The chamber into which she had been thrown was small and barren, its walls cold with damp, its single window barred with iron. Beyond the lattice of frost-rimmed glass, she could glimpse the paling sky, where dawn crept timidly across the snow-strewn earth. Yet within, no warmth touched her. The silence pressed upon her like a second prison, and the absence of her beloved's voice was a weight heavier than chains.
She had fought them as they dragged her here. She had pleaded, cried, and struck out with desperate strength, but their hands were iron, and her cries had fallen upon ears hardened by obedience. Now, alone, she could do nothing but press her brow against the cold wall and let the tears come unchecked.
Yet even as grief threatened to consume her, her mind clung to fragments of his voice—the words he had cried as they tore them apart: "Hold fast, love! Whatever they do, remember—we are one!"
Those words, fierce and unwavering, echoed now in the silence. They became a shield against despair, a reminder that even separated, they were not broken. He was still somewhere within these walls, chained perhaps, suffering surely, but alive. And while he lived, so too did her hope.
---
Hours bled into one another, indistinguishable in the dimness of the chamber. The guards did not return, save once, when a servant slid a plate of coarse bread and a cup of water through the door. She touched neither. Hunger was a lesser torment than the gnawing ache of her heart.
At length, she rose and approached the barred window. The glass was thick with frost, but through it she could glimpse the courtyard below. Men-at-arms moved about, their cloaks billowing in the wind, their boots crunching against the snow. Beyond the walls stretched the forest—the same forest through which they had fled, the same that had sheltered their brief hours of freedom. How cruel, that it lay so close, and yet was forever beyond her grasp.
Her gaze lifted higher, to the sky. Clouds drifted across its pale expanse, their shapes fleeting. She thought of the night sky she and her beloved had once watched together, when stars burned bright with promise. She thought of how his hand had steadied hers, how his eyes had spoken more than words. That memory, fragile though it seemed, flared within her like a candle.
If the stars could be hidden by storm and still return, then so shall we.
---
Night fell swiftly, casting long shadows across the chamber. She lay upon the cold floor, her cloak wrapped tight, though it offered little warmth. Sleep came fitfully, broken by dreams in which she reached for him but always awoke with empty hands.
On the second day, a voice stirred her from her restless vigil. It was not her beloved's voice—how her heart ached at the thought—but softer, uncertain, belonging to the servant who brought her water.
"Do not despair, mistress," the girl whispered as she set the cup upon the floor. She glanced nervously at the door, then leaned closer. "They keep him below, in the dungeons. He lives still. I heard the guards speak of it."
The captive's heart leapt within her breast. "You are certain?" she whispered, clutching the servant's sleeve.
The girl nodded quickly. "He suffers, aye, but he is strong. Stronger than any man they've brought before. Do not lose hope."
Before she could ask more, the servant hurried away, her footsteps vanishing into the corridor.
Hope, fragile and trembling, took root anew within her. He lived. He endured. And if he endured, then so too must she.
---
That night she did not weep. Instead, she began to think. She studied the barred window, tracing each rivet with her eyes, searching for weakness. She pressed her ear to the door, memorising the steps of the guards, the pattern of their passing. Though despair still lingered at the edges of her heart, determination rose stronger, burning bright as fire against the cold.
She would not wait meekly for fate's decree. If there was any chance to free him—to free them both—she would seize it.
---
On the third day, the master himself came. His step was slow but steady, his cane tapping against the stone as he entered. The guards stood aside, their faces grim, as though even they bore unease in his presence.
He regarded her with a smile that chilled her more than the frost upon the glass.
"You are silent, girl," he said, his voice smooth as silk yet edged with cruelty. "No defiance? No pleas? Perhaps solitude has taught you the futility of rebellion."
She met his gaze, though her heart hammered within her chest. "You may chain my hands, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs, "but you cannot chain my heart. It belongs to him, and nothing you do shall alter that."
The master's smile deepened, though it did not reach his eyes. "Brave words. Yet bravery fades with hunger. With time. With the sight of another's suffering. Shall I prove it to you, child?"
Fear prickled her skin, yet she stood firm. "Do as you will. My love shall not falter."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, with a low laugh, the master turned and left, his cane striking sharply against the floor.
She exhaled only when the door closed behind him, her body trembling. Yet even in fear, she knew this: her defiance had struck him. His cruelty had been met with strength, not submission.
---
As night descended once more, she knelt beside the window. Her hands clasped tightly, she whispered words meant for ears far below, in the dungeon where her beloved lay.
"Hold fast, dearest. I am here. I will not yield, and I will not rest until we are free. No matter the cost, I shall find you."
And though stone and iron lay between them, though silence answered her plea, she felt—faint, like a thread stretched across the dark—that her vow had reached him.