The dungeon reeked of mildew and despair, its air heavy with the tang of damp stone. The flickering torchlight carved jagged shapes onto the walls, shadows swaying like specters. Rasa crouched low, her blade steady, her breath a shallow rhythm. Every drip of water, every echo of far-off movement, thrummed in her ears.
She couldn’t run. Not yet. Not without knowing who was coming down that corridor.
The footsteps were deliberate—measured and unhurried, like they owned the space. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she edged closer to the cell door, pressing herself into the shadows. They couldn’t see her until it was too late. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her blade, her fingers trembling despite her resolve. Whoever it was, she’d make them regret stepping into her reach.
The figure emerged from the gloom—a man with blonde hair and a deliberate gait.
Rufus.
Her muscles moved before her mind could catch up. She lunged, the dagger flashing in the torchlight, aiming straight for his throat.
“Rasa! Wait!” Rufus’s voice snapped through the tension like a whip, his hands shooting up in surrender.
The blade hovered a breath away from his skin. She held it steady, her breath heaving, her narrowed eyes locked on his.
“You’re supposed to be helping me escape,” she hissed, her voice low, trembling with anger. “Yet I overheard your men say, ‘She’s not walking out of here alive.’” The words dripped with venom, each syllable laced with betrayal. “What’s your plan, Rufus? Kill me yourself?”
His face darkened, irritation flickering over his features. “What? No. That’s not—” He exhaled sharply, the tension in his jaw visible. “Whatever you overheard, it’s not the truth. I don’t leave my people behind.”
Her knuckles whitened on the hilt of her dagger, her thoughts spiraling. Lies came so easily to him, didn’t they? Smooth words wrapped in false promises.
“Why should I believe you?” she pressed, her voice cutting like steel. “Alara said you were working on a plan, but maybe she was wrong to trust you.”
His posture shifted, his usual charm stripped away, leaving something raw and steady. “You think Alara would lie to you? She trusted me enough to tell you I’d come, didn’t she?” His voice softened, a hint of urgency creeping in.
Rasa’s grip on the dagger faltered just slightly, but she didn’t lower it.
“You better hope that’s true,” she muttered, her tone icy. “Because if you’re lying…” She let the words trail off, the threat clear in her expression.
"Noted," Rufus said, the faintest trace of a humorless smile flickering across his face. He lowered his hands slowly, taking a careful step back before continuing. "I’ve found us a way out—a passage through the old wine storage. From there, it’s a straight shot to the docks. If we move now, we’ll be gone before anyone even realizes."
Rasa’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not leaving yet.”
He blinked, visibly thrown. “What? Why? Every second we stay here, we’re closer to getting caught.”
“I need my blade.” Her voice was calm, steady, and unyielding.
Rufus stared at her as if she’d just sprouted horns. “Your blade? Are you serious? You have a blade. I’ll even get you another blade. Hell, I’ll get you a dozen blades once we’re out.”
“It’s not just a weapon,” Rasa said, her tone sharpening. “It’s my mother’s. That blade is the only thing I have left of her.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
For a moment, Rufus didn’t respond. His irritation softened into something else—something close to understanding. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Fine. We’ll get your blade. But if this goes sideways, you better remember whose idea it was.”
Rasa’s lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. “Noted.”
“Let’s move.” He waved her forward, his irritation evident in his clipped tone.
The fortress corridors were a maze of shadows and whispers, each turn shrouded in potential danger. The flicker of distant torches created a disorienting dance of light and dark, and the faint dampness of the air clung to Rasa’s skin like a second layer.
Rasa moved like a shadow herself, silent and purposeful. Behind her, Rufus’s footsteps were just audible enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone.
“Alara’s supposed to be part of this plan, right?” she asked, throwing a glare over her shoulder. “Where is she now?”
Rufus hesitated, the pause just long enough to make her tense. “She’s trying to reach us,” he said. “If the steward’s right, she’ll be here soon.”
Rasa scoffed softly, but she kept moving.
The guards posted outside the room were relaxed, their shoulders slouched and their conversation idle. They weren’t expecting trouble, and that would be their downfall.
Rufus leaned in close, his breath warm against Rasa’s ear. “I’ll distract them. You get the dagger.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If you run, I’ll find you. And you’ll regret it.”
“Noted,” he said dryly before stepping into view.
With practiced charm, he engaged the guards, weaving a tale of misplaced orders and urgent needs. Within moments, he had them following him down the corridor.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Rasa slipped into the room, her eyes scanning quickly. The dagger gleamed faintly on a shelf, its familiar curve sending a pang through her chest. She approached it slowly, her fingers trembling as they closed around the hilt.
Her mother’s face flashed in her mind—tear-streaked, resolute. “Row, Rasa. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Survive.”
Her grip tightened. I won’t let your sacrifice be for nothing.
Rasa slipped back into the corridor, dagger in hand. She turned to find Rufus waiting, his expression unreadable.
“Got it?” he asked.
She nodded. “Let’s go.”
They moved quickly, retracing their steps through the labyrinthine halls. But as they neared the exit, a figure stepped into their path. His ice-blue eyes glinted in the torchlight, his expression as cold and sharp as a blade.
“Well,” he said, his voice calm and dangerous, “what do we have here?”
The air turned to ice. Rasa’s hand tightened on her dagger, every muscle in her body coiled to strike.
But Rufus, ever composed, raised his hands and offered a faint smile. “Your Highness,” he said smoothly. “Care to discuss this like civilized men?”
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The fortress was a labyrinth of stone and shadow, its cold corridors pressing down on Alara like a weight she couldn’t shake. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the ancient walls, but even that small sound made her tense, as if the shadows themselves were listening. The faint torchlight flickered, dancing across the damp stone and casting shapes that seemed almost alive.
She pressed a hand against the rough wall to steady herself. The dungeons weren’t far now. She had traced their location in her mind from overheard snippets of conversation and passing glimpses during her time in the fortress. But knowing the path wasn’t the same as walking it.
Her breath quickened as she rehearsed her plan. I’ll tell the guards I’m acting on Du’lan’s orders—maybe there’s a concern about the prisoners’ safety. No, that’s too vague. What if they ask why Du’lan didn’t come himself? She exhaled sharply, her mind spinning. The keys. I need to get the keys. Maybe I’ll say I’m here to confirm something for him—no, I’ll…
She clenched her fists. Stop. You’ll figure it out. You always do.
The air grew heavier as she turned another corner, the distant sound of boots scraping against stone pricking at her nerves. Her heart thundered as she moved closer, the dim light from the dungeons spilling faintly into the corridor ahead. Just keep going. Rasa is waiting.
“Lari,” a voice called behind her, smooth and calm, but unmistakable.
Alara froze, her stomach flipping violently. She turned slowly, schooling her expression into something between surprise and deference.
“Your Highness,” she murmured, dipping her head as Dal’akar stepped toward her, his ice-blue eyes narrowing slightly.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone steady but tinged with curiosity. “You’re supposed to be in the kitchens.”
Her mind raced, grasping for an excuse that wouldn’t crumble under his gaze. “I was heading to my room,” she said, her voice carefully even. “I decided I’ll be accompanying you to Valmira in the morning, and I need to pack my things.”
Dal’akar studied her, his gaze lingering for just a moment too long. Then, unexpectedly, his lips quirked into a faint smile. “A wise decision,” he said. “You’ll find Valmira a challenging place, but one where cleverness is rewarded.”
Alara forced a small smile of her own, though her chest felt tight. “Thank you, Your Highness. And you? Shouldn’t you be at the banquet?”
His smile faded slightly, replaced by a quieter, almost weary expression. “I’ve never been one for banquets,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “Crowds, the endless posturing—it’s all noise. I leave whenever I can.”
His honesty caught her off guard, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of vulnerability in him. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of her own doubts—the weight of expectations, the struggle to belong.
“I understand,” she said softly, before she could stop herself.
Dal’akar tilted his head, his faint smile returning. “Do you?”
She hesitated, her heart fluttering. “It’s not easy, being where everyone can see you, waiting for you to make a mistake.”
His eyes sharpened slightly, studying her. “No, it’s not.” The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken words, before he gestured down the corridor. “Allow me to walk you to your room. It’ll give me an excuse to avoid the banquet a little longer.”
Panic flickered through her. “That’s not necessary, Your Highness,” she said quickly, her tone steady but firm. “I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“It’s no trouble,” he replied smoothly. “Humor me.”
“Dal’akar,” a voice called from further down the hall, urgent and cutting through the stillness like a blade.
Alara turned just as Uriah strode toward them, his green eyes flicking briefly to her before locking onto Dal’akar. “There you are,” he said, his tone brisk. “We need to talk.”
Dal’akar straightened. “What is it, Captain?”
Uriah’s gaze hardened. “I don’t think the wine barrels were the full extent of the plot. I found blastpowder hidden in crates—likely concealed in some of the barrels as well. If those were burned…”
Alara’s heart sank, her mind racing. She forced herself to speak, her voice calm. “Du’lan and I ordered the servants to burn the barrels earlier. They were running low on firewood.”
Dal’akar’s jaw tightened, his expression sharpening. “Blastpowder?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Captain, get to the kitchens immediately. Stop them before they light anything else.”
Uriah gave a sharp nod and turned, his footsteps quick and purposeful as he disappeared down the corridor.
The sound of boots ascending the stairwell broke the tense silence. Two guards emerged from the dungeon entrance, their faces pale and nervous.
Dal’akar stepped forward, his voice cold. “Why are you abandoning your post?”
One of the guards stammered, “A man—blond hair, well-dressed—ordered us to head to the banquet and secure the entrance.”
Dal’akar’s eyes narrowed. “What man? Speak clearly.”
The guard hesitated before continuing. “We didn’t get his name, but… he was confident. Spoke like he belonged.”
“Rufus,” Dal’akar muttered, his tone sharp as ice. He turned to the guards. “Follow me. We’ll find this man together.”
He glanced at Alara, his expression firm. “Stay here. Do not follow.”
Alara stood frozen as Dal’akar and the guards disappeared down the stairwell, their footsteps echoing faintly. Her chest tightened. Stay here? I can’t. Rasa needs me.
She waited until the sound of their boots faded before slipping toward the dungeon entrance. Her movements were deliberate and quiet, each step calculated as she descended the cold stone stairs.
Voices filtered up toward her, faint but growing louder. She pressed herself against the wall, her breath shallow as she strained to listen.
“You have some nerve,” Dal’akar’s voice rang out, sharp with fury.
Another voice followed, smoother, practiced, and calm. Rufus. “Your Highness, I assure you, I’m merely trying to prevent chaos. The guards were a precaution.”
Alara’s pulse quickened as she crept closer, her fingers brushing the cool stone for balance. She edged near enough to hear every word, her heart pounding as the confrontation unfolded.