Underneath that very same palace, deep underground in the darkest, dampest, most dilapidated dungeon cell, is a man.
A man with a dragon tattoo.
With the man is the same royal family the nation above is grieving for. The King and Queen are kneeling on the floor infront of the man who is holding them captive--the man with the gun. Their daughter, the crown princess, is chained infront of them, out of reach but close enough for her parents to see her trembling with terror and the tears still dripping down her face mingling with blood from a fresh cut that extends down the side of her face.
The man speaks harshly, threatening the royals if they don't answer his questions, but they remain silent. They try to smile reassuringly at their daughter, to calm her, but she sees past their fake smiles to their pale faces and shaking hands. They are as scared as she is.
She whimpers as the man yells at her parents and closes her eyes, trying to drown out his voice and the fear it instills in her. She can feel the danger in the air.
Suddenly everything goes silent, the princess opens her eyes and now the man is holding his gun. Cold, hard metal glinting dangerously in the lowlight--and it's aimed at her parents.
Two sharp bangs echo through the silence and the little girl watches wide eyed as her parents crumple to the ground, their blood flowing down them staining the dirt and rock floor bright red.
The man with the dragon tattoo turns to the princess, he has blood on his face-her parents blood-a stark contrast to the grey dust he is covered in. The lost princess's screams echo through the tunnels, fading before they reach the surface to be heard by those mourning her death. Anyone who could save her.
One week later.
The palace is alive with music and laughter. Brightly clothed people are dancing and feasting--It's a day of celebration for all.
This grieving nation finally has a ruler, a new royal family to lead them and watch over them; today, everyone is joyful.
Deap underground a young guard treks through the catacombs, he marks off another tunnel with a sad sigh. He freezes as a noise reaches him through the tunnels, footsteps heading towards him. He hides himself as a man looms out of the darkness and walks past him with a determined step. All the guard can make out as the man passes him is a tattoo on his arm. A dragon tattoo.
Once the man passes by and all the noises are silent, the guard peaks out. Once he's sure he's safe he heads down the corridor the man exited. He moves faster now, excited and scared at the same time; worried about what he will find--what lies ahead.
At the end of the dark winding tunnel he comes to a thick rusty metal door barring his way. Locked. He inserts a old iron key he pulls from a pocket, and it clicks open loudly in the near perfect silence. He pushes the heavy door open slowly and slips into the room.
On first glance it looks empty, a smallish cell, with rusted iron bars protruding from the walls on all sides. The floor is a mixture of dirt, rocks and stone worn away from hundreds of years of use.
He sighs again deeply, and droops slightly as he goes to turn around to leave, but as he takes one last look around the cell his eyes spot something. Hidden slightly in the corner furtherest away from him, a grey lump on the floor.
He moves closer and whispers softly to it, his eyes wide with anticapation and worry. It moves in responce to his voice and the head of a girl emerges from what he can now see is a pile of old worn clothes.
She looks up at him warily, her face is gray and weary-it looks older than it should-her eyes are empty and lackluster. She looks as dead as someone still alive can. She watches him emotionlessly as he runs closer and kneels infront of her.
The ground around her is stained brown and red, red droplets of blood drip down her frail arms and legs over old scars and new to join the puddle fast forming beneath her. She's covered in scars from her head to her feet. Even her face is marred, there's an old scar running from her hairline down her cheek and continuing down her neck to disappear into her dress.
Her arms and ankles are restricted by heavy iron chains confining her to a one metre radius--if she had the strength to move. The guard unlocks them-with the same iron key he used to unlock the door-to reveal red-raw skin and in some places, pale white bone.
He lifts her carefully into his arms, his face a curious mix of horror and relief-she weighs no more than an infant.
He talks softly to her, reasuring, comforting, trying to keep her calm. She makes no response, just stares straight ahead listlessly as the guard carries her out of the torture room.
As he goes to exit she turns her head to look back at the room, her eyes fixing on a large brown stain in the middle of the dirt stone floor. Her voice is so quiet he barely hears her as she forces the words out her dry throat,
"One day, I will kill them."
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