In the depths of the isolated fortress, the heavy reinforced oak door swung open with a harsh, grating screech, causing the boy inside to instinctively tense.

Young Vincent shifted further back into the suffocating darkness of his cell, his back pressing against the rough stone wall as the tall, imposing figure at the entrance stepped inside.

"Vincent," the man called out, his voice entirely sharp and devoid of warmth. He halted at the center of the cold space, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he looked into the gloom. "Come out."

From within the shadows, Vincent slowly stepped forward, his bare feet dragging on the dirt floor.

As he approached the center of the room, the bright, unforgiving light pouring through the half- opened door hit his face. It made Vincent wince in pain, and he quickly shielded his eyes with a trembling hand, entirely unaccustomed to the glare after so long in the dark.

"F-Father–" Vincent whispered, his voice cracked and dry from thirst.

"Are you not feeling well?" the man asked, his tone perfectly leveled, as if he were evaluating a piece of property and not a child.

The Marquis eyed the disheveled boy with cold scrutiny. Vincent’s long, dark hair framed his gaunt face in a tangled, matted state.

He was covered in layers of grime and soot, looking exactly like a child who had been locked away and forgotten for days. Deep, violet bags shadowed his eyes, bearing the weight of sleepless nights spent on a freezing stone floor.

Yet, despite his weakness, the boy stood straight, fighting the tremors in his legs as he lowered himself into a weak, but perfectly executed bow before the older man.

"Why did you make yourself look so horrible?" The Marquis muttered under his breath, clicking his tongue in deep disgust as he eyed the boy. "The Emperor is hosting an evening gala, and I am expected to bring you along, unfortunately. The servants will tend to you now, and try to make you look presentable at least. I cannot allow you to ruin my image before the imperial court."

Vincent kept his head lowered, staring at the dust on his father’s polished leather boots. He knew better than to speak out of turn.

"Listen to me closely, Vincent," the Marquis said, his voice dropping into a smooth, icy threat as he stepped closer, forcing the boy to look up. "When we arrive at the palace, you will not dare to act as though you are mistreated. You will smile when it is required of you, and you will speak only when spoken to. Not a soul must see the marks on your skin, lest people grow suspicious and spread baseless rumors about me."

He reached out, his gloved fingers gripping Vincent’s chin with a crushing, painful pressure, forcing the boy’s wide, exhausted eyes to meet his cold stare.

"You are a tool of the house of Devereux," his father whispered sharply. "Nothing more. Your only purpose is absolute, unquestioning obedience. Remember your place, and remember what happens to a disobedient hound. If you let a single slip of tongue ruin my standing in the presence of the court, the consequences when we return to this fortress will make this cell feel like a luxury. Do you understand me? Ensure to do well, and make your parents’ proud."

The relentless conditioning drilled into Vincent, through years of isolation and pain, took hold. His spirit, completely tamed by the ruthless authority before him, bowed to the threat.

"I understand, Father," Vincent whispered hoarsely, his voice devoid of any defiance. "I will be perfect."

Vincent flinched when the man’s hand came down on his shoulder, his small body tensing in anticipation of a blow, but the Marquis only gave him a firm, patronizing pat.

"Very good, Vincent. Very good. Your mother and I knew you’d comply anyways. Now, cheer up, and let us all get ready, hm?"

As his father swept out of the cell, leaving the doors unlatched for the waiting servants, Vincent stared at the empty doorway. As much as the boy wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and sleep for days, he knew he could not. He couldn’t afford to fail them.

After all, it was thanks to Arthur Devereux and his wife that he was no longer a government slave.

To the rest of the empire, he was the fortunate, adopted son of a powerful noble house. To Vincent, they were the architect of his survival.

It did not matter what they did to him in the dark corners of this fortress, because he owed them his very life. He would do exactly what they wanted. He did not mind being used, or broken, or molded into a weapon for their own ambition, as long as they would not abandon him. As long as he had a place to belong, even if that place was a cage.

He was certainly going to work harder to earn their love and their trust. He would make things right between them. This household was going to accept him eventually... if only he could be perfect.

Meanwhile, back in the racing carriage, the poison had reached its core, burning through Vincent’s veins while the ghosts of his childhood clawed viciously at his mind.

His entire body was slick with a cold, deathly sweat, and his muscles spasmed under the agonizing strain of the toxin. The bloody, makeshift silk bandage unraveled slightly as his fingers clamped blindly onto the nearest thing they could find, and that was Penelope’s hand.

His grip was agonizingly tight as he squeezed her palm in his. The violent, desperate action drew fresh, hot blood from his sliced palm, staining them both, but Penelope didn’t pull away. She let him hold her hand, ignoring the bruising pressure of his fingers.

"... Don’t leave me," he muttered in his unconsciousness. The raw, trembling plea in his voice, so entirely different from the stoic, unyielding Marquis he presented to the world, shattered what little was left of Penelope’s composure.

The sound of his vulnerability made her hold on even tighter, wrapping her other hand over his bleeding knuckles.

"I won’t..." she promised, her voice thick with tears but ringing with a fierce, absolute certainty. "I’ll be right here, Vince. I’ll always be here."