Wax was not wasted in prison cells. A torch burned outside of Cylene’s dark cell door, causing the narrow gap under the closure to glow faintly. She stared at that seam of light, unwilling to close her eyes and be alone with her memory of that crazed look on King Olanda’s face.

The old king was mad, no doubt. Willing and ready to believe the lies which the Chalbeam commander had handed him to cling to.

The bolt on the cell door released with a clash of metal on metal. Her throat tightened. There it was.

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King Olanda was mad, but not stupid. He would take what he could get out of his imprisonment, even if he had to indulge himself in his insanity. Immerse himself to his chin. Smother himself...and her.

Her heart pounded as an anonymous guard entered, seized her arm and pulled her to standing. She stumbled at the harsh handling, but there was no surprise at the meaning behind his glare. She would pay the price for her beauty until the fine day when peace was declared in the war between men and women. Hostility if not lechery. But this perception barely skated the surface of her consciousness. One thought. Room for only one.

The King had disclosed the location of the Vault. And she was sold, though at least, not cheaply.