When we pulled apart, my fingers lingered against her cheek, tracing the delicate contours of her face—the face of a woman who had not only stood by my side in whispers and shadows but in blood and fire.
I let my forehead rest against hers.“Elizabeth,” I murmured, my voice low and full of promise.“Once this night ends, once we have torn down the tyranny that shackles us, I long to see a world where we are finally free.”
It was not just a wish.It was a vow.
She exhaled softly, a whisper of fabric against stone, as she stepped back into the shadows, her presence receding but never gone.She was in me now—in my pulse, in my breath, in every fiber of my being.
Tonight, we would bring ruin upon those who had kept us in chains.
And nothing—not power, fate, or death—would stand in our way.
The stillness of the dungeon shattered with a whisper.
“Amir, the men are ready.”
Elizabeth’s voice sliced through the darkness, quiet but firm.The weight of what lay ahead clung to every syllable, yet fear did not linger in her tone.As the faintest quiver ran through her hands, her gaze scorched with insolence, unwavering in purpose.
“The poison is made,” she continued, locking eyes with me.“And it is perfect.”
Something clenched deep in my chest at the sight of her standing before me, caught between fear and unshakable determination.She had never done this before.But she would not break.She was too strong to shatter.
“I know you’re nervous,” I murmured, stepping closer, our breath mingling in the cold, damp air.“But you have the strength of the fiercest warrior and the heart of the purest soul.You will not fail.”
She drew in a breath, a quiet nod her only response, but I saw it then—the shift, the straightening of her spine, the tightening of her grip.
“We will succeed,” she whispered, as if speaking it aloud solidified it into existence.“The poison is ready.It will be in their food and drink.Everything is falling into place.”
“As it should,” I said, voice low, firm.
I reached out, fingers brushing against her cheek in a fleeting moment of solace.A touch meant to ground her, to remind her she was not alone in this.
Her eyes met mine one final time, and then our lips collided in a fierce, fleeting kiss that carried no softness, only purpose.
A vow.A promise sealed in the dark.
Then, without another word, she was gone.
But her warmth lingered, a ghost of a promise hanging in the cold air.
I slipped my hands into the waiting shackles, the cold bite of metal closing around my wrists.My body sagged, my head bowed, every inch of me transforming into the image of a man beaten, broken.
But beneath it all, my blood thrummed with fire and vengeance.
“Play your part,” I whispered to myself, letting the illusion take hold, sinking into the guise of frailty.
The shadows would be my ally.
They would not see the warrior within.
Not until it was far too late.
The dank air of the dungeon clung to every surface, a miasma of decay and rot so thick it felt alive.I had grown accustomed to it—the way it curled into the lungs, settled into the skin—until it became as much a part of me as the iron bite of my shackles.
But their faces twisted in disgust when Lords Winston and Alexander descended into my fetid prison.
“Good lord, what a smell!”Lord Winston’s voice cut through the gloom, his delicate sensibilities affronted by the filth they had left me in.He was a specter of rot himself, yet the irony of his repulsion was utterly lost on him.
“It is fitting for the likes of him,” Lord Alexander sneered, his cold disdain ricocheting off the stone walls.Both men pressed perfumed handkerchiefs to their noses as if such a feeble barrier could protect them from the reality of their sins.
