The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 290: Descending to the Dungeons

The dungeons beneath the palace were cold even by Nevareth standards, a deliberate choice in their construction. Stone walls wept with condensation that froze before it could drip, creating long icicles that hung like prison bars made of frost. The air tasted of metal and despair.

From deep within, voices echoed. Angry. Demanding. Entitled.

"Where is she?" Kael Ravencrest’s voice carried through the corridors, bouncing off stone. "What has that fire bitch done with our sister?"

"We demand to speak with the Regent Empress!" Damon added, his tone pitched to intimidate. "This is an outrage! We have rights! We are nobility!"

They’d been making this noise for the better part of an hour, ever since the guards had separated them into individual cells. Shouting threats. Demanding answers. Acting as though their family name still carried weight, as though they weren’t prisoners accused of kidnapping, torture, and human trafficking.

The guards ignored them. They’d been given specific orders: let the Ravencrests scream themselves hoarse. The Emperor would deal with them personally.

Footsteps echoed from the entrance, measured, unhurried.

The shouting stopped.

Because even through stone and shadow, that presence was unmistakable. Cold and vast and absolutely certain, the way winter itself was certain.

Soren Nivarre descended the stairs with the casual grace of someone visiting a garden rather than a dungeon. No guards flanked him, he needed none. His blonde hair caught what little light filtered down, and his eyes... his eyes reflected nothing. Just empty, arctic ice.

The dungeon guards immediately dropped to one knee, fists over hearts. "Your Majesty."

"Rise." Soren’s voice carried easily despite its quietness. He continued walking, deeper into the prison, until he stood before the row of cells where the Ravencrest brothers waited.

Kael and Damon had both moved to the bars, their earlier bravado crumbling like frost in sunlight. They bowed, awkward, hasty, their movements stiff with barely concealed fear.

"Your Majesty," Damon managed. "We, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. If we could just speak with—"

"If you have any problems with how Isolde was treated," Soren interrupted gently, "you can discuss them with me. Directly."

His smile was pleasant. Polite. Absolutely terrifying.

The brothers exchanged glances. Neither spoke.

"Excellent." Soren moved past Kael’s cell first, his attention fixing on Damon. The older brother. The one who’d think himself smarter, more capable of manipulation.

He would break first.

Soren stopped directly before Damon’s cell, close enough that the prisoner could see every detail of his face, the calm composure, the slight curve of his lips, the complete absence of mercy in his pale eyes.

"Let’s talk about your business ventures," Soren said pleasantly. "The trafficking scheme. Walk me through how it worked."

Damon swallowed hard. "Your Majesty, I, we were following Isolde’s orders. She organized everything. We were just—"

"Just what? Just innocent participants? Just following along?" Soren tilted his head. "You expect me to believe you had no agency? No choice? That you were somehow victims in all this?"

"We didn’t want to, she’s our sister, we couldn’t refuse her, "

"Fascinating." Soren’s expression didn’t change. "So you’re telling me you kidnapped, starved, and tortured an innocent woman because your sister suggested it? That you planned to sell her to traffickers purely out of familial obligation?"

"It wasn’t like that, "

"Then what was it like, Damon?" The question came soft, almost curious. "Explain it to me. Make me understand how three grown adults decided that destroying a young woman’s life was an acceptable course of action."

Damon’s mouth opened and closed. Words tumbled out, justifications, excuses, attempts to minimize his role and shift blame. Everything was Isolde’s fault. Everything was circumstance. They’d been backed into a corner, had no choice, were protecting their family’s interests,

Soren listened with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world.

Then, quietly: "It seems you don’t have anything meaningful to say."

The temperature dropped.

Not gradually. Not with warning. It simply plummeted, as though someone had opened a door directly into the heart of winter and invited it inside.

The air turned sharp enough to cut. Guards backed away instinctively, their breath misting before their faces. Frost began crawling across the stone walls, spreading like crystalline veins.

And Damon’s hands, gripping the cell bars, began to freeze.

"Your Majesty—" The words choked off as ice crept across his fingers, beautiful and deadly, transforming flesh to something brittle and blue.

It spread slowly. Deliberately. From fingertips to knuckles to palms, encasing each hand in a prison of ice that gleamed in the torchlight like sculpture.

Damon tried to pull away. Couldn’t. His hands had frozen to the bars, stuck fast, and the ice kept spreading. Up his wrists. Toward his forearms. Turning skin black beneath the crystalline shell as flesh died, cells rupturing from the cold, blood freezing in the veins.

"Please—" Damon’s voice cracked. "Please, I can’t feel them, I can’t feel my hands—"

"No," Soren agreed mildly. "You can’t. The tissue is dead. Necrotic. Even if I thaw them now, you’ll lose everything past the wrists." He stepped closer, his smile never wavering. "But I’m not going to thaw them. Not yet."

The ice crept higher. Past wrists. Halfway to elbows.

Damon screamed.

Soren watched with the detached interest of a scholar observing an experiment. "Before we continue, I need to ask you something. About Mira." His voice remained conversational despite the horror unfolding before him. "What exactly did you and your brother do to her? And please, Damon, be specific."

"Nothing! We didn’t—"

"Are you fucking lying to me?" The pleasant façade cracked for half a second, revealing something vast and cold beneath. "Are you actually lying to me right now? After everything?"

The ice surged forward, racing up Damon’s arms with vicious speed. It swallowed his elbows, his biceps, reaching for his shoulders like hungry fingers.

"We—she—" Damon could barely form words through his panic. "It was just, we didn’t think—"

"Those filthy hands of yours aren’t needed." Soren’s voice dropped to something almost gentle. "In fact, I think the world would be better off if they never touched anything again."

He turned away, leaving Damon with arms frozen black to the shoulders, the man’s screams echoing off stone as he stared at the dead weight hanging from his body.

Soren approached Kael’s cell instead.

Kael had pressed himself against the far wall, as far from the bars as possible, his face drained of color. He’d watched everything. Seen his brother’s hands turn to blackened ruin. And now the Emperor stood before his cell, wearing that same pleasant smile.

"Your turn," Soren said. "Unless you’d like to save us both time and simply tell me everything now?"

Kael’s mouth worked soundlessly.

"I know about the weapons," Soren continued conversationally. "The smuggling operation. The enchanted blades you’ve been funneling to dissident factions across Nevareth." He leaned against the bars, completely relaxed. "I know about the storage locations in the northern provinces. The contacts in Ashenvale. The shipments disguised as merchant cargo."

Kael’s eyes went wide.

"I’ve known for months," Soren admitted. "I’ve been watching, documenting, building an airtight case. The only question remaining is whether you’re going to make this easy or difficult." He paused. "Though honestly, Kael, I’m hoping you choose difficult. I’ve had a very trying day, and I could use the stress relief."

"Your Majesty, please—"

"Those weapons you sold," Soren interrupted. "They’ve been used to kill Nevarian citizens. Farmers. Merchants. Children. The insurgents you armed have burned villages, displaced hundreds, created chaos throughout my empire." His smile never faltered. "That’s not just trafficking, Kael. That’s treason."

"We were just middlemen! We didn’t know, "

"You knew exactly what you were doing." Soren’s voice remained soft, almost kind. "You knew who was buying. You knew why they wanted military-grade weapons. And you sold to them anyway because the profit was too good to resist."

He reached through the bars, faster than Kael could react, and pressed one finger directly over the younger man’s heart.

Ice flooded inward.

Not freezing flesh this time. Something worse. Something intimate. His magic dove straight for Kael’s heart, wrapping around the organ like a fist, and squeezed.

Kael’s scream tore through the dungeon as his heart stuttered, slowed, struggled to beat against the ice crushing it from all sides. The sensation was indescribable, dying without the mercy of death, drowning in his own body, every cell screaming for oxygen that couldn’t reach them.

His vision grayed. His lungs burned. His limbs went numb.

Then, just before he lost consciousness, Soren released the pressure.

The heart resumed beating. Blood flowed. Oxygen returned.

Kael gasped, sobbing, his body shaking violently.

"There we go," Soren said gently. "See? You’re fine. Perfectly healthy."

Kael barely had time to process relief before the ice clamped down again.

His heart stopped. Stopped completely this time, frozen solid in his chest for three eternal seconds before Soren allowed it to beat again.

"This could go on for hours," Soren observed. "Days, even. I can keep you right on the edge indefinitely. Dying but never quite dead. Would you like that, Kael? Should we explore how long the human mind can withstand this particular torture?"

"Please—" The word came out garbled, barely human. "Please, I’ll tell you, everything—"

"Oh, I know you will." Soren’s finger remained pressed over Kael’s heart, the threat constant. "But I want you to really feel the weight of your choices first. Every weapon you sold. Every person who died because of your greed. Every family destroyed because you wanted gold."

The ice squeezed again. Kael’s world dissolved into agony.

"Your sister," Soren mused. "Tell me about Isolde. You love her, don’t you?"

"Yes—" Kael gasped the word. "Yes, she’s—"

The heart froze completely. Five seconds this time. Long enough for brain damage to begin if Soren held it just a moment longer.

"Interesting. You love her enough to help her kidnap and torture. Love her enough to commit treason." Another squeeze. Another cycle of dying and reviving. "But not enough to take responsibility for your own actions."

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, "

"Tell me about the weapons network. Names. Locations. Everything."

And Kael, broken, terrified, unable to withstand another second of having his heart stopped and started like a toy, began to talk.

He told Soren everything. The contacts. The supply routes. The storage facilities hidden throughout Nevareth. The dissident leaders who’d purchased their weapons. The gold trails that led back to,

The door at the dungeon’s entrance burst open.

A guard stumbled down the stairs, his face pale, his breathing harsh. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty, you must come immediately—"

Soren removed his finger from Kael’s chest, releasing the spell. The younger Ravencrest collapsed against the cell wall, gasping.

"This had better be important," Soren said, his voice carrying a note of genuine irritation.

"Duke Cassius is dead, Your Majesty." The guard’s words tumbled out in a rush. "Murdered. In his study. And Duchess Maren—" He swallowed hard. "Duchess Maren killed him. The guards caught her standing over the body with the weapon still in her hands."

Silence crashed through the dungeon.

Soren stared at the guard, his expression unreadable. Then, very quietly: "What?"

"Duchess Maren murdered Duke Cassius, Your Majesty. She’s been taken into custody."

For the first time since entering the dungeons, Soren’s composure cracked.

Not with rage. With shock. Pure, genuine shock.

Because Duchess Maren had agreed to testify. Had been cooperating. Had shown every sign of wanting to escape Vetra’s web.

And now she’d murdered the one person who could have corroborated her testimony.

Soren’s mind raced, pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity.

This wasn’t coincidence.

This was Vetra.

"Fuck," he said softly.