The damp stone pressed against Delwyn’s spine, cold enough to seep through her torn tunic. The cell stank of Mold, sweat, and old blood, thick enough to coat her tongue when she swallowed. She had tried to sleep at first—curled against the farthest wall, arms wrapped around her aching ribs—but sleep wouldn’t come. Not in this place. Not before tomorrow.

Tomorrow, she would die.

The thought settled in her chest, heavy as iron. It wasn’t the death itself that bothered her—she had brushed against its edge too many times before to fear it now. No, what clawed at her ribs like a rusted dagger was the way it would happen.

Not on a battlefield, sword in hand, but kneeling. Bound. Powerless.

It wasn’t the death of a warrior. It was the death of a traitor.

Her fingers curled against the rough stone floor. Traitor. They would carve that word into her grave—if she was lucky enough to get one.

The Oath That Led Her Here

She had never wanted to betray King Arrand Galborn. For years, she had fought for him, bled for him, killed in his name. She had done the things others whispered about in dark taverns, things that haunted her long after the battlefield had gone quiet.

But it had all been for something. Or so she had told herself.

Varfaún was a kingdom of thieves, warlords, and liars long before Galborn took the throne. He was supposed to be different. He had worn the crown with iron resolve, ruled with a steady hand and an unshakable will. At least, that’s what the people believed.

But Delwyn had seen the truth.

She saw it in the way he spoke in hushed voices with men who stank of death, in the way he made those who questioned him disappear. She saw it in the way the city changed, the way its people lived in fear, flinching at shadows.

Stolen novel; please report.

And she saw it in the dungeons beneath the castle.

That was when she had known. The moment she stood before that altar, staring down at the carved-up remains of those taken in the night, she knew.

Galborn wasn’t just a tyrant. He wasn’t just a king drunk on power.

He was something worse.

She had drawn her sword that night, hand steady as she stormed into his chambers. Steel against his throat. For a moment, she thought she had done it, that she had ended the rot before it could spread further.

But she hesitated. A single breath. A single thought.

And that was all it took.

*****

They dragged her through the halls like a dog, her own men pinning her arms, slamming her face against stone until her vision blurred. The Hounds had beaten her half to death before throwing her in this cell. She hadn’t fought back. Not because she couldn’t, but because they weren’t the enemy.

She had fought beside them for years. She had trusted them. Some of them, she had called friends.

And now they were the ones who would watch her die.

She let out a slow breath, shifting against the wall. The pain flared instantly—ribs fractured, lip split, fingers swollen from where they had stomped on them.

The execution wouldn’t take long. A single, clean stroke if the headsman was in a merciful mood. A jagged one if he was drunk on too much mead.

She wondered which she would get.

The corridor beyond the cell was silent. It had been for hours—after the last guard had passed, after the prisoners had settled into their slow descent toward death.

Until now.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The sound of steel boots against stone.

Delwyn shifted, ignoring the sharp pull of her ribs. Not another prisoner. Not a rat scurrying along the floor.

The Black Hounds walked like this. Not rushed, not careless. They wanted you to hear them coming.

A shadow passed over the bars of her cell.

The flickering torchlight caught a gleam of armour—dark steel, polished black. Galborn’s signia. A soldier of the king.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, the guard reached for the key at his belt.

The lock groaned, the door swung open, and a gust of cold air flooded the cell.

The man—Doran Cass—stepped inside, sword still sheathed at his hip. His face was hard, unreadable, but his eyes flickered with something that wasn’t cruelty.

Pity.

Delwyn let out a slow breath. “Didn’t think I’d get an escort.”

Doran exhaled sharply through his nose. Not quite a laugh. “It’s time.”

Delwyn looked past him, into the dim corridor. Two more stood beyond the door—Hounds, clad in the king’s black armour. Her heartbeat didn’t quicken, didn’t falter. It had always been leading to this.

She pushed herself up from the wall, ignoring the way the cell swayed around her. Her legs ached. Her ribs screamed. But she kept her back straight, her chin level.

She wouldn’t kneel. Not yet.

Doran hesitated, just for a breath, before stepping aside.

“Let’s go.”

Delwyn walked forward.

Tomorrow had come early.