The servants abruptly lead us to one of the nearby wings and down a flight of stairs. The castle is so vast that I have trouble getting my bearings. It’s larger than my family’s in Loegria, that’s for certain. Every room we’re whisked through feels like another turn in a labyrinth. One could easily get lost in its endless hallways of pink marble and gold.
Aren leans in close, her breath hot against my ear, and whispers, “I don’t like this place.” To anyone watching, it looks like she’s murmuring sweet nothings to her fiancé. My hand reflexively wraps around her waist, playing into the act. She doesn’t flinch away, thank the gods, and for a fleeting moment, the feel of her by my side eases the tension gripping my chest.
I dip my head low, whispering against her hair. “I know. Me too.”
In response, Aren puts her arm around my waist also. We are the very picture of a couple in love. I secure her to my side, trying to draw strength from her presence and enjoying the steady feel of her body against mine as we follow the servants leading us to our quarters. My stomach twists in quiet unease, but I keep my steps steady and my breathing even.
“This way, if you please,” the servant walking ahead of us says, leading us through endless receiving halls, reception rooms, and what I can only assume is the king’s throne room. A massive golden chair hulks in the middle of the grand space, gaudy and overwhelming.
We walk together, clutching each other, as the servants guide us to a staircase spiraling downward into the deeper levels of the castle. My unease sharpens with every step. The air feels heavier, thicker, the lower we go. I tighten my arm around Aren’s waist as if I can shield her from whatever waits below.
I think about turning back. About sprinting up the stairs. But such foolish notions will surely get us killed.
When we enter a dark hallway, my suspicions are confirmed. Dread grips my heart with an iron claw, squeezing tighter with every passing second. I should never have allowed Aren to join me. I should have insisted Marcus take her home. The hallway is lined with rooms behind iron bars.
The first servant stops at one of the doors and opens it, the rusty hinges whining loudly in protest. Neither Aren nor I move. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and every instinct screams that the plan to grab Aren and run was the correct one.
“When will we see the king?” Aren asks, her voice hollow in the dungeon’s oppressive silence.
The servant doesn’t answer. His eyes are flat, vacant. I can’t tell if he didn’t hear her or if he’s simply ignoring her. Osian’s men do not hide the glints of metal at their waists. I know we are in no position to resist. I take Aren’s hand, squeezing it gently, and lead her into the cell. The servant closes and locks the door behind us, the thud echoing through the dark halls like a death knell. At least we’re in the same cell.
Aren stands rigidly, staring at the locked door.
“Goddess damn it. So we’re prisoners now?” she asks, her voice sharp with frustration.
“Sure looks that way,” I mutter, my jaw tightening.
Aren throws her hands on top of her head and unleashes a truly creative string of curses. If I wasn’t so on edge, I’d be impressed.
“Aren,” I say, trying to sound calm even though I feel anything but. “If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it by now.”
That doesn’t seem to comfort her.
I glance around the cell, forcing myself to take stock of our surroundings. A single mattress on the floor for the happy couple. A single bucket as a chamber pot for the happy couple…and that’s it. The perfect honeymoon.
“If I remember our way through that maze, I think we’re somewhere below the throne room,” I add, motioning to the vents above our heads. Light slices through the cell in sharp lines, barely illuminating the space. It’s the only source of light other than the dim torches lining the hallway. The vents are high—too high to reach. Even if I let Aren stand on my shoulders, the openings behind the grills are too narrow to fit a fist through.
We’re trapped.
“We just have to wait,” I say, trying to temper the rising panic clawing at my chest. The Rings stir, their hum faint but insistent. They itch to be used, feeding off my frustration and anger. I dig my nails into my palms, and the sharp sting grounds me. If I use the Whisting to break us out, I could hurt Aren, and that’s the last thing I want.
“You waiting for the king?” A voice comes from the cell diagonally across from ours. An older man leans against the bars, one arm dangling out casually, his wrist limp. I can just make out his white hair, but the rest of him is obscured in shadow.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully, my voice tight.
“Good luck with that.” The old man laughs a wheezy, rasping chuckle that grates against my nerves.
“How long have you been here?” Aren asks.
“Not that long. Couple of days, give or take. I’ll probably get out soon, though. No one stays here for long.”
Okay, that doesn’t sound so bad. We can handle a few days.
“You seem to know a lot,” Aren says, stepping closer to the bars, her voice laced with suspicion.
The old man coughs before replying. “Bah, everyone who lives in Engel knows what goes on here. Isn’t a secret. People go missing all the time. Usually the ones who cause more trouble than they’re worth to the crown.”
“Is that what happened to you?” I ask.
