Chapter 320: The Price of Weakness

Marrick had watched his friends die. He had watched soldiers he had grown up with fall in battle. He had watched the army he had been given slowly crumble around him. And through it all, he had kept fighting. He had kept leading. He had kept hoping that somehow, against all odds, they would prevail.

They hadn’t.

The final battle had been a disaster. Vrethka’s forces had overwhelmed them. The Harrowhold army had been scattered, broken, crushed. And Marrick had been captured.

He remembered the moment it happened. He had been fighting alongside his men, swinging his sword, trying to rally them. But it had been too late. The enemy had surrounded them. They had been outnumbered, outmatched and outmaneuvered.

Marrick had seen his father fall. He had seen the king dragged away by Vrethkan soldiers. And in that moment, something inside him had broken.

He had tried to reach his father. He had fought harder than he had ever fought before. But it hadn’t been enough. A spear had caught him in the side. A club had struck his head. And then... darkness.

When he had woken up, he was in chains.

The prison had been a small, miserable building on the edge of Vrethka. It had no windows. No ventilation or comfort of any kind. Just stone walls, a dirt floor, and the constant smell of decay.

Marrick had been thrown inside with his father. They had been given no food for the first day. No water for the second. And when they had finally been fed, it was scraps: moldy bread, rotten meat and water that tasted like mud.

The guards had treated them like animals. Worse than animals. They had been beaten for no reason. Humiliated for entertainment. Forced to kneel while their captors laughed.

Marrick had lost count of how many times he had been struck. How many times he had been kicked. How many times he had been forced to watch his father suffer the same treatment.

But the physical pain had been nothing compared to the humiliation. The guards had taken pleasure in reminding them of their place. They had called them kings. They had bowed mockingly. They had laughed as they reminded Marrick that his title meant nothing anymore.

"You’re not a prince," one of them had said. "You’re a prisoner. And prisoners don’t get to act like royalty."

Marrick had wanted to kill him. He had wanted to tear the man apart with his bare hands. But he had been in chains. He had been weak. He had been helpless.

And that helplessness had been the worst part.

Dross had visited them once. The Chief of Vrethka had walked into their prison with a smile on his face, flanked by guards. He had looked at them as though they were insects. Something amusing. Something small.

"You should have known better," Dross had said. "You should have known you couldn’t win."

Marrick had said nothing.

Dross had continued. "Your army is gone. Your territory is mine. Your people are either dead or scattered. And you..." He had smiled. "You are nothing."

He had turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and by the way. Your son fought well. Brave. Stupid. He almost killed some of my men before we captured him."

Those words had been meant as a compliment. But Marrick had heard the mockery beneath them. The implication that his bravery had meant nothing. That his efforts had been wasted. That he had failed.

The days in prison had blurred together. Marrick had lost track of time. He didn’t know how long he had been there. Days? Weeks? It felt like months. It felt like forever!

And then... everything changed.

Marrick remembered it clearly. The moment the noise began. The moment the guards ran. The moment he and his father stepped out of that prison and saw the world turned upside down.

He had watched Darion fight. He had watched the undead tear through Vrethka’s warriors. He had watched the man who had imprisoned them die. He had watched the settlement fall.

And in that moment, something inside Marrick had changed. Something had shifted. Something had clicked into place.

Weakness had consequences.

Losing had consequences.

And sometimes... the people who claimed to love you could be the ones who put you in the position to die.

Marrick looked at his father now. "You sent me there."

The king’s smile faded. "Huh?"

"You sent me into that war."

His father frowned. "You were the king of Harrowhold. It was your responsibility to fight."

"You knew we couldn’t win."

"That is ridiculous."

"You knew."

Marrick’s voice became colder. "You knew what Vrethka was capable of."

His father scoffed. "And what exactly are you accusing me of?"

"You sent me to die."

Silence.

The king stared at his son. "What?"

"You sent your own son into a war you couldn’t win."

Marrick stepped closer. "I was captured because of your decision."

His father immediately became angry. "Watch your mouth."

"I was tortured because of your decision."

"Marrick."

"I was humiliated because of your decision!"

The king’s face hardened. "You’re alive, aren’t you?"

Marrick stared at him. That answer only made his anger worse. "Alive?" He laughed bitterly. "You call this being alive?"

His father shook his head. "You are being ungrateful."

"Ungrateful?"

"Yes." The king stepped closer. "I raised you. I gave you a position. I made you heir. And now that you’ve suffered a little, you stand here blaming me for everything?"

Marrick’s fists tightened. "A little?"

"You were supposed to fight."

"I did!"

"You failed."

Marrick’s eyes widened. There it was. The same arrogance. The same stupidity. Even after everything. His father still didn’t understand.

"You sent me into a battle I wasn’t ready for."

"You were weak."

Marrick stared at him.

The king continued. "You were immature. You were useless."

Something inside Marrick snapped. "You’re right."

His father paused.

Marrick stepped closer. "I was weak." His expression became terrifyingly calm. "But I learned something."

The king frowned. "What?"

"That weakness gets you killed."

Marrick’s hand suddenly shot forward. He grabbed his father’s neck. The king’s eyes widened.

"Marrick—"

CRACK.

Marrick twisted. The king’s body went limp. His son released him. The king collapsed onto the ground. Dead.

Marrick stood over him. He stared at the body. There was no screaming. No regret. No hesitation either. Only silence.

He had killed his own father. His own king. And somehow... he felt nothing.

Marrick slowly looked back toward the battlefield. Toward Darion.

The young Necromancer who had walked into Vrethka alone. The man who had destroyed the people who had imprisoned him. The man who had killed Dross. The man who had shown Marrick exactly what true strength looked like.

Marrick had no intention of fighting him. He had no intention of challenging him. And he certainly wasn’t foolish enough to demand anything from him. If that man wanted him dead, Marrick would die. If that man wanted him to serve, Marrick would serve.

He would gladly place himself under the command of someone who possessed the strength his father never had.

But there was one thing... One thing Marrick wanted. One thing he needed to ask.