“He’s in the third level, cell fourteen,” he whispered, his gaze skimming further down the page. Then his breath caught in his throat. A single line, written in cold, emotionless ink, sealed their urgency.
Scheduled for execution at dawn.
Gwenna peered over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time,” she said, voice tight. “Let’s go.”
They moved swiftly, descending deeper into the bowels of the castle where the air grew colder. The torches lining the walls did little to chase away the oppressive darkness or provide warmth.
The first two levels were eerily silent, most of the cells empty. Those that were occupied held prisoners too broken to react, their gazes vacant, their spirits already gone.
But when they reached the third level, the air was thick with the stench of rot and unwashed bodies. Cedric’s stomach churned. Here, the groans of the forgotten echoed through the corridors, accompanied by the distant rattle of chains.
“Fourteen… fourteen…” Gwenna muttered, scanning the doors. “Here!”
Cedric’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Iron bands reinforced the heavy wood door, the number etched into the rusted plate above it. His hands shook as he fumbled with the keys, his urgency making him clumsy. The scrape of metal against metal felt deafening as he shoved the key home.
Then—click. The lock gave way.
Cedric shoved the door open, the wood slamming against the stone. The cell swallowed him in darkness, the only light bleeding in from a sconce in the corridor.
For a moment, his vision fought against the gloom. Shadows stretched, twisting against the damp walls. The air was thick—damp with sweat and suffering.
And then his gaze landed on a crumpled shape in the corner. Cedric’s heart plummeted. It couldn’t be him. Not the knight who had once stood so tall. Not the man Cedric loved.
“Finn?” The name barely escaped him, but it was enough.
The figure stirred, slowly. A head lifted, catching the dim light, and Cedric’s breath punched from his lungs.
Aurenis, no.
Bruises marred every inch of Finn’s face, his skin swollen and split, hardly recognizable. But those eyes—those storm-grey eyes—remained.
“Cedric?” The voice was a ruin of what it should have been. Finn’s lips cracked from thirst, his breathing shallow. “Is it…really you?”
Cedric was at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees. Up close, it was worse. Much worse.
Cuts, bruises, burns—marks of torment carved into Finn’s skin. But it was the ugly brands that stopped Cedric cold, stark against pale flesh, as if pain alone could etch ownership into him. Fury clawed up Cedric’s throat, but it was nothing compared to the cold terror that followed when his gaze dropped lower. Finn’s hand—his sword hand—was a ruin. Shattered beyond recognition, crushed fingers swollen and discolored.
“Sweet Sylvara,” Gwenna whispered.
Cedric couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
The sight of Finn like this…so broken, so small, so far from the man who had once laughed with him, teased him, kissed him…made something splinter inside his chest.
“It’s me,” Cedric forced out, his throat tight, the words nearly choking him. He tried to keep his voice calm. Failed.
Who did this to you? The question burned hot and poisonous in his mind, but he swallowed it down. There would be time for vengeance.
Right now, they had to get Finn out.
Finn’s eyes fluttered closed, his lashes clumping together, damp from tears. The streaks they left through the grime on his face made Cedric’s stomach twist.
“Neither of you should be here,” Finn rasped. “It’s not safe.”
“I don’t care,” Cedric said, too quickly, too fiercely.
How could he? How could he care about anything else when Finn looked like a man who had been utterly broken and left to rot?
