Regis’s laugh sounded maniacal to Cas. He shuddered but held his ground. Even if the man was mad, he wasn’t going to roll over and die without a fight. From what he could tell, he had the advantage now. The rebel leader’s weapon was still embedded in his arm, and he had managed to get on his feet with enough distance between them to brace himself for another attack. If the older man tried to come at him again, he was going to be ready. He just needed to last long enough to find a second chance to go for the open window anyway.

When Regis went for the chair, the prince’s eyes widened. The rebel was craftier than he’d thought, but it wasn’t over yet. He eyed the splintered pole in his hand. It looked like he was going to try to lunge at him like the rod was a spear. He just had to dodge the first strike and throw a blow in return once the older man was within reach. Feeling more confident with the plan he’d come up with, he tensed his legs to jump to the side like a matador with a bull, but just as Regis launched himself at him, they both froze as Iris jumped in the middle of the fight.

Cas stared at her in shock. He’d thought she was just pretending to care when she’d said she wouldn’t let her father kill him, but it was starting to seem like she’d been telling the truth after all. Of course, that didn’t mean she was his ally, but at least for now, she’d proven that she wasn’t on board with the leader’s decision to have him killed. Or so he thought. As Regis said that his execution was only a few hours away and she didn’t balk, his short-lived hope was dashed, and he averted his gaze, breathing heavily from a mixture of adrenaline and exertion. She had probably intervened to keep her father safe now that they were about to brawl on a more level playing field.

He watched in dismay as Regis covered up the window with a more secure fastening and left the room with his daughter in tow. There went his chance of getting out of his prison before the rebels killed him. In the quiet of the basement, he sank to his knees, suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of what had just happened. He’d been within seconds of escaping, but his captor had found him, beaten him, and left him to await a grisly fate at the hands of the crown’s enemies. With only a few hours left and his only way out sealed with a padlock, he didn’t have another way to get out. He was trapped unless, by some miracle, his father’s soldiers found him before he was murdered.

[color=#b97703][i]Fat chance,[/i][/color] he thought dismally, sucking in his breath as his injured arm smarted. For a few minutes, he’d forgotten about the pain, but now that there were no more distractions, he was aware of how badly he’d been injured. He glanced down to examine the damage. In the dark, it was difficult to see anything other than the outline of the grip but knowing that there was a knife in his flesh made him feel sick. He rocked back on his heels, unsure what to do. It wasn’t like he had a first aid kit lying around to treat the puncture—not that he would have known how to use it. He didn’t know the first thing about taking care of serious injuries.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him. It didn’t matter anyway. He was going to be dead in a few hours, so there was no reason to try to do anything about the gash. He wouldn’t even see tomorrow, let alone enough days to heal from something this severe. [color=#b97703][i]Might as well get the damn knife out,[/i][/color] he winced as the injury sent another wave of pain through his arm and torso. Reaching up, he grabbed the blade by the grip and took a deep breath just before giving it a sharp tug. As it slid loose, a whimper escaped his lips, and he gritted his teeth to keep from making a sound loud enough for the rebels upstairs to hear. Removing the pocketknife hurt more than he’d thought it would.

He tossed the weapon aside and leaned his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to will the pain to pass. A few seconds passed, but instead of the discomfort easing up, he startled at the feeling of something warm flowing down his arm. [color=#b97703]“Shit, shit, shit,”[/color] he hissed, hurriedly pressing his opposite hand down over his bicep. Too late, he discovered that pulling the blade out had been a bad idea. Now, the open wound was freely bleeding, painting streams of crimson down the length of his forearm.

[color=#b97703][i]Maybe the rebels won’t kill me,[/i][/color] he thought morbidly, his heart pounding as his hand came away coated in viscous blood. [color=#b97703][i]They can’t do it if I bleed out in my cell first… God, what a way to go…[/i][/color]