmness and pride – contrasting the turmoil inside his head.

Thomas descended the seemingly infinite spiral stairways, shortening the distance to a place he usually avoided at all costs with every step he took. The only sounds echoing through the hallways were the tap tap tap of his reinforced leather boots. The noise didn't overlap the deafening thoughts inside his head though, much to his dismay.

Wrong. This is wrong. So wrong.

This is who you are, Thomas. You can't allow yourself to be such a weakling, you're the Prince for heaven's sake!

Daylight dwindled with each floor he left behind. He reached a level that must have been right above the basement, its only source of light provided by several torches attached to the massive walls. He gathered all his courage and took a deep breath before setting about the last flight of steps, ignoring the conflicted thoughts. Thomas caught sight of a figure, presumably waiting for his arrival.

"Your Grace," the guard greeted him with a deep and respectful bow, his eyes black as night. Thomas responded with a slight nod of his head. The man fumbled with the lock of the heavy gate and once it was opened, he led the way to Thomas' assigned cell. Although they passed a great number of a cells – too many to count – the dungeon was weighed down by an eerie silence. Thomas shuddered and it wasn't due to the low temperature of this place.

The cell was located at the very end of the corridor. The guard unlocked the door and turned the handle, stepping aside for the Prince to make his way inside. Before he could do so, the man handed Thomas a torch. "He is one of the youngest," he spoke up, a certain sentiment lacing his voice –envy maybe? "You're going to enjoy this, your Grace." Thomas did his best to deter himself from flinching at the words of this man.

The youngest are the greatest gift of all - his Mentor had told him once during class - for their spirits are strong and hard to break. Not many are granted this privilege.

But he was. Because he was the goddamn he didn't even want it.

Nope, I'm certainly not going to enjoy this, thank you very much.

He thought of the person that awaited him inside this cell. The only purpose of the human's life was living up to this moment. Thomas assumed that the boy had been assigned to him ever since they discovered the poor bastard. Probably even told him what an honour it was to be tortured by freaking royalty. One thing was certain: The boy dreaded this at least as much as he did.

Thomas took a step into the darkness, the flames illuminating the small space and casting shadows onto the walls. As he took another one, he heard the door clicking shut and he didn't need to turn around to know that the guard hadn't followed him inside. Gulping, Thomas dared to examine the presence in front of him closely.

What he saw took him completely by surprise.

Thomas was not going to lie; he expected a frightened to death human, trembling like a trapped animal. Instead, the view in front of him bared no sign of fear. Although his hands and feet were chained up in a way to make his body form an X, his straight posture and head held high made the boy almost looked intimidating. Strands of dirty blond hair covered parts of his left eye and, oddly enough, he itched to tuck them behind his ear. Though Thomas was sure the captive would have killed him right there for if he had done that. He fixed his gaze on two amber-coloured eyes boring into his, revealing one prominent emotion: a deep-rooted, blazing hatred that made Thomas worry about burning himself by looking any longer.

And this rage was directed at him.

Even though he didn't even know him.

He has every right to hate me, Thomas thought, I'm the reason he's in this mess.

Years and years of training led up to this moment, having mastered the fine craft of psychological torture to perfection. And now he simply couldn't do it.

The blonde raised his eyebrow at the Prince, assumedly questioning his lack of words. Thomas took one last look at the boy before turning around and rushing out of the cell, heading back for his chambers.