AN: Mid-game, unlike the others.

Logan watched his own foot twitching, trying to ignore the dark shapes he could see flickering through every shadow. It wasn't entirely clear whether it was his mind playing tricks on him, or real lingering tendrils of the great darkness he had faced so very long ago, but it hardly mattered.

We are inside you. Your heart, your lungs, your thoughts will all be blackened. We see you, Coward King. Child King.

If the Crawler were indeed in this cell with him, calling for a guard would be a wasted effort. Death, or worse, would come too swiftly to be stopped by mere men, and it wasn't as though the cries of a deposed tyrant would bring prompt help, regardless.

None of it mattered. He had an entire country calling for his head on a pike; a long, healthy life seemed less and less likely.

The small cot was incredibly uncomfortable, with a rickety frame of rough, stinking wood and barely a mattress to speak of, but it was better than no cot at all. He'd been given water as well, in a relatively clean mug, and he hadn't been executed yet.

Not a complete wash, from certain angles.

Pressing one hand over his eyes and dropping his head back onto the musty blanket he'd folded up to serve as a pillow, Logan bit back a wholly inappropriate laugh. It was all so bloody terrible, so unbelievably horrific, and he'd tried so hard to do the right thing. To do as he'd promised, nearly a decade before, when they'd laid his mother to rest deep under the gardens.

It was all for Albion— for his people, and for Rosalyn. To keep them safe, no matter what.

There were no windows in the dungeon, naturally, and he'd never been particularly skilled at reckoning time without a view of the sky or a timepiece. The nausea sloshing around in his gut kept him from suffering any real hunger pangs, as well, and it was impossible to sleep. As such, it might have been merely hours or closer to a day before the sound of heavy footsteps roused him from his silent reflections.

He'd expected guards, but it was Sir Walter who stood just outside the cell bars. The man was haggard, so much more so than when he'd spirited off with Rosalyn in tow, and Logan recognised the haunted look that darkened his eyes. He'd heard his sister had travelled to Aurora, and it appeared her rebels might have found more than they'd bargained for.

Your fear sustains us; your blood sings to us as it drains away. We are coming, for all those you love, for all those you wish to protect. We will feast on your land and leave it desolate.

Shifting himself into a sitting position, with elbows on knees and hands hanging loosely down, Logan waited. The silence was thick, but the sinister voice continued to rasp quietly in the back of his mind. He'd known no peace for over four years; why would it begin now?

What would she think of the beast you have become? Would she weep for her lost son? Would she know you as you are, filled with darkness?

Sometimes it was difficult to be certain what thoughts were his own, and what were remnants of the shadow. As Walter unlocked his cell and pulled him out, a rough hand on his shoulder dragging him up and shoving him forward, Logan was still unsure.

It was time for the truth, regardless. He had been stripped of all control, of whatever power he'd wielded, and in the face of a new Hero Queen he felt strangely comforted by that thought.

You have done such hurtful things.

They will rejoice to see you dead.

Perhaps this was what hope felt like. It had been so very long, he'd forgotten.