#Chapter 3: Opening a Jail Cell

“Sir! Save me, please!” the boy cried when he saw me, squinting through the sun to look up at me.

 

I immediately saw the admiration and respect in his green eyes, the same I noticed in every young boy when they first saw me.

 

He wiggled in the small space, the sweat from his temple mixing with the tears on his dirty face, looking up at me expectedly. His dirty blonde hair fell in his face, and he was puffing it away in panic as he struggled. He resembled a lost puppy.

 

A chuckle escaped me, and I forgot the sound of my own laughter before that.

 

There was no room for laughter in war, not even with my pack members in the little moments of silence we shared between battles. In the former years, it was nothing but blood and violence, and slaughter soon replaced any shred of laughter. I soon forgot what the feeling of a smile felt like; the feeling of your lips spreading to the edges of my face.The delight of helping a little boy from a hole and not a wounded soldier from my pack was almost too much to handle.

 

I hadn’t felt this relaxed in so long.

 

Flashing a humorous smile at the boy, I crouched down next to him. “Who are your parents? Why are you in my cottage?”

 

“Help me first and I’ll tell you,” the boy demanded, his fat face glowing crimson as he looked at me adamantly with those big admiring eyes. “Deal?”

 

I felt a grin cross my face as I looked back at him amusedly. I was staring into my owneyes from when I was a young boy, hanging out of a window to the palace when I tried to escape court etiquette duties and play with the village kid wolves instead.

 

His irises the same brown and his expression the same rebellious, boyish smugness—my smile nearly faltered. The boy’s long hair, his strong nose, the way I felt instantly relaxed in the child’s presence…

 

As silly as it was, I silently had my wolf pinpoint his scent; it did not read my bloodline. Foolish of me to even entertain the thought of this stranger being my child. Perhaps I wished I was coming home to one.

 

Shrugging off my foolish inquiry, I grabbed the boy’s hands and asked about his parents again anyway.

 

“My father is dead,” the boy stated, no hint of emotion behind the proclamation–just panicked impatience coating his tone. “Hurry!”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you, little guy,” I argued, prioritizing caution over swiftness in aiding his body out. He was quite chubby, and the hole in the wall was quite small. I didn’t want him getting cut or nipped by the stone. I tightened my grip on the boy’s clammy hands and gently pulled.

 

Just as I wriggled his body halfway out, his waist still stuck inside, a woman’s stern voice carried from inside the cottage.

 

“Theodore! Trying to sneak out again?”

 

The boy suddenly thrashed, gripping my hands tighter and pulling his own weight. “Pull me out or I will be punished by a big devil!” His eyes widened even more, the green distinct against the dirt smeared on his face.

 

I chuckled, my efforts to pull him out becoming futile as his panic distracted me. “Who is the big devil?” I probably referred to the King or Queen as that growing up as well. Especially the servant that was tasked with retrieving me after I ran off.

 

Before the boy could answer, his torso, then his chest, shoulders, and head were dragged back inside. The last thing I saw of him were his little hands, and they released mine reluctantly.

**

I stood there for a couple more minutes, perhaps the nosey and bored parts of me intermingling.

 

There was also a slight concern; I knew kids blabbered mere nonsense, but I wanted to make sure the “big devil” he mentioned was not someone hurting him. Then I would be on my way.

 

But as I listened, I heard the voice of the woman again. Her voice was rigid and threatening, and I heard the boy’s cries interweaving with the sounds of her loud reprimands.

 

They were getting progressively louder, and something in my chest didn’t feel right. She sounded so angry, I expected the sound of a slap to come.

 

I stalked around to the cottage door, contemplating. I would make sure the woman was to reprimand the boy properly, then return back home. She may be one of the wives to the servants, or someone that was sold the cottage. Regardless, it was my property.

 

“Please open the door,” I ordered one of the servants behind me.

 

A moment flicked by, and no one moved. Birds chirping was the only response to my demand. I turned to look at the men.

 

“You must have not heard me,” I demanded, my tone sharpening slightly. “Open the door.”

 

One of the men stared back at me in puzzlement. “Why?”

 

I automatically raised an eyebrow, mouth nearly hanging open at the inquiry. “Because it is your job?”

 

“The door has not been opened in four years, my lord,” the servant stated, his forehead wrinkling, as if I just ordered him to go jump off a cliff.

 

“Why not?” I asked incredulously, and now it was my turn to be confused.

 

“Because it was your order four years ago to keep it closed.”

 

The memory came crashing back, violently, as if it impaled me deep as a battle sword.

 

My wedding night that seemed decades ago. The elder’s prophecy that did not end up fulfilled. The woman that drugged me. The deception that fueled my anger enough to help me through battles, at least in the beginning. As the war raged on, I gradually forgot about her and the failed marriage. Rage is no tool in battle; just something that hinders you.

 

She had been locked away all those years while I was forgetting her. Who knew what state she would be in, or if she was alive at all.

 

Why was the boy locked away with her?