"How many men does Kent have?" Bellamy asks quietly as they climb a narrow staircase that winds upward through the castle's interior.
"Normally? Maybe sixty in the garrison, plus his personal guard." Ivah pauses at a landing to check the corridor beyond, listening forsounds of movement. "But half of them are probably drunk or asleep, and the rest are running toward Harwick's diversion. We're more likely to encounter servants than soldiers at this point."
They move through passages that grow steadily lighter as they ascend, the rough dungeon stonework giving way to the more refined architecture of the castle proper. Tapestries line the walls here, and actual windows let in the gray light of dawn—a reminder that the world beyond these walls continues its normal rhythm despite the violence unfolding within.
"Ivah," Bellamy says suddenly, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty that makes Ivah's chest tighten with concern.
"What is it?"
"Kent... he knew. About us, about our meetings. He knew details that..." Bellamy's voice trails off, but the implication is clear enough.
"Someone betrayed us?" Ivah considers this possibility, his mind racing through the list of people who might have known enough to provide such intelligence. "Or someone was watching more carefully than we realized."
"Does it matter now?"
"It will. But you're right—survival first, consequences later."
They're climbing the stairs toward the main level when voices echo from ahead—multiple men moving with purpose, their footsteps sharp and coordinated on the stone floors. Ivah raises his hand to halt their small group, listening intently to gauge numbers and positions.
The voices are getting closer, and from their tone, these aren't servants or panicked guards. These are soldiers moving with confidence and authority, blocking their planned escape route with deliberate precision.
"—told you the barbarian would come for his pretty toy," a familiar voice says with cruel amusement that makes Bellamy's face go pale with recognition. "Predictable as sunrise. Love makes even kings into fools."
King Kent steps into view at the top of the stairs, flanked by a dozen of his personal guard in full armor. The Northern king looks pleased with himself, as if this confrontation is exactly what he'd been hoping for since the rescue began.
He's changed from the soft, indulgent monarch who'd visited Bellamy in the dungeon. Now he wears mail and leather, a sword at his hip and the confident bearing of a man who believes he holds all the advantages. His pale eyes gleam with satisfaction as they move from Ivah to Bellamy and back again.
"Your Majesty," Kent says with mocking courtesy, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "How kind of you to visit my humble fortress. Though I'm afraid visiting hours are over."
Ivah steps slightly forward, placing himself between Kent and Bellamy while his hand moves instinctively toward his axe handle.
"Kent. You're looking well for a dead man walking."
"Am I? Because from where I stand, you're the one who's trapped." Kent's pale eyes move to Bellamy. "Grown soft, haven't you? All that worry about your little whore has made you careless."
Ivah feels Bellamy tense behind him at the crude description, but the prince doesn't rise to the bait. Days of captivity have taught him something about conserving his strength for when it matters most.
"Has it?" Ivah's voice drops to the deadly quiet tone that has made enemy commanders reconsider their battle plans. "Perhaps I should show you just how soft I've become."
The soldiers behind Kent shift nervously, clearly aware of the Barbarian King's reputation even if their master chooses to ignore it. These are veteran fighters, men who've survived multiple campaigns, and they recognize the particular stillness that precedes explosive violence.
But Ivah's attention isn't entirely on the enemy—part of his mind is calculating angles, escape routes, ways to protect Bellamy while still dealing with the immediate threat. The corridor is narrow here, which limits Kent's numerical advantage but also restricts their own options for maneuver.
Normally he would engage without hesitation, trusting in his skill and fury to carry the day against any odds. But with Bellamy here, injured and exhausted, the stakes are fundamentally different. One mistake, one moment of overconfidence, and the man he loves could pay the price for his arrogance.
"You know," Kent continues conversationally, "I was hoping you'd come personally. Shows how much this one means to you. Makes him so much more valuable as leverage."
"He's not leverage. He's not a tool for your political games." Ivah's voice is certain. "He's mine, and you made the mistake of taking him."
"Yours?" Kent laughs, the sound harsh and mocking in the confined space. "He's a prince, barbarian. You may have convinced him to warm your bed, but he'll never be anything more than a royal slut playing at love with his kingdom's enemy."
Ivah doesn't let the provocation distract him from the tactical situation. This is what Kent wants—anger, recklessness, the kind of emotional response that leads to tactical mistakes.
"Korrath," he says quietly to one of his men without taking his eyes off the enemy. "Take the prince. Get him out of here under whatever cover we provide."
"Ivah—" Bellamy starts to protest, his voice sharp with concern.
"Go." Ivah turns his head just enough to meet Bellamy's eyes directly, letting him see the love and determination there. "Trust me to handle this and keep yourself safe. That's all I need from you right now."
