The Iron Tower was not built for comfort. It was a scar of black stone jutting out from the cliffside, where the wind screamed louder than thoughts and the sea crashed far below.
Lyra didn't run; she flew. Her silk slippers were ruined on the rough cobblestones of the lower courtyard, her breath tearing at her throat. She had traded the warmth of the Great Hall for the biting cold of the deep keep, descending stairs that spiraled into the earth like a throat swallowing her whole.
At the bottom, a heavy wooden door barred the way. A single guard sat there, an older man with a ring of keys at his belt. He jumped to his feet as she emerged from the shadows, her hair wild, her sapphires catching the torchlight.
"Princess?" he stammered, hand drifting to his sword hilt in confusion. "You cannot be here. The King—"
" The King is upstairs drinking wine," Lyra said. Her voice was unrecognizable—gone was the soft melody of the garden. This was cold steel. "Open it."
"Highness, I have orders. Strict orders. No one enters. Especially not..." He trailed off, seeing the fire in her eyes.
"Sir Alaric ordered you, didn't he?" She stepped closer. "Alaric is a knight. I am the blood of your King. If you do not open this door, I will ensure that by sunrise, you are in a cell of your own."
The guard swallowed hard. He looked at the keys, then at her face. He saw the desperation, but he also saw the command. With a shaking hand, he selected a heavy iron key.
"Five minutes," he whispered. "If the Captain comes... we are both dead."
The lock clicked—a heavy, harsh sound. The door groaned open.
Lyra slipped inside.
The dungeon smelled of damp stone and old rust. There were no windows here, only the flicker of a dying torch in the sconce. At the end of the narrow corridor, in the last cell, sat a figure.
Kaelion wasn't pacing. He wasn't raging against the bars.
He was sitting on the stone floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms resting on them. His wrists were bound in heavy iron shackles.
He looked up as she approached. His expression didn't change, but his eyes... the storm in them softened.
"You're stubborn," he said quietly.
Lyra rushed to the bars, gripping the cold iron until her palms hurt. "They're going to kill you, Kaelion."
"I know." He stood up slowly, the chains rattling—a jarring noise in the silence. He walked to the bars, stopping inches from her face. "You shouldn't be here, Lyra. It only proves Alaric right."
"I don't care about Alaric. I don't care about the court." She reached through the bars, her fingers brushing the bruise forming on his cheek where the guards had struck him. "We have to get you out. I can bribe the guard. There's a boat at the docks—"
"No."
The word stopped her. "No?"
"If I run," Kaelion said, his voice steady, "then I am the traitor they say I am. And you... you become the foolish girl who was seduced by a criminal."
"I am not a child!" she hissed, tears finally spilling over. "I am in love with you! Does that mean nothing?"
Kaelion closed his eyes for a brief second, as if the words physically struck him. When he opened them, the wall he usually kept up had crumbled. There was no soldier left. Just a man looking at the only thing that mattered.
He reached through the bars. His hands, rough and shackled, cupped her face. The iron of his chains pressed against her neck, cold and heavy, but his thumbs brushed away her tears with agonizing gentleness.
"It means everything," he whispered. "That is why I stay."
"I don't understand," she sobbed, leaning into his touch.
"If I leave, they ruin your name. They paint you as broken, tainted." He leaned his forehead against the bars, close enough that she could feel his breath. "But if I stay... if I face them... I keep my honor. And I keep yours."
"Honor won't keep you warm in a grave," she choked out.
"No," he agreed. "But it will keep you safe on the throne."
Lyra pulled back slightly, looking into his gray eyes. She saw the truth there. He had made his choice the moment he stepped between her and Alaric. He had traded his life for her reputation.
"You think you're saving me," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You think you're being noble."
"I am doing what I must."
"Well," she wiped her face, her sadness hardening into something sharp, something royal. "I am the Princess of Elarion. And I do not let others decide what I must do."
She reached into her dress and pulled out a small, slender object. Not a key.
A dagger. It was ceremonial, jeweled, but the edge was sharp enough.
Kaelion frowned. "Lyra, put that away."
She didn't hand it to him. She didn't try to pick the lock.
She turned and drove the point of the dagger into the wooden post beside the cell door, wedging it deep into a crack in the stone. Then, she ripped the sapphire necklace from her throat—the heavy, expensive symbol of her station—and wrapped it around the dagger's hilt.
"What are you doing?" Kaelion asked, urgency entering his voice.
"I'm leaving you," she said, though she didn't move. "I'm leaving you here to rot."
"Lyra—"
"But tomorrow," she turned back to him, eyes blazing, "when they drag you out to the courtyard... you will not be alone. I am done being the quiet girl in the window."
She grabbed his hands through the bars one last time, squeezing them so hard her nails dug into his skin.
"Do not sleep, Kaelion. Prepare yourself."
"For death?"
She shook her head, a fierce, terrifying smile touching her lips.
"For war."
She turned and ran back down the corridor, her white dress disappearing into the shadows.
Kaelion stood alone in the silence, the chains heavy on his wrists. He looked at the dagger and the necklace left behind—a promise.
For the first time all night, his heart hammered against his ribs. Not out of fear.
But because he realized he hadn't just fallen for a princess.
He had fallen for a queen.
And if he was going to die tomorrow, he would make sure the world heard the sound of it.