The needle trembled in Sofia’s blood-slicked fingers, her knuckles pale against its delicate silver glint. Around her, the fortress groaned under the relentless barrage outside—every distant crash of a catapult’s payload sent tremors snaking through the slate beneath her boots, rattling her spine and echoing like the footsteps of giants in the cavernous infirmary. Dust cascaded from the ceiling with each impact, catching faint orange light from the flickering lanterns and settling in her hair, her eyes, her throat.

A crude wooden table sprawled before her, worn and scarred, its splintered edges now slick with sweat and blood. On it, a soldier writhed and wept, his pale face twisted in agony. His trembling hands still gripped the silver eagle pendant around his neck—a charm too small to shield him from the agony coursing through his broken body. Sofia had already sewn shut three gaping wounds that had torn through his chest and shoulder like the teeth of a beast, but six more remained: red holes the size of arrowheads and deep slashes running like cruel rivers down his arms and legs. The injuries varied, but the cries were always the same, raw and ragged, ringing through the stone air like a dirge.

The soldier thrashed, the table creaking beneath his weight, his breath shallow and uneven. Sofia gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus as she threaded the needle into his torn flesh. His skin, cold and clammy, gave way too easily under her shaking hands, and the moment the sharp metal pierced him, he howled—a sound that split the air they breathed.

'I know,' Sofia said, her voice trembling but firm. Her throat burned from the stench, a sickly mixture of sweat, blood, and bile that clung to her with cruel persistence. 'I know it hurts, but stay calm! Please—stay still.'

The soldier didn’t hear her. His screams filled the cavernous space, drowning out everything but the thunder of the siege and the chaos of the makeshift infirmary. A nurse darted past her, skirts flaring and arms piled high with linen bandages, clutching them as if they were gold. Her shoes struck the slate with hurried, desperate taps that sounded like the sandy grains of an hourglass—another life slipping away. Sofia glimpsed her wide, panicked eyes before she disappeared into the shadows beyond the table, where more men cried out for aid.

Sofia’s gaze flickered around the room—if one could even call it that. The infirmary was a cold, oversized cavern carved from the bones of the fortress, its walls damp with sweat and grime. Torches sputtered in their brackets, their wavering flames barely holding back the darkness as blood pooled in the uneven cracks of the floor. The air itself felt heavy, oppressive, thick with the iron tang of death.

Somewhere near the back of the room, a man’s scream ended abruptly, followed by silence. Sofia dared not look.

The man’s cries exploded, the sound raw and unrelenting. 'Mother! Gods, please, help me!' His voice, hoarse and broken, cracked with the weight of his suffering. He wasn’t much older than Sofia—perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven—but he wept and screamed like a child ripped from his cradle. Tears streaked his dirt-stained face, mingling with sweat and blood as his body writhed against the table.

His flimsy arms flailed toward her again, weakly batting at her hands in desperate, instinctive attempts to stop her. His movements had no real strength, but they still jolted her heart with every swing. He’s scared, she reminded herself. Terrified. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

'Hold him still!' Sofia barked, her voice trembling as she glanced at the soldier holding the man’s shoulders down. The older soldier grunted, leaning his weight against the wounded man to pin him to the blood-soaked table.

'You have to keep going, Your Majesty,' the soldier growled at Sofia through gritted teeth, though his own face had gone pale from the cries of his comrade.

I know, Sofia thought, forcing her hands to move despite the way they shook.

Around her, the infirmary churned with chaos. The screams of the dying merged into one endless wail, punctuated by the crashing booms of the siege outside. The fortress trembled again, shaking dust from the cavernous ceiling like an angry god rattling his cage. Lantern flames sputtered in their sconces, casting frantic, flickering shadows across the blood-spattered stone walls.

And the smell—the stench—was unbearable. Sweat, blood, rot, and something deeper and darker, like rusted iron steeped in decay. It clung to her skin, crept into her lungs with every breath, and settled heavy in her stomach like a stone. Sofia’s gag reflex twitched, but she swallowed it down and focused.

She pulled the thread tight, sealing the first wound shut with an ugly line of crimson-streaked stitches. The man sobbed beneath her touch, his voice reduced to pitiful gasps and hiccups, his body shuddering violently.

'Done,' Sofia whispered, though the word felt hollow. She glanced up and immediately wished she hadn’t.

The next wound was even worse. It gaped across his side like a second mouth, torn flesh and muscle exposed in gruesome layers. Deep red blood pulsed from it with every weak beat of his heart, soaking into the table, into her sleeves, and dripping steadily onto the slate floor in thick rivulets. The blood pooled like spilled wine, turning the cracks between stones into crimson rivers.

Sofia’s head swam. Her stomach clenched violently, threatening to send her meagre dinner spilling onto the ground, but she swallowed hard and pushed the feeling down. Focus.

She fumbled for another length of thread with clumsy, blood-slick fingers. Her vision blurred as she jabbed the needle into his torn flesh.

The man’s body arched up off the table as he screamed—ragged, earsplitting, hopeless. 'Gods, please—stop!” he howled, his voice breaking into sobs that made Sofia’s chest ache.

I’m sorry, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.

'I need you to get through this,' Sofia said, her voice soft but steady, as if she could pull calmness from some secret well inside her. She tied the stitch off and pierced his skin again, the needle sliding through flesh with sickening ease. 'You’ve done so well with the rest, hang on a little longer.'

Her words were met with no reply beyond the man’s whimpering cries, his lips trembling as he clutched at the bloodied eagle pendant hanging from his neck. He whispered something—perhaps a prayer, perhaps a plea—but the words were lost beneath the din of the infirmary.

Voices crashed around Sofia’s head like waves against the coast—agonised screams of the wounded tangled with the sharp, relentless bark of Doctor Renando’s orders. The sound was everywhere, suffocating, a great ball of noise that swallowed her whole.

'Water!' Sofia shouted, her voice raw and strained as she pulled the needle through another tear of flesh. Her fingers, slick with blood, moved with frantic precision, tying knots in trembling loops.

She didn’t see who answered her plea, but a bottle was thrust into her outstretched hand, cold glass pressing against her palm like a lifeline. For a moment, everything else faded—the cries, the crashing siege outside, even the man’s convulsing body on the table. Sofia tipped the bottle to her lips, and the water spilled into her throat, cool and clean. Relief washed through her as the liquid soothed the dryness that had scraped her voice down to dry sand.

She sighed shakily, clutching the bottle as though it might hold her together. For a heartbeat, she thought of nothing else but the simple act of drinking. But then her eyes darted down to the man writhing before her. His screams had died into rasping, desperate breaths, his lips cracked like parched earth, darkened with dried blood. He needs this more than you.

Sofia froze, the guilt coiling in her gut like a tightening knot. He’s the one dying, not you.

She dragged her focus back to the wound, driving the needle through his torn skin with renewed urgency. Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes as it mingled with the grime on her face. Her hands shook from exhaustion, but she forced them steady.

When the final stitch was pulled tight, Sofia dropped the needle onto the stained table with a clatter and grabbed the water bottle. She leaned over the man, her body aching, and brought it to his cracked lips.

'Drink,' she said firmly, her voice hoarse but steady.

The man flinched at first, his body jerking as though even kindness hurt him now. His breathing came in ragged pants, and his bloodied face twisted with confusion, as if he could not understand why anyone would offer him relief. But as the water touched his lips, he seized the bottle weakly with trembling hands, gulping down what little he could.

The sound of him swallowing was soft, barely audible beneath the chaos, but Sofia heard it as clear as a prayer.

'Th-thank you…' His voice cracked, no louder than a whisper, but his words made her chest tighten. 'Your Majesty…'

Sofia stilled. Her eyes met his—wide, glassy, and shining with fevered delirium. Yet he still knows who I am. The thought would have been absurd if it didn’t break her heart. She wasn’t a queen today or an angel. She was just a girl with bloody hands and a needle, holding together lives that were already unraveling.

Another crash split the air, a deafening explosion that sent a tremor through the fortress walls. The ground lurched beneath her feet, and Sofia grabbed the edge of the table to keep herself steady. Dust rained down from the ceiling, landing in her hair, in her eyes. The man gasped, his body jolting, water spilling from his lips as his fingers clenched reflexively around the pendant he wore, now streaked with red.

The doors crashed open, slamming against the stone walls with a sound like thunder.

A flurry of golden soldiers stumbled through, their armour battered and smeared with soot and blood, their breaths ragged and desperate. Lord Gallo was the first to rise, his gilded armour dulled with grime, but his posture remained stiff with authority. Behind him, Serben and Aurelio struggled to pull Luis to his feet, her brother’s face ashen with exhaustion. Four royal guard knights followed close behind, their weapons drawn, their faces hard with the grim knowledge of failure.

The sharp tang of sweat, metal, and smoke filled the room as the soldiers gathered themselves.

Sofia’s heart seized in her chest as she watched them. Their state said more than words ever could. Still, she sprinted toward Lord Gallo, her pulse hammering in her ears like a war drum.

'What’s happened?' she demanded, her voice higher than she’d intended. The taste of dread was sharp on her tongue.

Lord Gallo’s face turned toward her, grim and streaked with a line of blood across his cheek. 'The fortress is taken, Your Majesty,' he said, his voice like gravel—rough, cold, and final. 'We all need to retreat.'

Sofia stumbled to a halt, as though the words themselves had struck her. “What?” The single word tore from her throat, disbelief twisting her features. Her eyes flickered to Luis, searching his face for confirmation, for something—anything—that would prove Lord Gallo wrong.

But Luis nodded solemnly, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the truth. His lips pressed into a thin, weary line, and that simple gesture landed like a blow to Sofia’s gut.

Her stomach dropped. The room seemed to tilt.

'But…' she choked, her breath catching, 'what about the plan? You stuck to my plan, didn’t you?' Her voice cracked, a tremor betraying her desperation.

Lord Gallo’s expression darkened, frustration flaring in his stormy eyes. He ran a gloved hand through his matted hair, smearing more grime across his forehead. 'There was no time,' he growled, his tone low and simmering with the weight of regret. 'I needed to change something. We were already on the back foot.'

Despite the blood staining her hands—slick, dark, and beginning to crust between her fingers—Sofia rested them on the back of her head. Her arms trembled as if the weight of the world now bore down on her shoulders, and her breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. The stifling air of the infirmary was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and sweat, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that refused to leave her nose.

She tried to calm herself, to clear her mind, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest, her ribs straining with each shallow inhale. Anger flared like a spark catching dry tinder, searing its way into her bones. Her glare snapped to Lord Gallo, who stood firm, his jaw set and his expression frustratingly stoic. Not a hint of remorse clouded his face—no acknowledgment of the lives lost, of the fortress she had trusted him to hold.

Commanding armies for fifty years, is it? The bitter thought coiled like a serpent in her mind, its venom strong and unrelenting. Where was all that experience when it mattered, my lord?

But she bit down on the words, swallowing them with a taste more sour than bile. Now was not the time to lash out. Her people—those who were still alive—needed her clear-headed. Her fury would have to wait.

She forced herself to speak, her voice smashing through the din of clinking armour and far-off screams like a hammer. 'Do we have any way to get out of here?'

Lord Gallo’s sharp eyes flicked to hers, their usual steel softened only by the lines of exhaustion etched into his weathered face. 'There is a pass,' he replied, his voice low and gravelly, each word clipped by urgency. 'It leads into the mountains. But—' He hesitated, a flicker of hesitation darkening his gaze. 'We’ll need men to brace the doors. Buy time for what’s left of our forces to escape.'

Sofia’s stomach dropped like a stone. Men to brace the doors—men who would not make it out alive. She swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat, her mind racing with the brutal arithmetic of sacrifice. How many lives would this cost? How many families would mourn?

She clenched her jaw and nodded once, her decision swift and unforgiving. 'Get our strongest men and give us as much time as you can muster.' Her voice came out steadier than she felt, every word taut with determination. 'Take my royal guard as well. They’ll hold the line.'

For a beat, Lord Gallo’s eyes searched hers, perhaps to argue, to insist she keep her guards close for her own protection. But Sofia’s expression was iron, her gaze unyielding, and he seemed to think better of it. He dipped his head in a curt bow. 'Yes, Your Majesty.'

Without another word, he turned on his heel, his armour clanging like an old war drum as he strode toward the doors. The royal guard fell in behind him, their golden armour smeared with ash and blood but their posture unwavering, their faces set with grim resolve. Gallo’s sharp voice barked orders at the scattered soldiers nearby. 'You two! Barricade that hall! Reinforce the doors!'

The sound of boots pounding against stone echoed through the cavernous space, a desperate symphony of preparation. Weapons were unsheathed—steel shrieking against leather scabbards—and shields thudded together as soldiers formed ranks. The clangs of armour struck Sofia’s ears like hammers on an anvil, rhythmic and relentless, a cruel reminder that time was slipping away.

'Serben, Aurelio, get my brother to safety—go!'

Her voice was sharp, laced with desperation, but Serben stood his ground, his face taut with concern. 'What about you, Your Majesty?' he protested, his deep voice cracking under the weight of the chaos surrounding them. 'You’re the queen. We must get you to safety first.'

Sofia turned to retort, the words already blistering on her tongue, but a sudden, frantic shout from across the hall cut through the chaos.

'I’ll take her, my lord!'

A hand shot up, trembling yet firm, rising above the throng. Sofia’s gaze tracked it, her eyes darting down a thin, armoured arm to the slender figure of a man in golden plate. The flickering torchlight cast fractured shadows over his face, but she recognised him instantly—Sir Nicolas.

His voice carried with an edge of shrillness, forced steady against the backdrop of distant horns and the fortress’s relentless rumbling. 'I’ll make sure the Queen reaches safety!'

For the briefest moment, the world seemed to pause, as if even the stone walls held their breath. Sofia’s gaze swept across the room. Around her, the wounded lay sprawled on cots or crumpled where they had fallen, their blood staining the floor in dark, glistening pools. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and smoke—a suffocating fog that clung to her skin. Moans of pain echoed like ghostly wails, punctuated by the distant pounding of enemy battering rams against the great doors.

Her heart clenched, aching in her chest. These men—her men—were dying. Faces contorted with agony turned toward her, hollow eyes pleading silently for salvation. Some didn’t even bother to look, their bodies too far gone to care anymore. She could feel their weight pressing down on her, a thousand invisible hands clawing at her sleeves.

The wounded, she thought bitterly, the words echoing in her skull. They’ll die if we leave them here. I can’t abandon them.

Her breath hitched, panic and helplessness clawing up her throat like a rising tide. Sofia shook her head violently, dislodging the thought as though it might cease to exist if she denied it hard enough. 'I need to get the wounded to safety!' she cried, her voice fierce and trembling all at once. 'They’ll die if we don’t get them out!'

'Your Majesty,' Serben urged, stepping closer as the ground beneath them trembled again—this time harder, sending a sharp crack splintering up the wall. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, stinging Sofia’s eyes. 'We cannot argue about this,' he pleaded, his tone bordering on desperation now. 'If we do, we will all die.'

Sofia looked at him, her vision swimming with emotion. The man’s face, usually so steady and composed, now looked carved from stone—grim and pained, as though he, too, wrestled with the same impossible choice.

Another shudder rocked the fortress. In the distance, the doors boomed like thunder as the enemy’s assault grew louder, closer. Sofia could hear shouting from outside the hall, men’s voices turning hoarse as they fought to hold the line. A sharp scream rang out—someone was dying.

'Please,' Serben said, his voice softening, though urgency still rattled in every word. 'Allow Sir Nicolas to get you to safety. If you fall here, the kingdom falls with you. We cannot lose our queen.'

The fortress shuddered again, a deep, bone-rattling groan that echoed through the stone walls like the death cry of a great beast. The air quivered, dust raining from the vaulted ceiling in thin, pale clouds. The crashing of shouts—desperate orders and panicked screams—battered Sofia’s ears, as if the fortress itself was alive, collapsing under the weight of its agony.

'Your Majesty, we must go!' Sir Nicolas’ voice cut through the din, urgent yet steady. His gloved fingers wrapped around her arm, tight and unrelenting, as though he feared she might dissolve into smoke and slip away.

'I can’t leave them here to die!' Sofia yanked her arm free, stumbling back a step, her eyes darting toward the infirmary. The scene burned itself into her memory—bodies writhing on blood-slick cots, torn flesh and hollow eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. One man’s hand reached for something unseen, trembling violently before it fell limp. Her chest constricted painfully, every face a life she was responsible for, every groan another nail hammered into her ribs.

'Sofia!' Serben’s voice erupted over the chaos, sharp as steel. He staggered as another tremor surged through the fortress, the floor shifting beneath their feet like a ship caught in a storm. 'Doctor Renando and the nurses will do all they can! You cannot help them now!'

Another roar split the air—close this time. The sound was a brutal crescendo, followed by a heavy thud that sent the walls vibrating like a drum. A lantern hanging from the ceiling swung wildly, its flame sputtering as it threw jagged shadows across the stone.

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Sofia’s mouth opened, words rising to protest, but Sir Nicolas grabbed her again—his grip stronger this time, brooking no argument.

'No!' she cried, the desperation in her voice like glass cracking under pressure. 'I didn’t say goodbye to my brother!'

Her voice broke on the last word, the truth of it piercing her like a blade. She twisted her body, straining to look back, to see one glimpse of Luis among the chaos—anything to confirm that he was safe. But the infirmary was already receding into shadow as Sir Nicolas pulled her through the doorway and into the pitch-black halls of the Anthera.

The sounds of screaming and the metallic clangor of battle behind them grew muffled, swallowed by the choking quiet of the fortress interior. But the absence of sound brought no comfort. Each step Sofia took away from the wounded felt like a betrayal, like leaving a piece of herself behind to die alongside them.

'I didn’t say goodbye,' she whispered, the words trembling from her lips.

'I need to protect you, Your Majesty,' Nicolas said, his voice firm but calm, though the sharp tension in his tone betrayed his urgency. His gauntlet still enclosed her arm, a steel shackle that guided her forward without pause. 'I need to get you to safety.'

Sofia’s mind raced, thoughts tangling like threads pulled too tight. The faint echoes of the wounded reached her ears—hoarse cries for help, desperate prayers whispered to indifferent gods. Somewhere behind them, soldiers barked orders in clipped tones, their voices taut with the weight of impending death. The roaring clash of battle had ebbed into an eerie lull, broken only by the rhythmic, distant rumble of catapult fire. Each thunderous impact sent a tremor through the fortress, making the stone walls shiver like living things.

Her breaths came fast and shallow, harsh gasps that burned her throat. The sound of her own panting filled the narrowing world around her, a suffocating drumbeat of panic. She tried to steady herself, to wrestle her focus back to the present, but her thoughts skittered like frightened birds. She had failed them. She was running away, and it was all her fault.

In the stables, the sharp tang of manure and hay mixed with the acrid scent of burning wood from the fortress above. The warm, damp air was thick and oppressive, making it hard to draw a full breath. Sir Nicolas moved with the urgency of a man carrying the weight of the world. He grabbed the reins of a dark chestnut horse, its flanks already glistening with sweat from the chaos. The animal snorted, its ears flicking nervously at the distant echoes of destruction.

'Hold on,' Sir Nicolas muttered, his voice strained but steady. Without waiting for permission, he took Sofia by the waist, lifting her onto the horse as if she weighed nothing. His grip was firm but impersonal, and she barely had time to adjust to the saddle before he swung himself up in front of her.

Sofia clutched at the edge of the saddle, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the smooth leather. Her legs squeezed tightly against the horse’s sides, the movement unfamiliar and awkward. She hated the sensation of being a passenger, powerless to guide her own fate.

Nicolas took the reins with both hands, his gauntlets glinting faintly in the dim light of the stables. 'Hold onto me,' he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The horse lurched forward, its powerful legs propelling them into motion. Sofia grabbed at Nicolas’ armour instinctively, her fingers curling around the cold steel of his breastplate.

The pounding of hooves reverberated through the tunnels, each strike a deafening drumbeat in the cavernous space. The narrow walls around them amplified the sound, creating an almost unbearable cacophony. The flaming torches lining the passage flickered wildly as the draft from their gallop stirred the stagnant air, casting erratic shadows that danced like spectres along the stone.

Every stride felt like a betrayal. With each thud of the horse’s hooves, Sofia felt the weight of her failure pressing harder against her chest. The fortress was falling, and she was galloping away from it—away from the cries of the wounded, away from her brother, away from the soldiers fighting and dying because of her plan.

This is your fault. The thought rose unbidden, its venom wrapping tightly around her throat. You trusted Lord Gallo. You knew he wouldn’t follow the plan, but you let him take control anyway.

The realisation stabbed deeper than any blade. She had entrusted him with everything—the defence of the fortress, the lives of her soldiers—and he had failed. No, she corrected herself bitterly. You failed. You trusted him, and now they’ll all pay the price.

The horse found its way into the mountain pass, its hooves pounding uneven slate with every frantic stride. The impact reverberated through Sofia’s body, each jolt rattling her bones until her muscles screamed in protest. The wind whipped through the narrow pass like an icy predator, its claws scraping against her exposed skin, tearing through her dress as if it were paper. Every gust carried whispers—phantoms of battle cries, distant and distorted—reminding her of the fortress now burning behind them.

The night swallowed the landscape whole, a vast expanse of black broken only by the faint gleam of moonlight on jagged rocks. A heavy fog coiled around the ground like a serpent, shifting and slithering with each breath of wind. Sofia’s eyes darted through the gloom, her vision straining for movement. For shapes. For shadows. Somewhere out there, they were being hunted. She could feel it, an invisible weight pressing against her back, making her shiver. The Galians had taken Anthera; they would come for her next. They will find me, she thought, her stomach twisting, and only the Gods know what they’ll do.

The horse shrieked suddenly—a sound that cut through the night like a dagger. It reared back, its muscles spasming, and Sofia felt herself lurching forward. Her hands clawed at the saddle, desperate for purchase, but there was nothing. The beast crashed down, legs folding awkwardly beneath it, and Sofia tumbled through the air. The world spun violently as she fell.

Her body slammed into the slate. Pain exploded through her skull, stars bursting behind her eyelids before everything went black for a heartbeat. A sharp, metallic taste flooded her mouth—blood. She lay motionless, face pressed against the cold ground, her shallow breaths stirring up clouds of dust. For a moment, all she could hear was the wind’s hollow wail and the drumbeat of her thundering pulse.

Slowly, Sofia lifted her head. The ache in her body roared to life, jagged and unforgiving. Blood dripped steadily from her nose, hot against her freezing skin, pooling on the stone like dark ink. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up, her fingers scraping against slate shards.

A groan.

Her gaze snapped to the side. Sir Nicolas lay crumpled a few feet away, his body twisted awkwardly, pinned beneath the dead weight of the horse. Blood seeped from the knight’s forehead, dripping down his cheek in thin red rivulets. He stirred, gasping as he tried to pull his leg free. 'Your… M-Majesty…' His voice came out strangled, the pain pulling taut through every syllable.

Sofia struggled to her knees, the slate shifting precariously beneath her palms. Her heart pounded wildly, her ears straining to hear past her own ragged breaths. And then she froze.

Hooves.

The sound was distant at first, a faint, rhythmic thumping that quickly grew louder. She turned her head, her breath catching in her throat. From the fog, two figures emerged—mounted riders, their silhouettes tall and dark against the pale mist. The horses moved with a chilling calm, as though their riders knew there was no need to rush. The hunt was already over.

One of the figures hefted a crossbow, his movements unhurried, almost casual. Sofia’s gaze flicked to the bolt embedded in the horse’s neck, its blood still pooling on the uneven slate. Her breath hitched as the man lowered the weapon, his free hand brushing against a quiver slung at his hip. Beside him, the taller figure swung a blade idly, its edge glinting dully through the dense fog.

Their strides were slow but deliberate, each step crunching against the slate as their figures loomed larger. The mist peeled away to reveal their faces: one was short and bald, his skin pallid and pockmarked, his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. The other, taller and younger, had the kind of handsome face that might have been charming were it not for the dead-eyed grin stretched across it. Both exuded the same grim confidence, as though they’d already decided how this moment would end.

The bald man’s eyes flicked to Sir Nicolas, who was writhing on the ground, his breaths uneven and laboured. A low chuckle rumbled in the man’s throat. 'What’s the matter?' he sneered, tilting his head mockingly. 'Something wrong with your leg?'

Sofia’s stomach churned as Sir Nicolas, against all odds, forced himself upright. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and blood, but his hand closed firmly around the hilt of his sword. 'Stay… away…' he growled, though his voice wavered.

The bald man exchanged an amused glance with his companion before taking a lazy step forward. 'Oh, you’ve still got some fight in you? That’s admirable.'

With a roar, Sir Nicolas surged forward, his blade slicing through the air in a desperate arc. But the bald man moved like a snake—swift, fluid, and ruthless. He caught Sir Nicolas’ arm mid-swing with an almost effortless grip, twisting it until the knight let out a strangled cry.

Sofia scrambled backward, her knees scraping against the jagged ground. 'Nicolas!’ she screamed, her voice cracking.

The bald man glanced at her, his smirk widening. 'Pathetic,' he muttered, before turning back to Sir Nicolas. Without hesitation, he drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the knight’s throat.

The blade slid in with a sickening crunch, and blood erupted in a violent spray, painting the golden armour in dark crimson. Sir Nicolas’ body convulsed, his hands clawing at the dagger, at his throat, at anything. Guttural, wet gargles escaped his lips as he crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock and terror.

Sofia’s scream echoed through the pass, raw and broken, but the bald man didn’t flinch. He pulled the dagger free with a deliberate slowness, wiping the blood off on the knight’s white cloak before letting the lifeless body flop onto the slate. Sir Nicolas’ chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps, the choking sound of his own blood filling the air as it pooled beneath him.

The taller man stepped forward, his expression one of mild amusement. 'You didn’t have to make such a mess,' he said, his tone almost conversational as he surveyed the spreading crimson.

'Shut it,' the bald man snapped, though his grin never wavered. 'He deserved it for making me waste my energy.'

Sofia’s chest heaved as she struggled to breathe. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to move, but her body felt paralysed. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the faint whimpering of Sir Nicolas as the life drained from him.

The bald man turned his gaze back to her, his smile curling into something darker, something that made her blood run cold. 'And now, Your Majesty,' he said, taking a step toward her. 'Let’s see if you’ve got any fight, or if you’re as useless as your knight here.'

Sofia’s heart pounded like a war drum in her chest, each frantic beat rattling through her ribs. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as she fought to command her limbs to move, to obey her screaming mind, Get up. Get up! The slate beneath her palms scraped her skin raw, its sharp edges biting into her as she clawed for purchase. Her trembling arms quivered under her weight, her body weak and betraying her.

The sound of footsteps—slow and cruel—crunched closer over the loose stone, each one like a nail driven into her spine. The bald man’s shadow stretched across the slate, creeping toward her like an executioner’s blade. Sofia forced her head up, her wild, frantic eyes locking onto his figure as it loomed over her. His grin was a grotesque slash across his face, his dagger still slick with Sir Nicolas’ blood.

Is this it? The thought splintered through her mind, jagged and cold. Is this how I die? In this forgotten place, alone and helpless? Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed glass, but no sound came—no scream, no plea. Just her own frantic heartbeat drumming in her ears.

'No,' she whispered to herself, the word trembling out of her like a prayer. Not like this. Not now.

But the man’s cruel smirk widened as if he’d heard her, as if he relished the futility of her defiance. Without warning, something struck her—a sudden, sharp explosion of pain against the side of her head. Her vision fractured into shards of black and white. The world lurched violently as her body collapsed back onto the slate, her face pressed into its cold, gritty surface.

Warm blood trickled from her temple, pooling around her cheek and staining the ground beneath her. Sofia tried to blink the darkness away, to focus, but her eyelids felt like lead, heavy and unmovable. Her mind drifted, unmoored, the sounds around her blurring into something distant and far away—like waves crashing on a distant shore.

From somewhere in the thickening void, a voice broke through, low and guttural.

'What are you doing, you fool? The King will want to see her!'

The cool splat of a raindrop on Sofia’s head jolted her awake. It rolled down her temple, mingling with the sticky crust of dried blood that clung to her skin. Her eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurring against the dim, shifting shadows of the slate walls around her. She lay flat on the unforgiving rock, its jagged edges digging into her back and shoulders. Her head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, each beat a sharp reminder of the blow the bald man had dealt her.

Sofia blinked slowly, trying to orient herself, but every movement sent a wave of pain shooting through her skull. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint metallic tang of blood and the earthy smell of wet stone. She winced, the gritty sensation beneath her pressing harder as she tried to shift. Her arms refused to budge. Panic tightened in her chest.

She glanced down and saw the thick rope binding her wrists together. The coarse fibers scraped her skin raw, cutting deep enough to sting with every twitch. Her fingers tingled, cold and numb. She tugged weakly at the restraints, the faint scrape of rope against rock echoing in the confined space. It was useless. The knots were expertly tied, and the effort only sent another jolt of pain up her arms.

A shiver ran down her spine, the chill of the cave sinking into her bones. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to focus past the pain and the ache of her bruised pride. I’ve lost. The words rang hollow and bitter in her mind, a weight heavier than the ropes. That was how she had ended up here—in this damp, suffocating prison.

Memories clawed their way to the surface, fragmented and disjointed. The slate mountain pass. The horse’s cry. Sir Nicolas falling, blood pooling beneath him. The bald man’s cruel grin. A shadowy figure stepping forward with a barked order before everything went black. She groaned softly, pressing her head back against the cold stone as the fragments threatened to overwhelm her.

Her thoughts darted to the others. Serben, Aurelio, Luis—did they escape? Her chest tightened at the thought of her brother, his face pale but determined as she’d shouted for him to be taken to safety. Had he made it? Or had the Galians caught them, too? The questions gnawed at her, their answers just out of reach.

A shaky sigh escaped her lips, the sound fragile and defeated. Her breath misted in the cool air, a faint reminder of her own warmth against the encroaching cold. She tilted her head to the side, staring into the gloom of the cave, searching for anything—a weakness in the stone, a hint of light, a way out.

But all she found was darkness. The kind that felt heavy and endless, wrapping around her like the ropes at her wrists.

Before her lay the cold, unyielding metal bars of a jail cell. Each iron rod was slick with condensation, the torchlight outside casting flickering shadows that danced and twisted across the stone walls. They seemed alive, taunting her, curling like mocking fingers around her fate. Sofia stared at them, willing one of those shadows to transform—a rescuer stepping out of the dark to break her chains and lead her to safety. But even as her heart flickered with the faintest ember of hope, her mind extinguished it.

Tales of gallant knights crashing through prison walls to save a princess were stories for children, spun by poets to distract from the ugliness of real life. This wasn’t a ballad. This was a grim, unadorned truth. She was alone, trapped, and utterly defeated. The only escape Sofia could envision was one where she left this cell not as a queen, or as a princess, but as a corpse—her head severed from her body and placed on a Galian pike as a trophy.

The thought coiled tightly in her chest, each breath growing heavier, sharper, as if the air itself turned to glass and cut her lungs. The weight of failure settled over her, crushing and inescapable. She’d lost. Not just the fortress, not just the battle—but everything. The iron weight of that realisation pressed harder with each passing second, constricting her like the ropes that had bound her earlier.

Some queen I am, she thought bitterly, the words dripping with self-loathing. Her fists clenched, though she lacked the strength to drive them into the unforgiving stone floor beneath her.

Her heart pounded in the silence, each thud echoing her despair. Anthera—her proud fortress, her soldiers who had trusted her, the carefully constructed plan that was meant to secure their survival—everything had crumbled to dust. Her mind replayed the sequence over and over, each memory sharper and more agonising than the last. Lord Gallo’s disobedience. The wounded left behind in the infirmary. Luis…

The uncertainty gnawed at her, a merciless predator tearing her apart from the inside. Have I doomed them all?

Tears pricked at her eyes, blurring her vision, but Sofia refused to let them fall. She bit the inside of her cheek until the metallic tang of blood touched her tongue. Weakness was a luxury she couldn’t afford—not now, not ever. If this truly was the end, she would meet it with her head held high, the dignity of a queen etched into her final moments.

The flickering torchlight outside her cell stretched and warped the shadows, their forms growing larger and more ominous along the slate walls. The crunch of boots grinding against loose stone echoed in the corridor, each step sending a chill through her already cold body. Sofia stiffened, her breath catching in her throat as the shadows resolved into dark figures clad in black armour. The torchlight gleamed off their polished surfaces, giving them an otherworldly, predatory glow.

Her stomach churned as the man at the front stepped into full view, his icy stare locking onto her. That face—those sharp features and the perpetual sneer curling his lips—she recognised them instantly. King Rickard. His presence filled the space like a thundercloud, heavy and suffocating, and the faint glint of recognition in his cold eyes made her heart sink further. He knew her, just as she knew him.

Sofia forced herself to remain still, though her every instinct screamed to retreat further into the shadows of her cell. The damp chill of the stone pressed against her back like the grip of death itself. She squinted at the group behind him—two guards, one carrying a massive sword strapped across his back, and the other, the bald man who had knocked her out. His smirk was a twisted echo of the cruelty he had inflicted. The sight of him sent a flash of hot anger through her, momentarily overtaking the fear that threatened to root her in place.

King Rickard came to a stop just outside the bars, his armoured frame dominating the narrow hallway. He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were some curious animal caged for his amusement. The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the dungeon.

Sofia’s mouth felt dry, her heartbeat drumming a frantic rhythm in her chest. She forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. If her body betrayed her fear, it wouldn’t be because of trembling or quivering. She gathered what little strength she could muster, pushing herself to her feet.

Her legs felt like lead, her movements sluggish, but she stood, squaring her shoulders. The flicker of the torches played tricks with the light, making her shadow loom larger against the back wall. Sofia clung to that image. She needed to be larger than life, even if she felt as small as a mouse cornered by a cat.

Her gaze locked onto King Rickard’s, her amber eyes burning with defiance. She poured every ounce of venom she could muster into her words. 'It appears you’ve won,' she said, her voice cold but steady, betraying none of the storm raging within her.

King Rickard stood motionless, his face a mask of indifference, as if her words held no more weight than the whisper of the wind. He finally spoke, his tone devoid of triumph, as if this moment was nothing more than a routine task. 'Sir Finn, take her head so we can end this. We’ll deal with the rest of them soon enough.'

The chill of his decree settled over the room like a death shroud. Sofia’s breath hitched, but she forced herself to keep her composure. Her eyes darted to Finn, the knight who had served her once—long ago, when peace was still possible. She searched his sea-green eyes for something—hesitation, regret, anything that might hint at the man he used to be.

Finn stepped forward reluctantly, his sword glinting in the flickering torchlight. 'Yes, Your Majesty,' he said, his voice low, strained. He gripped the hilt of his blade with knuckles turning white, as though the weight of the task ahead was a burden he could scarcely bear.

Fear wrapped its cold, unyielding fingers around Sofia’s throat, tightening with every step Finn took. Her heart pounded, a relentless drumbeat against her ribs. This was it. There would be no miraculous rescue, no clever escape. She’d lost. The reality of her failure crashed over her like a tidal wave, but she refused to crumble. If this was her end, she would face it with her pride intact.

King Rickard tilted his head slightly, his lips flickering into the faintest shadow of a smirk. 'Do you have any last words before you die?' he asked, his voice calm, almost casual, as though they were discussing the weather.

Rage surged through Sofia’s veins, scorching away the icy grip of fear. Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she glared at him with fiery defiance. 'My people will never forget this,' she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut stone.

'Good,' Rickard replied, his tone as cold as the steel in Finn’s hand. 'It will be a lesson to anyone who dares harm my blood.' He turned to Finn, his cloak sweeping behind him like the shadow of death. 'Bring me her head when you’re done.'

With that, King Rickard turned on his heel, marching toward the door. The bald man, ever the obedient lapdog, swung it open, bowing slightly as his master passed through. The heavy door closed with a resonant thud, leaving the room cloaked in an oppressive silence broken only by the crackling of the torches on the walls.

Sofia’s gaze snapped back to Finn. The sword gleamed ominously as he rested his hands on the pommel, his eyes fixed on her with a mixture of sorrow and determination. For a moment, neither moved, neither spoke. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, each second dragging like an eternity.

Sofia swallowed hard, her throat dry and raw as if she had swallowed broken glass. 'Finn, I—' she started, her voice cracking.

'Kneel,' Finn interrupted, his tone stern and unyielding.

Her breath hitched, her chest tightening. 'You don’t need to do this,' she pleaded, her voice trembling as she looked into his sea-green eyes, searching for even the faintest glimmer of hesitation.

'Yes, I do,' he said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth she once knew. His hands trembled ever so slightly on the hilt of his sword, but his gaze didn’t waver. 'Now, kneel. It will go faster if you cooperate.'

The command hung in the air like a death knell. Sofia’s breathing quickened, the dark slate walls pressing in on her, suffocating her. Her thoughts whirled as she fought to think of another way, any way out of this. But the sight of Finn, his black armour tarnished and splattered with the blood of her people, crushed any hope that this was still the man she once trusted.

Her knees buckled beneath her as the weight of inevitability settled on her shoulders. The icy slate sent a shock through her body as her knees touched the ground, the cold biting through her clothes. She let out a trembling exhale, trying to steady herself. Each heartbeat pounded in her ears, a relentless drumbeat of her fear.

Her mind flashed back to Galia, to the feast in King Rickard’s hall. She remembered Finn as he was then—smiling, laughing, telling her about his brother Neville and how the two used to spar in their father’s courtyard. She recalled the way he had bowed and asked her to dance, his hand warm and firm in hers as they twirled beneath the shimmering light of the torches. He had looked so handsome then, so alive. Now, all that remained was a shadow, a dog obeying its master’s cruel commands.

She clenched her fists, the ropes biting into her skin, and lifted her chin. Her shoulders straightened, and though her legs trembled, she forced herself to remain steady. If this was her end, she would face it as a queen.

Her voice quavered but didn’t break as she spoke. "If you see my brother at all..." She paused, her breath catching as tears burned her eyes, threatening to spill. She swallowed hard and pressed on. 'Tell him I’m sorry. Sorry I wasn’t a better sister to him. Sorry I wasn’t a better queen.' Her gaze softened, but her tone gained strength, the weight of her regret adding gravity to her words. 'I know he’ll wear the crown well and make our father proud.'

Sofia bowed her head, her breath shallow and ragged. She braced herself for the inevitable, her heart hammering like a caged bird desperate for escape. The icy steel of Finn’s blade pressed against the nape of her neck, sending a shiver racing down her spine. It wasn’t the sharp pain of the blade cutting yet—just the cold, unfeeling touch of metal marking the spot where her life would end.

Her thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of regret and longing. She saw her father’s stern but kind face, his eyes gleaming with pride as he spoke of her destiny. Her mother’s gentle hands brushing through her hair, soothing her on restless nights. Luis, her little brother, standing tall and defiant, so much like Father in those moments of knightly bravery. And Jacques... Jacques, with his mischievous grin, the way his laughter echoed in the halls of her memory, and the shadow of hurt in his eyes the day she accused him of treachery.

If only she could tell him she was sorry. If only she could see him smile one last time. But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, as if trying to anchor herself to these final moments of consciousness.

The room closed in on her, the air thick and oppressive. Each second stretched, dragging on in cruel mockery of time. She could feel the weight of Finn’s hesitation in the way his blade lingered on her neck, the faint tremor in his hand betraying his resolve. Sofia squeezed her eyes shut, her body rigid as she waited for the strike that would end her story.

Then, a deafening clang echoed through the chamber.

The noise crashed against the slate walls, reverberating like a thunderclap. Sofia flinched, her breath catching as her eyes flew open.