Gwendolyn rose slowly, the chains rattling like mocking applause, and met his gaze without flinching."To what do I owe this honor, Lord Aldrich?Another round of your tiresome bargaining?Or have you finally tired of playing at regent and decided on a more permanent solution?"
Aldrich's lips curled into a smile that held no warmth, only the calculated cruelty of a man who saw mercy as a tool for subjugation.He stepped closer to the bars, close enough that she could smell the faint spice of his cologne, an absurd luxury in this pit."Ever the wit, Gwendolyn.It almost pains me to dim such a light.But the council—our council—has deliberated.Execution would be...inelegant.A martyr's blood on our hands invites the very chaos we seek to quell.No, we are merciful.You will not grace the block."
Her pulse quickened, though she schooled her features to regal indifference.Mercy from Aldrich was a serpent's kiss—poison wrapped in silk."Then what fate do you deem fitting for the queen who rebuilt what you look to destroy?House arrest in some gilded cage, perhaps, where I can watch you dismantle my husband's legacy stone by stone?"
He chuckled, a low, resonant sound that died in the damp stones that surrounded them."Gilded cages are for songbirds, not lions.No, Majesty—your exile awaits.At dawn tomorrow, a caravan departs for the Ashen Plains.But first, you will be moved upstairs to a holding cell in the eastern tower—a place more befitting your station than this vermin hole.There, you may reflect on your follies while we prepare your journey.The Plains will be your new realm: vast, unforgiving, and utterly forgotten."
The words struck like a blow to the gut.The Ashen Plains—a vast, forsaken expanse in the far eastern Wilds, where the earth lay barren and forlorn under a perpetual pall of volcanic ash and choking mists.Legends whispered of it as a graveyard of forgotten empires, where the ground swallowed travelers whole, and twisted spirits haunted the sulfurous winds.No water flowed there, no crops took root; it was a land of slow death, where exiles withered under the unrelenting sun, their bones bleaching amid the dunes of gray powder.
It was a place that no one went to.No one spoke about.It was a forgotten place, forgotten by a people who had never spoke or thought of it in the first place.This was worse than execution, for it promised not a swift end but an agonizing fade into oblivion, alone and forsaken.And crucially, it absolved the nobles of her blood on their hands—no grave to rally around, no pyre to light the fires of rebellion.
Yet the holding cell upstairs...that was an unexpected grace, a sliver of time she could seize.Hours, perhaps a full day, in the castle's upper reaches—closer to servants, to whispers, to the threads of loyalty she had begun to weave into a network.Gwendolyn's mind raced, sifting the implications even as a chill settled in her chest.Banishment isolated her, severed her from Kellan and the Guard, from any chance of immediate rescue.But the delay bought an opportunity—time to sow seeds of discord, to dispatch messages that could ignite the realm while she endured the Plains.
Aldrich watched her, expectant, as if savoring the crack in her armor.She straightened, letting a faint, defiant smile curve her lips."The Ashen Plains.How poetic.You fear the people's love too much to kill me outright, yet you doom me to a slower grave.And this upstairs farce—a final taste of comfort before the ash claims me?Tell me, Aldrich, do you sleep soundly knowing the Ring's true heart beats on without you?"
His smile faltered, eyes narrowing to slits."Sleep?I forge the future while you cling to ghosts.Thorgrin is dead.And your boy—your precious Guwayne—he drowned in the northern seas.The throne is vacant, and we fill it wisely.Consider this mercy: in the tower, you may yet find peace in obscurity before the Plains swallow you whole."
But Aldrich’s words went unheard.Guwayne dead?Drowned.Her stomach clenched, her knees sagged, but she was determined not to show her hurt to Aldrich.Instead, she turned her grief into anger.
“Banish me if you must,” she hissed, “but know this: the Ring remembers its guardians.Your 'council' crumbles from within and from without.Enjoy your fragile crown while it lasts.A dungeon danker than this awaits you, Aldrich, if you aren’t put to the sword first.The only question is will it be struck from the front from someone loyal to the crown, or from behind by someone you laughingly called an ally.”
Aldrich's face darkened, the barb striking home.He leaned closer, voice dropping to a growl."Insolent to the end.The guards will escort you now.Pray your gods are kinder than mine."He turned on his heel, cloak swirling like a serpent's tail, and strode from the corridor, the heavy door slamming shut behind.
Gwendolyn sank back onto her bench for a moment, the chains pooling in her lap.The Ashen Plains—a fate worse than death, yes, but one that left her alive.Alive to hope.And with hope there was always a chance.She had proved that before.
But thoughts of her son flooded over her, and she fought to retain her composure.Could she have lost her husband and her only child?She wouldn’t put it past Aldrich to lie about Guwayne, but… She swallowed hard, refusing to give into the overwhelming feelings of heart wrenching hurt.Her thoughts flew to Thor, to the seeds of doubt that Kellan had allowed sowed.No.She would not give up on the Ring, and she certainly wouldn’t give up on Thor or Guwayne.
They both lived, her anchors in the storm.And together, impossibly, they would return.The Ring would endure—not by noble decree, but by the unyielding will of its true keepers.
She had to believe that.She had to hope.
But hope was a blade that demanded sharpening.The holding cell upstairs was a gift from fate's capricious hand—a final day in the castle's heart, where walls had ears and shadows carried secrets.She could not waste it in lament; she must wield it as a weapon.Leaning toward the bars, she caught Kellan's eye across the gloom."They move me upstairs to await the caravan at dawn tomorrow," she whispered."To the Ashen Plains.No trial, no mercy—only isolation.But this delay...it's time, Kellan.Time to act."
Kellan's jaw clenched, his chains rattling as he surged forward."We'll break free tonight, before they drag you up.The plan—"
His words were cut short by the sound of the door opening again.
Four mercenaries entered, their boots thudding on the stone floor.The burliest unlocked her cell."Up with you, witch-queen," he snarled, yanking her chains with unnecessary force."Lord says the tower awaits.Move, or we'll drag you like the sack you are."
Gwendolyn rose with deliberate grace, ignoring the bite of iron on her wrists, and cast a final glance at Kellan.His nod was steel—vow sealed.The Guard murmured prayers, fists clenched in silent solidarity, their eyes burning at the sight of their queen being treated so.
The stone steps spiraled out of the dungeon's maw, each one relinquishing the grim embrace below for the castle's veiled intrigues above.Torchlight yielded to the gray veil of predawn filtering through arrow-slit windows, the air shifting from fetid damp to the musty staleness of disuse.The eastern tower loomed at the corridor's end—a squat, fortified chamber once used for storing armaments, now repurposed as a holding cell.Its door was iron-bound, the single window barred and high, offering a mocking view of the mist-shrouded courtyard below.A straw pallet and a bucket were the only furnishings, a far cry from the dungeon's squalor but no less a cage.
The guards shoved her inside, chaining her wrists to a ring in the wall—slack enough for uneasy repose, tight enough to remind her of subjugation."Rest while you can," one jeered, slamming the door."The Plains don't forgive the weak."Their footsteps faded, leaving her in echoing silence, broken only by the distant clamor of the castle stirring: servants' muffled voices, the clang of pots in distant kitchens, the whinny of mules being harnessed for the caravan that would take her to her new home.
Gwendolyn tested her bonds, finding them secure but not cruelly so.The holding cell's position was a tactical boon—adjacent to the servants' stair, where foot traffic hummed like a hidden river.She settled on the pallet, her mind a forge hammering plans into shape.Dawn was hours away; she had to make use of these last few hours.Aldrich's "mercy" had unwittingly armed her with proximity to the castle's beating heart—the maids, the ostlers, the kitchen lads who remembered the queen's generosity in lean times.She had cultivated them subtly in the dungeon's depths; now, in this elevated perch, she could cast wider nets.
The first opportunity came with the morning's gray light, when a timid knock heralded Mira's arrival.The mousy girl entered under pretense of delivering a meager breakfast tray—stale bread, watery gruel, and a jug of sour ale.Her eyes, sharp beneath her downcast lashes, locked on Gwendolyn's the moment the door clicked shut."M'lady," she breathed, setting the tray down and pressing a folded scrap of linen into Gwendolyn's chained hand."From Sir Kellan—below.But… the caravan readies."
Gwendolyn unfolded the linen swiftly, her eyes scanning the hasty scratches inked with kitchen soot: coded taps from the Guard, confirming the escape signals—three short raps on the walls for readiness, a low whistle at shift change, which is when they would make their move.She would be ready.She nodded, tearing a strip from her gown's hem to reply.With a charred crust from the bread as stylus, she etched a few simple words, telling them she understood and wishing them luck.Her last three words summed everything up."For the Ring."
She folded the linen and gave it back to Mira, her eyes expressing the gladness she felt for this young girl risking so much.It was for people like her that she must fight on, that she must survive and bring Aldrich’s ambitions to a grinding halt.
Mira pocketed the message with steady hands, then looked up at Gwendolyn, and it was plain that she had something else to say.The warmth in her queen’s eyes gave her the courage to say it.
"M'lady… Last eve, a rider came from the east—spoke of fissures belching smoke that drives men mad.Folks blame the coup, say the land mourns its true queen.And...whispers of northern shadows, too.Barbarians at the borders, demanding tribute."
"Brave girl," Gwendolyn murmured, clasping Mira's hand briefly."Have faith.The night may be dark, but the dawn will bring promise, and the day will be bright.Now go, or they will become suspicious."Mira nodded and left, the door's lock clicking behind her.
