The Princess's Revenge Chapter 116

Valencia’s POV

The guard at Winston's chamber door stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral. "Alpha Logan, Luna Valencia—Alpha King Winston has instructed me to escort you to the dungeons."

Logan's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "Lead the way."

We followed the guard through the winding corridors, Elias, Ryan, Bastian, and Thomas falling into step behind us. As soon as we were far enough from Winston's chamber, Logan's voice filled my mind through our bond.

What happened in there? What did Winston tell you?

He told me many things, I replied through our link. About your mother, about Winston Ashwood. I paused, organizing my thoughts. But most importantly, he said there's a prisoner in the dungeons. Someone from the Ogden family. He's giving us permission to question him.

Logan's hand tightened around mine. Through our bond, I felt his shock mixed with suspicion.

An Ogden? Here? For how long?

*I don't know,* I admitted. *Winston didn't give me details.*

We walked in silence for a moment, both processing this information. A question had been gnawing at me since the council meeting, and I couldn't hold it back any longer.

*Logan,* I said through our bond, my mental voice uncertain. *Do you think Soren and Elton discovered that I'm the dragon?*

Logan's response came immediately, more cautious this time. *They suspect. But they have no proof. That's why they're being so careful. Logan's mental voice turned hard, almost bitter. If we give them confirmation, if we show even a hint that we can command dragon power, they'll turn on us immediately.*

But wouldn't they want to ally with us? To work together against Ashwood?

Logan's laugh through the mind link was harsh and humorless. No, Valencia. They would never allow an uncontrollable force like that to exist. Think about it—a dragon that could incinerate their armies, destroy their territories in minutes? They'd see it as an existential threat.

The logic was chilling, but it made sense. I felt foolish for even considering that Soren or Elton might be potential allies.

So even if we're fighting the same enemy, I thought, they'd rather eliminate us than risk us becoming too powerful.

Exactly. Logan's voice was grim. Power that absolute, that overwhelming—it terrifies people. They can't control it, can't predict it. So they'd rather destroy it, even if it means weakening themselves against Ashwood.

I shuddered, grateful that I'd kept my mouth shut during the council meeting.

What else did Winston tell you? Logan asked.

He asked me if I loved you.

I felt Logan's surprise ripple through our bond. He what?

He wanted to know if I truly loved you. If I would stand by your side no matter what came. I paused, remembering Winston's expression. I think he's afraid, Logan. Afraid of what will happen to you when Ashwood invades. He told me that Ashwood will target you specifically—not just because you're a threat to his plans, but because killing you would be the ultimate revenge against Winston.

Logan was quiet for a moment. When his voice came again, it was cold.

My father doesn't care about me, Valencia. He cares about his kingdom. About his legacy. Anger bled through our connection. He's a damn selfish bastard who only thinks about what benefits him. He doesn't care about anyone—not my mother, not me, not anyone. He just doesn't want to lose any possible weapon that could protect his precious kingdom.

The bitterness in his voice made my heart ache. Logan...

He's already figured it out, hasn't he? That you're the dragon. Or at least suspects strongly enough to bet on it. Logan's mental voice was matter-of-fact now, resigned. That's why he's telling you all this. Why he's giving you access to an Ogden prisoner. He wants you invested. He wants you to feel obligated to fight for Valdoria, to use your power to protect his kingdom.

I felt a jolt of shock. I hadn't thought of it that way, but now that Logan said it, it made perfect sense. Winston's kindness, his revelations, his permission to question the prisoner—it was all calculated. All designed to make me feel connected to Valdoria's fate, to give me reasons to fight.

You think he's manipulating me?

I think he's doing what he's always done—using people. Logan's voice softened slightly. But that doesn't mean the information he gave you isn't valuable. We can use his manipulation against him. Take what we need and give nothing back.

I nodded, even though Logan couldn't see it. He was right. Whatever Winston's motives, the information about Ashwood and the Ogden prisoner could be crucial.

There's one more thing, I said. Winston told me that his spies reported seeing wounds from lion claws on the bodies of their fellow operatives. He thinks Ashwood might have lion shifter power.

Logan stopped walking so abruptly that I almost stumbled. The guard ahead of us noticed and paused, looking back questioningly.

"Just a moment," Logan said aloud, his voice carefully neutral. Then, through the mind link: Lion shifters? That's impossible. There are no lions on this continent. Only wolves and... and dragons.

That's what I said. But Winston's spy was certain. Which means either Ashwood has acquired power from another continent entirely, or he's found some way to access abilities we don't understand.

Logan's mind raced, I could feel it through our bond.

If Ashwood really has lion power, Logan thought grimly, that would explain how he managed to slaughter the Ogdens. They wouldn't have been prepared for something so unexpected.

Exactly what I thought.

We started walking again, following the guard who had resumed leading us deeper into the palace. The temperature was dropping as we descended. The guard finally stopped at a massive iron door flanked by two heavily armed sentries. "The dungeons, Alpha Logan," he said, bowing slightly. "The dungeon guards will escort you from here."

Logan nodded curtly. The door swung open with a groan of protesting metal, revealing a stone staircase spiraling down into darkness. Two new guards emerged from the shadows, torches in hand.

"Alpha Logan, Luna Valencia," one of them said, his voice echoing in the confined space. "We'll take you to the Ogden prisoner. He's being held in the deepest cells."

We descended into the bowels of the palace. The walls were slick with moisture, and the air smelled of earth and stone.

Torches lined the walls at irregular intervals, casting dancing shadows that made it hard to see clearly. Finally, we reached the bottom. Another corridor stretched before us, lined with cells on both sides. As we walked past, I saw the prisoners—some sleeping, some staring blankly at the walls, a few watching us with hostile eyes.

The cells were surprisingly varied in their conditions. Some were filthy, with refuse piled in corners and prisoners huddled in rags. Others were cleaner, their occupants better dressed and fed. It seemed that even in the dungeons, status and importance determined treatment.

"Here," the guard said, stopping before a cell near the very end of the corridor. "This is the Ogden."

I looked through the bars and froze.

The cell was remarkably clean compared to most of the others we'd passed. The stone floor had been swept, and while there was a faint unpleasant odor—the inevitable result of imprisonment—it wasn't the overwhelming stench of waste and decay that permeated many of the other cells. Someone had been taking care of this prisoner, at least to some minimal degree.

At first, all I noticed was the silver hair, long and flowing past his shoulders. He sat in the corner of his cell, his legs drawn up, his head bowed. Heavy silver chains bound his ankles.

"Here, Alpha," the guard said, stopping before the cell. "The Ogden."

Logan stepped forward, his hand on my shoulder protective. I moved with him, my eyes fixed on the prisoner.

The man's head lifted slowly. And when his face turned toward us, I gasped.

His eyes were purple—the exact same shade as mine. But there was something wrong with them. They were unfocused, staring past us rather than at us.

He was blind.

Despite his sightless eyes, my heart hammered against my ribs. A sense of recognition, of kinship. Like looking into a mirror and seeing family staring back.

The old man's head tilted slightly, as if listening intently. His blind eyes stared in our general direction, but I could tell he wasn't seeing us—he was sensing us somehow.

Then, his voice—rough from disuse but still strong—broke the silence.

"Princess Ophelia?" His voice was full of hope and disbelief. "Is that you?"