Chapter 5

The dim light of the room flickered, casting long shadows across the cold, metallic walls. Syn lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't quite pin down. The air was thick with tension, a silent battle of wills between him and the woman who held him captive. Vera, with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue, was a force to be reckoned with. But Syn was no ordinary prisoner, and this was no ordinary prison.

"Dinner's ready," Vera announced, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. She snapped her fingers, and the heavy door slid open with a soft hiss. A woman with long, flowing white hair entered, pushing a trolley laden with food. She was dressed in a crisp uniform, her hat pulled low over her face, obscuring her features. But Syn didn't need to see her face to know that she was different. There was something about the way she carried herself, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly as she arranged the plate and cutlery on the small table near the forcefield.

"I'm not hungry," Syn replied casually, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. He didn't bother to look at the food, though the aroma wafting through the air was enough to make his stomach growl in protest. He had learned long ago that showing weakness in front of Vera was a mistake he couldn't afford to make.

Vera, however, was not one to be deterred. With a flick of her wrist, she deactivated the forcefield just long enough to slide the plate through before reactivating it. The barrier hummed back to life, sealing Syn in once more. He watched the plate from the corner of his eye, noting the generous portions. It was a clear ploy—more food meant more time for him to consider his next move. But Syn wasn't about to fall for it.

"Gave up?" Vera cocked her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I thought you were going for the leap again."

Syn rolled over on the bed, turning his back to her. "Stop treating me like your plaything," he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. But his mind was elsewhere, analyzing the white-haired woman who had just left the room. She wasn't just another servant; that much was clear. Her movements were too deliberate, her presence too charged. Syn had seen enough of the world to recognize someone who was hiding something—or perhaps, hiding from something.

The real reason he hadn't made a move to escape was because of her. The air around her was different, charged with a quiet intensity that set her apart from the usual grunts Vera employed. She had kept her head down, her face obscured by the brim of her hat, but Syn had caught the faint tremble in her hands as she arranged the plate. It wasn't the nervous shake of someone out of their depth; it was the tremor of someone holding back, restraining themselves from acting on a deep-seated anger.

Syn's mind raced. But why would Vera bring her here? The answer was obvious: Vera was playing a game, and Syn was the pawn. She wanted him to make a move, to leap out of the forcefield in a desperate attempt to escape. And when he did, the white-haired woman would be there, ready to strike. It was a test, a way for Vera to assert her dominance and remind Syn that he was still under her control.

The sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain pulled Syn from his thoughts. Vera was sitting at the small table, enjoying her meal with the elegance of someone who had all the time in the world. She glanced at him, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock concern. "You fought eleven of my soldiers all alone to save that stupid princess. You must be exhausted."

Syn didn't respond. He knew better than to engage in her mind games. But Vera wasn't done.

"And don't forget," she continued, taking a delicate bite of her food, "your visitors are going to be even more tiresome."

Syn smirked, though he didn't turn to face her. "I know. They'll be a pain. So I have a plan."

Vera raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What plan?"

"Why would I tell you?" Syn shot back, his tone laced with sarcasm. "And please take away the food. I don't want it to spoil."

Vera's smirk widened. "Then you shall eat it, or it will get wasted."

Syn clenched his jaw. He hated wasting food, a lesson ingrained in him from years of hardship and survival. Reluctantly, he sat up and reached for the plate, his movements slow and deliberate. He could feel Vera's eyes on him, watching his every move, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.

As he ate, the room fell into an uneasy silence. Vera finished her meal, and the white-haired woman returned to clear the table. Syn watched her closely, noting the way her hands still trembled, the way her shoulders tensed as she moved. She was a mystery, one he couldn't afford to ignore.

Once the trolley was gone, Vera stood and walked over to Syn's side of the forcefield. "Hey, Syn," she said, her voice soft and sweet. "Look at me."

Syn didn't budge. He remained seated on the bed, his back to her, his focus on the plate in front of him. "Stop bugging me. You're annoying. Go away."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, to Syn's surprise, Vera turned and walked back to her bed. She wrapped herself in her blanket and began to weep, her sobs soft and pitiful.

Syn rolled his eyes. "Stop acting," he said flatly. "When someone is really crying, their sniffs last longer than one second."

Vera's sobs grew louder, more dramatic. Syn could hear the falseness in her voice, the calculated way she was trying to manipulate him. But he wasn't falling for it. Instead, he finished his meal, savoring each bite despite the tension in the air.

Eventually, Vera's fake crying subsided, and the room fell silent once more. Syn glanced at the contract paper lying on the small table near the forcefield. It was a reminder of the deal he had made. He wondered if he should cancel it, if doing so would deactivate the forcefield and give him a chance to escape. But Vera's words echoed in his mind: "What do you think I'll do to you if I get my hands on you?"

Syn knew better than to underestimate her. The years of pent-up anger, the desire for revenge—it was all there, simmering beneath the surface. If he made a move now, without a plan, he would be playing right into her hands. For now, he would wait, bide his time, and figure out his next move. The Kingdom's soldiers in the prison were counting on him, and he couldn't afford to let them down.

As the lights dimmed and the cell grew darker, Syn lay back on the bed, his mind still racing. The game was far from over, and he was determined to come out on top. But first, he needed to understand the players—especially the white-haired woman who had entered his life so unexpectedly. She was a wildcard, a variable he couldn't ignore. And in a game of shadows, even the smallest variable could change everything.