By the second night in the barracks, Eliakim knew the guards' patterns as well as his own heartbeat.
Three on the outer wall. Two walking the interior rounds. One lingering by the armory door, half-bored, half-itching for trouble. The last was the dangerous one.
That's where Caleb's bow would be.
Caleb leaned back against the wall beside Eliakim, eyes fixed on nothing. To anyone watching, he was just another prisoner rotting quietly. To Eliakim, the faint twitch in his fingers was a signal — they'd agreed on it without speaking.
"I've got a way in," Caleb murmured under his breath, so faint it might have been the creak of wood. "They're moving crates from the supply yard tomorrow. I can get myself on the hauling crew. The armory key hangs right there, on the wall. If I can slip it, I can get my bow out."
Eliakim didn't turn his head. He didn't even blink. "You'll never walk out with it in the open."
"Don't plan to," Caleb said, and in that moment his grin was the old, reckless version of him. "Going to stash it in the laundry cart. They'll never check it."
Eliakim's gaze stayed on the far wall. "Do it."
Because the moment Caleb drew attention to himself, the guards' focus would shift — and Eliakim would have more breathing room to work the tunnel.
That night, while Caleb whispered his plan to Gideon and Ezra — painting it as a solo stunt to win back his "family honor" — Eliakim crouched in the shadowed corner by the loose stone.
The shard of tin moved faster now, chipping away damp mortar in soft, steady scrapes. Every handful of dust went into a scrap of cloth tucked beneath the floorboards. The gap was now wide enough to fit his hand through. The cold air on the other side was promising.
Skyling's muffled cries from the stables drifted in with the wind. The null-binder cuffs were still draining her, but Eliakim's soft whistle — pitched low enough that only she would hear — made her shift and rustle her wings in reply. The bond held.
Morning came with the usual barked orders. Caleb was indeed pulled for hauling duty, a smudge of soot and rope burn already worked into his skin to sell the role. Eliakim, assigned to latrine cleaning with Gideon, traded a single look with him in passing: Make it count.
By mid-afternoon, Caleb was gone longer than his work detail should have taken. Eliakim used that gap mercilessly. He pried the stone free, revealing a narrow shaft lined with rotting timbers. It smelled of stagnant water and disuse — exactly the kind of forgotten escape route they needed.
When the footsteps of a returning patrol thudded down the hall, Eliakim slid the stone back into place and sat cross-legged, hands on his knees, looking every bit the picture of a bored, clueless captive.
The guard peered in through the slats, snorted, and moved on.
Meanwhile, across the yard, Caleb brushed past the armory door with a crate on his shoulder. His hand flicked just once, the stolen key slipping into his palm without a sound.
He would get that bow back — or he'd die trying.
Far from the prison, Captain Vaeryn Solthir stood once again on the mist-wrapped bridges of the exiled queen's sanctuary. The air here was cooler, heavy with enchantment, and the ravine's roar below drowned most whispers.
"Your enemies grow bolder," the queen said from her dais.
"They will be met with steel," Vaeryn replied, bowing low — hiding the flicker in his eyes as he considered the prisoners. Every move they made could be turned to his advantage.
And tomorrow, one of them was going to make a very dangerous move indeed.