Each step was measured, his boots whispering over the cold flagstones.
He passed under the narrow windows where moonlight bled through in silver ribbons, catching on the edges of his blade. Somewhere above, a guard coughed; the sound echoed down the stairwell, then faded.
Michael turned sharply into the courtyard, the night air biting at his throat.
The stables stood at the far end, dark except for a faint glimmer of lamplight spilling through a crack in the boards. He paused, waiting, listening for voices.
Nothing. Only the soft shuffle of hooves and the heavy breath of the horses inside.
Michael eased the door open, and the scent of hay and sweat greeted him, thick and familiar. “Easy, me friend,” he murmured, stepping toward his horse tethered near the end of the row.
The animal’s ears flicked toward him, restless but trusting. He stroked its neck, soothing it with quiet words, before checking the girth and bit. His movements were practiced, silent, the memory of a hundred raids and rides guiding his hands. He led the beast carefully from the stall, its hooves muffled by the straw, and each creak of the wood made his pulse leap. If any man saw him now, all would be lost, but he was nothing if not practiced in being stealthy. All those years of missions, all those years of scouting had culminated in this—the moment when he would smuggle Alyson out of the castle.
He moved quickly, keeping to the outer wall, his cloak pulled low. The guards on the battlements above were mere shadows against the sky, their voices faint in the wind. He led the horse through the narrow gate arch and into the open night, quiet, swift, bypassing all the guards who were changing their shifts.The world outside the keep felt sharper, the air raw and cold, the stars half-hidden. He guided the horse into the tree line, far enough that her dark coat would blend into shadow.
There, he tied its reins to a low branch, knotting them twice to be certain.
“Wait here,” he whispered, brushing its muzzle.
The animal snorted softly, shifting her weight, and he glanced back toward the keep. Its towers loomed like a sleeping beast, black against the sky. He swallowed hard, forcing down the fear that gnawed at the edges of his resolve.
This isnae time fer fear. I’ll get Alyson out o’ here. I swear it.
With a decisive flick of his wrist, he drew his dagger from his belt and checked the edge with his thumb—sharpened to a fine point, ready to cut down anyone who stood in his path. Then he turned back toward the keep.
It was his last night there. Now, more than ever, the weight of his duty burdened him, the memory of failure still fresh in his mind. But this time, there could be none; there could be nothing but victory.
The torches hissed low in their brackets, their wavering glow painting the dungeon stones in shades of gold and ember.Isabeau steadied her breathing as she descended the narrow stairs—one hand on the wall, the other balancing the small wooden tray that held two steaming cups of spiced tea. The scent of the herbs rose sharply with each step she took.
Her palms were damp, and she prayed the guards would not notice. The tray threatened to slip from her fingers, but she held securely onto it, her knuckles turning bone-white.
If faither finds out…
The thought turned her stomach, and she swiftly forced it away. There was no turning back now, not when Alyson’s life—and Michael’s—hung in the balance. Not when her own future meant a marriage to a man she did not even know.
The final step groaned under her weight. Two guards sat slumped on a bench by the cell doors, the metal of their armor glinting dully in the dim light. When they heard her, they looked up in surprise.
“Me lady?” one grunted, quickly standing up. When the other made no effort to follow, he slapped his shoulder, gesturing wildly at him to stand, until the man finally did, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. “We werenae expectin’ a second round o’ tea tonight.”
Isabeau dipped her head, letting her hair fall forward so he would not see the tension in her eyes. “The kitchens brewed too much,” she lied smoothly. “An’ I thought ye might like something’ warm. ’It’s bitter cold, even down here.”
The other guard chuckled. “Aye, the lady o’ the castle sees tae her faither’s men.”
She smiled, soft and demure—the smile she had practiced her whole life to hide every bruise. She stepped forward and handed them each a cup, even as her heart hammered as they raised them, sniffed, and drank.
The first guard wiped his mouth and leaned back. “Bless ye, me lady. A kind heart ye have.”
Isabeau watched them both as they drank their tea, the tray tucked under her arm. As they sat there, on the bench, their eyes began to close, the two of them yawning until their jaws cracked. It didn’t take long for them to fall asleep, their heads lolling back. Within moments both men were collapsed against the wall, snoring softly.
Isabeau stood there for a moment, her breath choked, her heart seizing. Her hands trembled, though she kept her face composed. She counted to three—one, to make certain they did not stir; two, to gather her courage; three, to begin.
She slipped the ring of keys from the belt of the nearest guard with careful fingers, wincing at every small jingle of metal. The potion she had given them was strong, but she didn’t know if they would remain asleep if she made too much noise. Fearing a lethal dose, she had kept the concentration of herbs low—and now, faced with the possibility they would wake, she almost regretted it.
Then she crossed to the shadowed corner where Alyson lay behind iron bars.
At the sound, Alyson looked up, her eyes glinting in the scant firelight. Her hair, dulled from confinement, was tangled across her shoulders, and her skin, pale and blotchy, was covered in grime. She looked even worse since the last time Isabeau had seen her, but there was a spark in her gaze, something akin to hope.
“Isabeau?” Her voice rasped. “What … what are ye daein’ here?”
