No one had stirred sugar into the tea anymore. She and Father had both drank it bitter. “After Father died, I couldn’t wait to leave Sitna—to get away—and Emory was going places. But then he betrayed me, and I had no one. I had to figure out how to survive on my own.” She glanced at Cole, loved the intense look on his face, those freckles. “Until I met you. You made me feel safe. Brought me into the castle, had dresses made, played with my band. You cared what I thought, made me feel important. I didn’t know I needed all that until I met you.”
Cole’s lips tugged into a grin. “Because you’re so capable.”
Mistel shrugged. “I’ve had to be.”
“As you’re always so quick to point out,” Cole said, “you can take care of yourself.”
“I can.” Mistel released his hand to sift through the coins again. She picked one up and studied it. “But it’s more fun when you have money and you’re not alone.” She dropped the coin on the top of the stack. “Money sure makes life easier.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” Cole clasped his hands between his knees. He wasn’t brushing off her words to strategize about Ice Island, practice chords, or write a new song. He was just listening. Present.
He cared.
The weight of that truth struck her. Cole wasn’t just a singing partner or even a friend. He was someone who made her feel like she could be herself, chase her dreams, and not be alone.
What if she wanted wealth, success…and someone to share it with?
She ran her fingers through the coins one last time, her heart racing at the possibility of making space for Cole in her dreams. They might live happily together all their days.
But if she truly wanted a future with him, Mistel couldn’t keep hiding behind her smile. She had to let him see the real her.
And maybe…just maybe…she was ready to try.
Chapter 25
Zanna
Zanna rolled the stiffness from her shoulders, but the day’s weight lingered as she descended the spiraling stone steps. Her shift had ended. Exhaustion clung to her like a wet cloak, yet her mind refused to rest. She’d sworn not to get attached, but every night, she carried these women’s stories with her. She always did what she could, but it never felt like enough.
She rounded a bend and nearly collided with a man in the shadows. No uniform. No jangling keys. No weapon.
Her pulse jumped. “Who are you?” Her voice came out sharper than intended, echoing along the stone stairwell.
“Bahram Rakkel.” The dim light obscured his features but not his flaxen hair and gleaming blue eyes as he said, “Enayim lema’ala,” in the ancient tongue.
The Mârad passcode. Zanna’s breath hitched. A spy? Inside the prison? It didn’t make sense. Who let him in? And why?
“Follow me,” he said.
Rakkel descended with a measured pace that made her skin prickle. She hesitated. Had he no fear of getting caught?
Instinct told her to report this breach, yet something deeper pulled her forward as she followed at a cautious distance, one hand brushing the damp wall as the air grew colder.
They passed the ground floor, the kitchen, the larder, the pantry, went deeper than the supply rooms, the armory, even the interrogation chambers. Lower than she’d ever been.
The staircase gave way to a twisting corridor lit by sputtering torches in iron brackets.
Every step echoed.
The corridor ended at a massive stone door. Rusted iron hinges. A thick wooden beam across its center. Cold air seeped through cracks, carrying the scent of damp earth and freedom.
Rakkel lifted the beam, set it aside, and pulled the door open. It groaned, revealing the mouth of a dark tunnel that swallowed the torchlight.
“What is this place?” Zanna asked.
Rakkel handed her a torch. “You must continue. I have looked ahead. It’s safe. I’ll close the door behind you and stand watch.”
“Stand watch where?”
