A/n: I've been at my grandma's, but if I can help it I will continue to update this story regularly.
He remembered, as a young Warlord, how proud he had been of his Red Jewels. He was the only one his age that encompassed that kind of strength, making him feel different and special. If his father had been around he would've been proud too. His father had always hated him, but that would have changed if he knew how powerful his son was.
Playing with kids his age was difficult, they feared him. So to pass time he would converse with the adults, learning from them as he had once learned to talk from his mother. Loneliness came from having power but he had learned from this same loneliness. He had learned how people could deceive him, and how it was dangerous to open himself to others. Many were after him for his jewels; every court in the land wanted the powerful Red Jeweled Warlord to be their shield.
Shield… sword… power… that is all he ever was all he never would be again. In this dungeon rotting away to nothing, that is all he was now. They would strip him from his Jewels and he would be left with nothing. He could not stand the thought of being powerless, could not bear this loss, it was too great.
Women had loved him, had drunk his power like the richest of wine. He had many mates when he was in his teens, older women and dangerous women. He attracted them all with his good looks. When he was ten he looked fifteen, and now that he was fifteen he looked full grown. With the Red he was a man, more of a man than others. Without it he'd be just a kid again.
He shifted on the hard floor, his shackles raking against the walls. Unable to keep his head up, unable to resist the sleep tugging at his eyes, he gave himself away to dreams.