The harsh clanging of metal as his cell door shakes startles Darius awake. His eyes flick to see Whitburn at the door to his cell. He's saying something and trying to appear to be threatening, but Darius doesn't care to listen.
He yawns lazily, knowing that his threats are meaningless. Nothing the man can say or do will get Darius to betray his country, so he's just wasting his breath.
Whitburn is flanked by two Demacian soldiers and he barks an order to one, who quickly fumbles with the key to the cell before it swings open with a harsh creak. Whitburn approaches, a look of smugness painted across his features that Darius so badly wishes to mop off.
"Sometimes I think you've gone deaf, Noxian, with how little you respond." He says as he kneels beside Darius. His hot breath brushes against Darius's face causing him to jerk back away. Whitburn's fingers snake into his hair and grabs a fistful of it, his fingernails dig into Darius's scalp. "I'm tired of this cold shoulder you're giving me. Your blatant disregard for your own life is growing dull." He slams Darius's head into the cobblestone.
The corners of Darius's vision burn bright white as pain shoots down his spine. He grits his teeth and bites back a grunt of pain, refusing to give Whitburn any satisfaction. "I could kill you now. Your life is in my hands and you don't even care. So loyal. Your brother not so much. He's quite the opposite to you isn't he?"
Fear shoots through his veins and he chokes on his own breath. Draven? It couldn't be. He's brash but he's not an idiot. "Liar." Darius hisses through his gritted teeth.
Whitburn laughs, the sound an obnoxious piercing sound in his ear. "Finally some spark!" He releases his grip on Darius's hair and stands, turning as he does to the two guards standing by the bars still. "He thinks I'm a liar! Why not show him our guest."
Another Demacian wearing similar regalia to Whitburn's steps into view. At his side is another guard, and in between them shackled in similar manacles to his own is his younger brother. Draven. His face is swollen and his lip is cut, but other than that he looks mostly fine. His mouth is gagged tightly with cloth, but even then he's sporting his signature cocky smile through it and Darius can't help the rage that builds in his chest. The idiot. The absolute idiot. He knows better. Yet here he is not even looking ashamed. Every fiber of Darius's being is screaming to shake him, to scold him like Draven's a child in trouble and Darius is the disappointed parent. "That's not my brother." Darius lies, desperately trying to convince even himself that this wasn't happening right now.
Whitburn laughs again. "Your eyes betray you, Noxian." Whitburn kicks Draven's legs out from under him and places his boot on his face. Darius can't help but instinctively lurch forward, only stopped by the shackles holding him back.
"He's not even a soldier. Not anymore. Are you really going to stoop to harming a non-combatant? Can you Demacians live with that on your conscience?"
"He's killed dozens of our scouts on his quest to rescue you. I will sleep easy tonight knowing we have done everything to protect our kingdom from you brutes." Whitburn says and to emphasize his point he kicks Draven in the ribs. Draven grunts in pain before laughing maniacally. Of course the dumbass thinks this is a funny situation to be in.
Whitburn motions for the other fancily dressed soldier to come into the cell. "Here is how this is going to work, Noxians. I am going to ask you a question, and if I don't get a satisfying answer, this one," Whitburn grinds his boot into Draven's face for emphasis. "May not leave this cell alive."
Darius stares at Draven's face, blood spills from his nose and pools onto the floor. Whitburn's cousin brandishes a sword, threateningly. Somehow Draven is still smiling. His eyes drift to meet Whitburn's. His shoulders are relaxed, still sporting his smug smile. "You are going to suffer by my hand. I will carve the skin off your ugly mug and savor your screams." Darius's voice is calm, unshaken. His gaze is colder than the true ice of the Freljord. "I will end your life you Demacian pig. You hypocritical tyrants."
Whitburn laughs once more. "Your threats may have once held weight, but now, in your position, they are just pathetic." He pauses, waiting to see if Darius is done. He seems to be savoring in their torment. "Now, let's begin-"
"Sir!" A feminine voice interrupts. Neither Darius nor Whitburn had heard the soldier approach, too distracted by each other. Whitburn turns around to see a footsoldier, her eyes wide in apparent fear. She has a pretty face and a scar across her eye. Bright red hair pokes out from beneath a helmet. Darius almost does a double take when he suddenly recognizes her. Katarina Du Couteau?
He's thankful that Whitburn was looking at Katarina instead of Darius so he misses Darius's look of shock. "I am busy, soldier, what could it possibly be."
"There's a riot going on in the upper dungeons. The Noxians we've been holding on the first floor somehow got out, and they have weapons, they're slaughtering the soldiers in their sleep-" She's talking fast, almost stumbling over her words. She's making herself look small, scared, like a kicked puppy.
It's convincing to Whitburn who turns to one of the guards. "Go handle this. NOW." He nods, dashing out of the prison cell with half of the soldiers that had been standing around outside following with him. Only Katarina, Whitburn, the cousin, and two other grunts remain. Whitburn waits until they're gone before he gives a mighty kick to Draven's side. "This is your doing isn't it? Of course it is, your capture was too easy, I should have known! How did those soldiers get out? The girl who brought you in did it, didn't she? Where is she?" Whitburn rants as he grabs Draven by the neck before slamming him into the ground. The entire time Draven just laughs maniacally. His eyes glint with mischief as blood pools from his mouth over the cloth gag as Whitburn abuses him like an angry toddler would a toy. Whitburn drops him on the ground and turns to his cousin. "Find that girl. The one who 'captured' this idiot. I want her head on a spike. You should have seen this trap coming, you're a disgrace to our lineage for letting this happen. You want to make the Mournflame name hold as much weight as ours, then prove it and fix this mess!"
Katarina's demeanor suddenly changes. She stops pretending to be the meek scared grunt soldier and straightens her shoulders, a smile gracing her lips as Whitburn scolds his cousin. She reaches into her boots and pulls out two daggers and charges at the two. The cousin, Mournflame, sees this and quickly dashes forward with a shield to defend Whitburn. The daggers clink off the metal and she leaps backwards gracefully.
He doesn't have time to counterattack as outside the cell a green blur collides with a soldier, sending him flying down the hall with a sickening grunt. It's a soldier in Demacian garb cloaked in familiar green flames. They're wielding a sword that collides with the second grunt's shield, the strength of the blow cracking the metal.
"It's that witch!" Whitburn declares. He dashes forward, colliding his gauntleted fist with the soldier.
They stumble back, their helmet flies off in the impact. Standing there, reeling from the blow, engulfed in green flames and wiping blood from her nose, is Eryn Mooreheart. Her dark curls cascade down her back as they're freed from the helmet. Her dark eyes are alight with rage that Darius has never seen before in her. Her green flames flicker as the petricite banishes them for a moment, but they quickly reignite. She holds the sword at the ready. "This is your only chance to surrender. I won't show mercy, not to you."
Whitburn laughs. "I already bested you once, little mage, and you don't even have your Noxian to protect you this time."
She quirks an eyebrow as her flames gather in her one hand. She flicks her wrist and the flame springs from her hands between the bars of the cells, and towards Darius. Whitburn roars with anger as he slams his gauntleted fist into her, causing her to stumble back and the flames still around her to fade away, but it's too late. The flames wash over Darius and now he's the one who's chuckling to himself. The green flames invigorate his body, and when he lurches forward against the shackles they break like they were made of wet paper. He stands, free of his chains.
"Whitburn." Darius calls and the Demacian looks over his shoulder at him. He can see the slight bit of panic in his eyes. Next to Darius, Draven who is also awash in green flames, flips to his feet and rips off the manacles with as much ease. Darius rolls his shoulders, listening to them crack as he puts up his fists, fire alight in his eyes. "You are going to regret opposing me."