Blind To Her Lies

Vyan watched the love of his life twirl at the center of the dance floor in the arms of another man at the very debutante ball she initially promised to attend with him.

With smiles as dazzling as the ballroom chandelier, they waltzed through the crowd, leaving onlookers swooning in their wake. 

But for Vyan, the sight was like a punch to the gut and a dagger to the heart.

He refused to believe it at first, brushing off the whispers of his fellow knights like pesky mosquitoes. But curiosity got the best of him, and he snuck into the banquet hall inconspicuously, only to come face-to-face with the harsh truth.

Iyana had sworn to attend the debutante ball solo after explaining to him why she couldn't go with Vyan. 

Yet here she was, cozying up to none other than the Crown Prince of Haynes. Disappointment tasted bitter on Vyan's tongue as he quietly slipped away, his heart bleeding and his mind reeling.

As he tossed and turned throughout the night, replaying every cherished moment with Iyana like a broken record, he convinced himself like a fool that she must have some reason behind this. 

Little did he know the worst was yet to come.

"Hey, scar-face, why the no-show at morning training? Sir Chris is fuming," Paul jeered with his cronies snickering like hyenas in the background.

Vyan brushed past them, the nickname 'scar-face' a familiar sting he had grown accustomed to thanks to a pesky scar on his forehead.

"Tch, that washout asshole," Paul gritted out, his face fuming with indignant anger. "He thinks he's all that just because he was Lady Iyana's personal knight before." He hollered, "Hey, loser, did you hear the good news? Lady Iyana is getting married!"

Before Paul could finish his victory lap, he was harshly pressed up against the wall, the back of his head throbbing, and a hand was almost choking him by the chin.

He almost wet his pants when he met Vyan's glaring eyes which were glowering like he was possessed by a demon.

"What. Did. You. Say?" Vyan's voice sliced through the air like a razor-sharp dagger, his grip tightening around Paul's neck with each word.

"I, um, uh," Paul stuttered, his eyes wide with fear.

Vyan's fingers dug into Paul's skin mercilessly. "Repeat it. Right now." 

"I... I said... Lady Iyana is getting married," Paul squeaked out.

In an instant, Vyan released his hold, causing Paul to crumple to the floor, gasping for air. 

"It's impossible," Vyan muttered, his mind reeling with disbelief.

With a heart heavy, he sprinted from the scene, adrenaline pumping through his veins like wildfire. 

"This can't be true," he repeated to himself like a mantra. "You said I was the only one you liked... Why did you lie? Why didn't you tell me about it?"

He followed an instinctual pull to the garden behind the manor, where he knew Iyana would be. Somehow, he always sensed her presence nearby.

As he stumbled upon the scene of Iyana laughing with her golden-haired suitor, his once-colorful world was engulfed in black. 

But amid the despair, a realization dawned.

"Oh," he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. "She looks happy."

He watched them, his eyes hollow, his heart shattered. She was laughing as she talked to the prince, and he knew better than anyone else that there were not many people in the world who could make her smile.

Isn't that what matters? Her happiness? he questioned, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

I never dared to dream of being anything more than her knight. So why should I be upset?

Forcing a smile onto his lips, he made a silent vow to congratulate her the next time they met. 

Tears blurred his vision as he bit his lip, determined not to disturb the blissful couple with his pain.

As Vyan turned to leave the garden, a searing pain ripped through his chest. Black liquid oozed from his lips and his vision swam with agony. His gaze dropped, and there it was—a sword forged from darkness sticking out from his body. 

With a painful gasp, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"My lady...?" he managed to croak, his voice barely above a whisper.

Iyana's sinister smile was the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole, his consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers.

When he came to, he found himself pinned to the ground like a common criminal, the weight of three imperial soldiers pressing down on him. 

Confusion clouded his mind as he tried to piece together what had happened.

The pain in his chest was gone, replaced by a surreal numbness. Meanwhile, the prince he had seen earlier was on his knees, tears streaming down his face as he clutched a bleeding shoulder.

"Oh, my God, Iyana! What has your knight done? He attacked Prince Izac!" Sienna's shrill voice pierced his ear.

"I-I didn't!" Vyan protested immediately against the accusation. After all, he was at the back of the garden, and then... Iyana had stabbed him.

His gaze shifted to Iyana, who had been conversing with her sister. But when their eyes met, all he saw was pure contempt and disgust in those once-beloved violet orbs.

At that moment, the pieces fell into place like a cruel puzzle. The truth stared him in the face—stark and unforgiving.

It wasn't that everyone else was blind to the witch's lies—it was only him who was fooled. 

———

Huddled in the depths of the dungeon, Vyan pondered about the incidents of this morning.

Why had Iyana done him dirty like that? It was a predicament wrapped in a mystery, sprinkled with betrayal. Even if she could perform witchcraft and hid it well from him for four years, he had been as loyal as a puppy chasing her tail.

The creak of the cell door interrupted his brooding, and a familiar voice cut through the darkness like a knife. "Well, well, well. Guess whose life has reached the end of its road?" 

Vyan couldn't muster the energy to grace the heir of the marquess title with a glance and retorted, "I hope it's yours."

"Whoa, attitude much? Isn't it a bit late in the game to be bringing the sass?" Lyon chuckled, the sound grating on Vyan's last nerve like sandpaper on raw skin.

Normally, Vyan played the silent stoic, enduring Lyon's torment like a seasoned veteran. After all, it wasn't his first rodeo in the cellblock. But tonight? 

Tonight, he just couldn't be bothered. Lyon could kill him, for all Vyan cared.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," Lyon shrugged. "Because I'm here with some news that's sure to ruin your beauty sleep. Prince Izac wasn't too pleased with you stabbing his shoulder. So, he's ordered your head on a platter bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Prince Izac? The second prince?" Vyan's head snapped up at the mention.

Lyon raised an incredulous eyebrow, unimpressed by Vyan's sudden curiosity. "Oh, so that's what gets you to lift up your head?" he sneered. "Yes, the guy you decided to attack like an idiot because of your stupid jealousy happens to be none other than the second prince, Izac. You are lucky it wasn't the crown prince, pal. Otherwise, you would have been chopped into half by now, no questions asked."

"Oh, so she wasn't with the crown prince," Vyan muttered, realizing his misunderstanding.

"Are you even listening to me?" Lyon's frustration boiled over, and he delivered a swift kick to Vyan's chest, sending him crashing into the wall. "Is that how you show respect to your betters?"

"You just told me I'm getting executed. So forgive me if I'm not feeling particularly respectful," Vyan shot back, his defiance a last flicker of flame in the darkness of his despair. 

After all, what did it matter how he treated Lyon? He had only a few hours to live, anyway.

"Wow, the silent knight finally grows a backbone," Lyon scoffed. "Where was all this bravado for the past five years?"

"Locked away out of respect for my master," Vyan shot back, his voice heavy with bitterness.

Lyon's mocking laughter echoed through the dungeon. "Your master couldn't care less about you. She didn't even lift a finger to stop His Highness from slapping a death sentence on your sorry ass."

Vyan's heart clenched at the confirmation of Iyana's true nature. 

She never cared, did she? 

"Since you are not too keen on listening to me… someone, fetch me my brass knuckles!" Lyon ordered, his eyes glinting with sadistic glee. 

"Before you meet your maker, let's have one last hurrah, shall we? Maybe I will even impress His Highness with my creative punishment," he chuckled darkly.

"Be my guest," Vyan muttered, bracing himself as the first blow landed. "Just get it over with."

———

Vyan's body throbbed with agony, every inch of him screaming after Lyon's relentless torture.

"I want to die..." The thought echoed through his mind like a relentless drumbeat, a desperate plea to escape the torment of his existence. He couldn't bear another second in this hellhole.

His eyes drifted to the cold wall of his cell.

"Should I bang my head on the wall until I bleed out..." he murmured, the words barely audible even to himself. "I would rather end it myself than let them do it for me."

Summoning the last ounce of his strength, he began to drag himself towards the wall, his mind consumed by desperate thoughts of escape… of release.

But just as he reached the threshold of the afterlife, a shadow loomed outside his cell, freezing him in his tracks.

"Were you not done—" The words caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon the woman he had once worshiped like a goddess.

Under the dim light, she appeared not as the angel he had once believed her to be, but as a ruthless demon, her true colors laid bare for him to see.

For the first time, Vyan saw her for who she truly was—an evil sorceress who had betrayed the very person she claimed to love. 

"If you had asked, I would have laid down my life for you," he spat, his voice devoid of the warmth and adoration it once held. "But after what you've done to me, how dare you show your face?"

He waited for her response, his heart clinging to a sliver of hope that perhaps there was some explanation, some justification for her actions. 

Please… anything… just tell me you didn't—

But as she burst into a cruel fit of laughter, that tiny glimmer of hope shattered like glass, leaving nothing but a hollow of the person he once was.