Celestia's POV
I don't sleep.
All night, I stare out the window, waiting for that shadowy figure to return. My eyes burn. My body aches from tension. But I can't look away.
Who was watching me? And why?
When dawn finally breaks, the courtyard below is empty. No mysterious figure. No answers.
Just me, alone in my beautiful prison.
Three days pass like a slow torture.
Every morning, a servant brings breakfast. Every evening, another brings dinner. They set the trays down, bow quickly, and leave without speaking. When I try to ask questions, they practically run from the room.
The Executioner—Thorne, I remind myself, his name is Thorne—doesn't come back.
I count the stones in the fireplace. I read every book on the shelves twice. I pace until my feet hurt. I scream into my pillow until my throat is raw.
Nothing changes.
The door stays locked. The silence stays heavy. And I stay trapped.
On the third night, I think I might actually go insane.
This is ridiculous! I shout at the empty room. You can't just lock me up and forget about me!
The walls don't answer.
I grab the closest thing—a silver hairbrush—and throw it at the door as hard as I can. It hits with a satisfying crash and falls to the floor.
The violence feels good. So I throw a book. Then a candlestick. Then a decorative vase that shatters beautifully against the stones.
I'm not a doll to be put on a shelf! My voice cracks. I'm not
My hand brushes against the wall near the fireplace, and something shifts.
I freeze.
That stone. It moved.
Heart pounding, I press on it again. Definitely loose. I dig my fingernails into the crack and pull.
The stone comes free, revealing darkness behind it.
A passage. There's a hidden passage in my wall.
For a moment, I just stare at it. Then I'm moving, pulling at the stones around it. They come loose easier than they should—like someone designed them to be removed from this side.
Within minutes, I've opened a gap big enough to squeeze through.
I look back at my locked door. At my comfortable prison.
Then I climb into the darkness.
The passage is narrow and pitch black. I feel my way forward with shaking hands, my shoulder scraping against rough stone. Cobwebs brush my face, and I bite back a scream.
Keep going. Just keep going.
After what feels like forever, I see light ahead. The passage opens into a regular corridor—one I don't recognize. No guards. No servants. Just empty hallway stretching in both directions.
I pick a direction and start walking.
The fortress is massive. I turn corner after corner, climbing stairs, passing doors. Everything looks the same. I'm completely lost.
Then I hear voices.
I freeze, pressing myself against the wall.
—the evidence is complete. A man's voice, deep and gruff.
Good. That's Thorne. I'd recognize that voice anywhere. Ashford won't escape justice.
Ashford. My father.
My breath catches in my throat.
And the girl? the other man asks.
She stays locked away. It's safer.
For how long?
As long as necessary.
Rage floods through me. He's talking about me like I'm a problem to be managed. A thing to be stored away.
The voices fade as they move to another part of wherever they are. I wait until silence falls, then creep forward.
The corridor ends at a partially open door. Light spills out.
I peek inside and my heart nearly stops.
It's a study. And covering every surface are papers. Stacks and stacks of documents.
I see my father's name on at least a dozen of them from here.
Evidence. He has evidence against my father.
I glance down the corridor. Empty. The voices are gone.
This might be my only chance.
I slip through the door.
The study is enormous. Bookshelves line the walls, filing cabinets stand like soldiers, and in the center sits a massive desk buried under documents.
My hands shake as I reach for the closest paper:
Marquess Edward Ashford confirmed receipt of 50,000 gold crowns from Chancellor Gravenmoor. Payment for services rendered in the matter of Lord Hasting's unfortunate accident.
Lord Hastings. He died in a carriage crash two years ago. Everyone said it was tragic.
It was murder.
I grab another document:
Ashford requests additional funds for the neutralization of his daughter. The girl has become a liability. Disposal must appear justified.
Disposal. Neutralization.
He wrote about destroying me like I was a business problem.
My vision blurs with tears, but I keep reading. Page after page of horrors.
My father sold military secrets to enemy kingdoms. He arranged assassinations of loyal nobles. He embezzled from the royal treasury. And through it all, he plotted to overthrow King Aldric.
To replace him with Adrian.
That's why my engagement mattered. I was supposed to become queen, married to their puppet king. When I started asking questions about Father's sudden wealth, I stopped being useful.
So they eliminated me.
I find the trial documents next. Proof of every bribed witness. Copies of the forged letters they planted in my room. Even a receipt for the false testimony.
You bastard, I whisper, tears streaming down my face. You sold your own daughter.
I'm reading about Chancellor Gravenmoor's role in the conspiracy when I hear it.
Footsteps.
Coming down the corridor.
Heavy. Purposeful. Getting closer.
My heart slams against my ribs. I spin around, looking for somewhere to hide.
The desk is too exposed. The curtains too thin. The filing cabinets too narrow.
There's nowhere to go.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer.
I press myself against the wall beside the door, holding my breath, praying whoever it is will just pass by.
The footsteps stop.
Right outside the door.
Silence stretches like a blade.
Then the door swings open wider.
A shadow falls across the floor.
And a voice, cold as winter death, fills the room:
What are you doing here?