He opened the door.
The guard outside never saw him coming. One moment the man was leaning against the wall, picking his teeth with a bone splinter, the next, Gareth’s blade was sliding between his ribs and a calloused hand was clamping over his mouth. The guard made a sound, a surprised grunt, nothing more, and went limp. Gareth lowered the body silently. Wiped his blade. Moved on.
The dungeon corridor stretched before him, lined with iron doors set into stone arches. Most of the cells were empty, Alaric wasn’t the type to keep many prisoners. He preferred permanent solutions.
Third door. Fourth. Fifth?—
A sound from behind the sixth door. Breathing, quick and shallow. The clink of chains.
Gareth pressed his palm flat against the iron-banded oak and closed his eyes. The lockpicking skills he’d learned in darker years came back to him—angle the pick, feel for the mechanism, steady pressure. His hands remained perfectly still as he worked. The lock was old, rusted, stubborn—but it gave way after a few agonizing seconds, and the door swung open.
She sat against the far wall, chains running from iron cuffs to a ring above her head. Her gown was torn and filthy. Her face was pale, streaked with grime and the tracks of dried tears. But her eyes blazed green in the torchlight, and when she saw him standing in the doorway, she made a sound that lodged somewhere behind his ribs and refused to leave.
“Gareth.”
He crossed the cell in three strides and dropped to his knees beside her. His hands moved to her face, her hair, her shoulders—checking for injuries. Bruises on her wrists from the chains. A scrape along her cheekbone. No broken bones that he could feel. His fingers lingered on her face a moment longer than necessary, thumb brushing the tear-track on her cheek.
“I knew you’d come for me.”
He signed, one-handed, the other hand already working on her chains. A single gesture, unhurried and absolute.Always.
The manacles were simpler than the door lock—crude things, all brute force and no finesse. He had them open in seconds, and then she was in his arms, clinging to him with a ferocity that matched his own.
“I knew you’d find me?—”
Footsteps. Running. Shouts echoing through the corridors. Gareth pulled back and pressed a finger to her lips.Can you walk?
She nodded, though her legs wobbled when she tried to stand. He steadied her, drew his dagger, and pressed the hilt into her palm. Her fingers closed around it automatically, though her eyes widened.
Stay behind me. If anyone gets past me, use it.
“I don’t know how to?—”
Point and push. That’s all.He kissed her forehead—quick, fierce—and turned toward the door.
His men had caught up, their silent approach through the tunnels had been successful. Miles appeared in the doorway, sword bloody, and signed so his voice wouldn’t carry.Alarm raised. We need to move.
Gareth nodded. Drew his sword. Stepped into the corridor.
The next minutes were a blur of steel and shadow. They fought through the dungeon passages, Gareth in the lead, his blade singing through the darkness. Guards appeared and fell. A servant ran screaming and was ignored. He had no quarrel with servants. They climbed stairs worn smooth by centuries of feet, emerged into a torch-lit corridor, and found themselves face to face with a dozen of Alaric’s soldiers.
The silence that had been Gareth’s prison became his weapon. He signed commands to his men.Flank left, push right,hold center, and the soldiers obeyed without a word. No shouted orders for the enemy to overhear, no warning of their tactics.
Elodie stayed close behind him, the dagger clutched in her white-knuckled grip. She was terrified, he could see it in every line of her body, but she didn’t freeze. Didn’t scream. Didn’t do any of the things that might have gotten her killed.
Brave, he thought. My bravefaerie queen.
A soldier broke through the line and lunged for her. Gareth was too far away, too engaged with his own opponent?—
Elodie didn’t hesitate. She ducked under the swing, stepped close, and drove the dagger into the man’s thigh with a movement that was more desperation than skill. The soldier howled and went down, clutching his leg, and Elodie stumbled backward with blood on her hands and horror on her face.
Gareth finished his opponent and reached for her, steadying her against his side. Signed one-handed.Well done.
“I stabbed a man.”
He’ll live or not. Move.
They pushed forward, through the great hall that reminded Gareth uncomfortably of Greywatch, and into a courtyard lit by torches and the first gray light of dawn. The gates were open. The men had succeeded. Beyond the walls, Gareth could see more of his men riding in, the reinforcements he’d positioned before the assault.
