Chapter 22 #2
Memories played like torchlight on the walls. He had loved the stables once. Had spent hours here as a boy, learning to ride, brushing down his favorite horse. Sunset. A pang shot through him. Was she still here?
He wanted to check. Just one look. But there was no time.
They reached the end of the passage, slipping out into the stables proper. A lantern hung near the main entrance, illuminating the rows of stalls.
Cedric’s breath hitched. This was it. They were inside. The courtyard lay beyond, silent; the castle looming ahead like a specter. Keeping low, Cedric led the way, slipping from shadow to shadow as they made their way toward the entrance to the dungeons.
As they neared their destination, a new problem presented itself. A jailer sat at a small table just inside the dungeon entrance, his boots propped up on the edge, picking at his teeth with a fingernail. A heavy ring of keys dangled from his belt, swaying as he shifted.
Cedric’s jaw tightened. They were so close. But without those keys, they might as well have been miles away from Finn.
“We need to get those keys,” Gwenna whispered.
Cedric nodded, his mind already racing. Brute force wasn’t an option. They couldn’t risk a struggle, not when guards could patrol just beyond sight. He and Gwenna were vastly outnumbered.
“I have an idea,” he murmured, the beginnings of a plan taking shape. “But it’s going to require some teamwork.” He quickly outlined his plan to Gwenna.
Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. “Now that sounds promising.” She grinned, already reaching into her pack. “And as it happens, I have just the thing to help.” She pulled out a small vial and held it up.
Cedric arched a brow. “And that is…?”
“A little something I picked up in the markets of Duskridge,” Gwenna said smugly. “A valerian tincture. It should knock him out long enough for us to do what we need to do.”
Cedric didn’t ask why she had such a thing in her possession. He had long ago learned not to question where Gwenna acquired her tricks. Instead, he nodded and moved into position to do his part.
On the far side of the courtyard, he reached for a precarious stack of crates and gave them a shove. They toppled with a tremendous crash, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls.
The jailer jerked upright, his boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
“Who’s there?” he called, already fumbling for the sword at his hip.
Cedric melted into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe.
While the jailer squinted into the darkness, muttering curses about stray cats and incompetent servants, Gwenna slipped behind him.
Silent as a breath, she reached for his mug. Not to take it—but to add to it.
Cedric held his breath, watching as she tilted the vial toward it, letting the liquid pour seamlessly into the ale. Gwenna picked up the mug, giving it a swirl. Then, just as quickly, she retreated, leaving the mug exactly where it had been.
Cedric waited as the man grumbled, rubbing at his eyes.
Then the jailer reached for the mug, lifted it to his lips, and took a deep swig.
They waited, pressed into the shadows, watching. The effect wasn’t immediate, but within minutes, the jailer’s head bobbed once, twice, before he slumped forward onto the table, snoring softly.
“Good work,” Cedric whispered as they approached.
Gwenna gave an ironic curtsy, then quickly snatched the keys from the sleeping man’s belt.
Meanwhile, Cedric rifled through the stack of papers spread haphazardly across the table.
The ink was smudged in places, but the names listed in the ledger sent a fresh wave of anger through him.
So many names he recognized. People who had once stood by his parents. Nobles, yes, but many common folk—bakers, cobblers, merchants. Farmers who had dared to voice dissent. His gaze skimmed lower, and his breath caught. Some of these names…they weren’t just Lunarethan.
Revendarian.
The realization sent a jolt through him. He had known Darius was turning the kingdom inward, isolating it, but this? These weren’t just political prisoners. They were refugees. People whose only crime was crossing the border.
His stomach twisted. These were people his parents might have once granted sanctuary. People who had fled their own lands, only to find Lunareth’s mercy had died with its former king.
Then his gaze snagged on a name.
Finnian Brightmoor.
Cedric’s fingers clenched around the parchment.
“He’s in the third level, cell fourteen,” he whispered, his gaze skimming further down the page. Then his breath caught in his throat. A single line, written in cold, emotionless ink, sealed their urgency.
Scheduled for execution at dawn.
Gwenna peered over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time,” she said, voice tight. “Let’s go.”
They moved swiftly, descending deeper into the bowels of the castle where the air grew colder. The torches lining the walls did little to chase away the oppressive darkness or provide warmth.
The first two levels were eerily silent, most of the cells empty. Those that were occupied held prisoners too broken to react, their gazes vacant, their spirits already gone.
But when they reached the third level, the air was thick with the stench of rot and unwashed bodies. Cedric’s stomach churned. Here, the groans of the forgotten echoed through the corridors, accompanied by the distant rattle of chains.
“Fourteen… fourteen…” Gwenna muttered, scanning the doors. “Here!”
Cedric’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Iron bands reinforced the heavy wood door, the number etched into the rusted plate above it. His hands shook as he fumbled with the keys, his urgency making him clumsy. The scrape of metal against metal felt deafening as he shoved the key home.
Then—click. The lock gave way.
Cedric shoved the door open, the wood slamming against the stone. The cell swallowed him in darkness, the only light bleeding in from a sconce in the corridor.
For a moment, his vision fought against the gloom. Shadows stretched, twisting against the damp walls. The air was thick—damp with sweat and suffering.
And then his gaze landed on a crumpled shape in the corner. Cedric’s heart plummeted. It couldn’t be him. Not the knight who had once stood so tall. Not the man Cedric loved.
“Finn?” The name barely escaped him, but it was enough.
The figure stirred, slowly. A head lifted, catching the dim light, and Cedric’s breath punched from his lungs.
Aurenis, no.
Bruises marred every inch of Finn’s face, his skin swollen and split, hardly recognizable. But those eyes—those storm-grey eyes—remained.
“Cedric?” The voice was a ruin of what it should have been. Finn’s lips cracked from thirst, his breathing shallow. “Is it…really you?”
Cedric was at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees. Up close, it was worse. Much worse.
Cuts, bruises, burns—marks of torment carved into Finn’s skin.
But it was the ugly brands that stopped Cedric cold, stark against pale flesh, as if pain alone could etch ownership into him.
Fury clawed up Cedric’s throat, but it was nothing compared to the cold terror that followed when his gaze dropped lower.
Finn’s hand—his sword hand—was a ruin. Shattered beyond recognition, crushed fingers swollen and discolored.
“Sweet Sylvara,” Gwenna whispered.
Cedric couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
The sight of Finn like this…so broken, so small, so far from the man who had once laughed with him, teased him, kissed him…made something splinter inside his chest.
“It’s me,” Cedric forced out, his throat tight, the words nearly choking him. He tried to keep his voice calm. Failed.
Who did this to you? The question burned hot and poisonous in his mind, but he swallowed it down. There would be time for vengeance.
Right now, they had to get Finn out.
Finn’s eyes fluttered closed, his lashes clumping together, damp from tears. The streaks they left through the grime on his face made Cedric’s stomach twist.
“Neither of you should be here,” Finn rasped. “It’s not safe.”
“I don’t care,” Cedric said, too quickly, too fiercely.
How could he? How could he care about anything else when Finn looked like a man who had been utterly broken and left to rot?
Finn’s head lolled toward him, and his gaze locked onto Cedric’s with an intensity that sent icy fingers racing down his spine. “He knows,” Finn breathed, the words trembling with urgency. “He knows about you, Cedric. Knows you’re alive.”
The world shrank to nothing but Finn’s bloodied mouth shaping those words. Darius knew. The ground beneath Cedric felt unsteady, like the entire world had shifted without his permission.
But Finn was still speaking, bloodshot eyes never leaving Cedric’s face. “I didn’t mean to tell him,” the broken knight whispered, his face contorting—not just with pain, but with something deeper. Shame. Guilt.
Whether it was the pain of torture or his own words crushing him, Cedric couldn’t tell.
He should have been furious. He should have let himself rage at the unfairness of it. But there was no anger left in him at the moment—only grief.
Only Finn, holding on by a thread.
“I know,” Cedric murmured.
He ached to touch him, to comfort him, to make this right. To smooth back his tangled hair, to feel the warmth of Finn’s skin beneath his palm—just to know he was still here.
But Finn looked so close to slipping away, so close to passing through the veil to Nivara’s domain, that Cedric was afraid to touch him at all. He dragged his gaze to Gwenna.
She swallowed, glancing between them before kneeling beside Finn, pulling something from her satchel. “I have a draught for pain.”
Finn nodded, but Cedric saw the way his body sagged forward, as though even holding himself upright had become unbearable. Cedric clenched his jaw so tightly it ached.
Gwenna worked carefully, tilting Finn’s head and pressing the vial to his lips. He drank, his throat moving with difficulty, but he finished it. She set the empty vial aside.
Finn looked a little more at ease now. Which, given his condition, meant almost nothing. Cedric took the risk, resting a hand on Finn’s shoulder. Beneath his palm, bone and bruised muscle tensed.
“We need to get you out of here.” His voice was low but firm. “Can you move?”
Finn’s gaze lifted to his. And gods—the agony in those eyes. “I don’t know.”
Three words. They shattered Cedric all over again.
His fingers flexed, as if he could help Finn with touch alone. But they couldn’t stay here. Another few hours, and Finn wouldn’t survive this dungeon, let alone the executioner’s block. “Darius plans to execute you at dawn.”
Finn shut his eyes. “I know,” he whispered. His brows furrowed, pain twisting his expression. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Cedric pressed his lips together, glancing at Gwenna. Was Finn just disoriented from pain? From exhaustion? Or was there something else?
He was so damn insistent.
But it didn’t matter. Cedric wasn’t leaving without him. He shook his head. “It’s a little late for that. We’re here, and we’re getting you out.”
He shifted to ease one of Finn’s arms around his shoulders, then carefully helped the knight rise from the ground, mindful of his mangled hand.
“How are we going to get him out of here without being caught?” Gwenna whispered, moving in to help.
Cedric’s lips pursed, already calculating. The draught was helping—Finn’s breath was no longer as labored, and some of the tension had left his frame—but he was still weak. Too weak to move fast. And time—they needed time.
If Cedric could just get Finn outside the city, somewhere secluded, he could fly him to safety at dawn. But that was still at least two hours away. Even if they got Finn out of the dungeons, where could they hide him until then?
His mind worked furiously, piecing through their options until he remembered the ledger he had seen earlier.
“The key,” Cedric hissed suddenly. With his free hand, he slipped it out of his pocket and thrust it at his sister. “Free the other prisoners.”
Gwenna’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “What?”
Cedric’s stomach churned, but he was sure of this. “They’re political prisoners. Many are refugees,” he whispered. “Not criminals. They’ve crossed Darius, somehow. And he’s making them suffer.”
Gwenna let out a quiet but vicious curse. He felt her hesitation—there was risk in this, so much risk—but then her lips pressed into a hard line, and she nodded. “You’re probably right. Okay. I’ll get to work.”
She darted toward the cells lining the corridor, sinking the key into the first lock. Cedric caught the disbelieving gasp as someone whispered, “Princess.” He winced. He hadn’t accounted for that. If word got out that both lost royals were here, they were as good as dead.
But there was no stopping now. The flood had started.
As Gwenna worked, prisoners poured from their cells, silent but desperate—a wave of the forgotten, the wrongly punished, the innocent who had suffered under Darius’s rule. Cedric tightened his hold on Finn, bracing the knight against his side as the others streamed past.
None of them stopped. None of them looked too closely at Cedric, and he was fine with that. Let them think whatever they want. Just let them run far, far away.
Every few steps, Cedric adjusted his grip on Finn, his own muscles burning under the weight. “We’re almost out,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Finn or himself.
Step by step, they climbed. Step by step, they left the dungeon behind. Cedric couldn’t think past the single driving command pulsing in his skull.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
And when they did—when the night air hit them and the shouts of confusion rang through the dungeon below—Cedric knew the escape was far from over.
But for the first time, the world felt just a little wider. The first real breath of hope.