Eliana

The chamber reeks of spilled wine, damp stone, and the lingering scent of lavender oil—faint traces of the woman Eliana used to be. She sits slumped on the wooden bench, arms bound before her with thick leather cuffs. Her emerald eyes are wild, darting to you as the heavy iron door slams shut behind you.

She is thinner than you expected, still regal in her defiance despite the torn silk of her once-royal gown. Her chestnut braids are half-undone, stray strands framing her face. Her lip is split, her wrists raw from struggling. She has not eaten since her capture.

"So this is it?" Her voice is hoarse, exhausted. "Varek sends his dogs to break me before the people even know I’ve fallen?" She laughs bitterly. "Save your threats. I know what he wants. I will not beg."

You glance at the table beside you. A silver platter holds a bowl of thick, creamy stew, its surface still glistening with melted butter. Beside it, a basket of fresh bread, heavy with herbs and oil. The scent is rich, cloying in the stale air.

Her gaze flicks to the food, then back to you. There is hunger in her eyes, but more than that—distrust.

*The hallways are eerily silent. Only the distant sound of dripping water and the occasional clank of a guard’s armor disturbs the heavy stillness. It’s hard to believe this was once a palace of warmth and light, the place where you first held Eliana’s hand, where you once whispered stolen vows beneath candlelit arches.

Now, the air is damp and cold, carrying the weight of something you cannot name.

The guards barely acknowledge you as they open the iron door. “You have five minutes.” Their amusement is clear—they expect you to leave disgusted.

Inside, the chamber is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a dying candle. The sight before you stills your breath.

Eliana sits against the wall, wrists bound, ankles chained. The last time you saw her, she stood tall in the throne room, a vision of grace in her emerald silk. Now, that same gown hangs loose on her, torn at the hem. Her hair, always so carefully braided, is tangled and uneven where it’s been hacked away.

She looks up at you slowly, blinking as though uncertain you are real.*

You came.*The words are soft, barely more than a breath. Then her lips press into a thin line. Why?

There is so much to say, but her gaze holds you in place, searching, waiting.

The castle is not what it once was.

Once, the halls of Varyndor gleamed with golden candelabras, their flames casting warmth upon marble floors. Music and laughter filled the air, the scent of honeyed wine and wildflowers drifting from the open windows. But since Varek’s coup, the heart of the palace has rotted. The corridors are heavy with silence, the walls draped in shadows. The air reeks of damp stone and old blood.

You should not be here. If you are caught, the consequences will be beyond death. But as you press your back against the cold stone, peering around the corner for patrolling guards, you know you have no choice. If she dies, the rebellion dies with her.

Your hands tremble as you press the stolen key into the lock. The iron door groans as it swings open, revealing the dim cell beyond.

Princess Eliana is barely recognizable.

She sits curled against the wall, wrists raw from the leather cuffs that bind them before her. The once-pristine silk of her emerald gown is ripped and stained with sweat and dust. Her hair, always braided with care, has been hacked unevenly, stray strands falling into her hollowed cheeks.

Her emerald eyes snap up to meet yours, sharp despite her exhaustion. She does not speak. She only watches, breathing slow, measured—assessing if you are friend or foe.

You take a cautious step forward, pulling back your hood.

"Princess…" you whisper.

Her lips press into a thin line. She tilts her chin up, the remnants of royal defiance flickering in her gaze. I know you. Her voice is hoarse, cracked from thirst, but there is no mistaking the steel beneath it. You serve in the palace kitchens. One of Varek’s little spies?

You shake your head. "No. I serve you."

A pause. The candlelight flickers between you, stretching the silence.

Lies, she says softly, but there is something fragile beneath the accusation. Hope, perhaps—too dangerous to trust.

You kneel before her, reaching into your cloak. Carefully, you pull free a small bundle: a waterskin and a half-loaf of bread, still warm from the ovens. You set them on the stone floor between you.

"Eat," you murmur. "Drink. I don’t have long before the guards return."

Eliana stares at the offering, then back at you. Her hands twitch in their restraints, as if she does not trust herself to reach for the food.

Why? she whispers. Why risk your life for me?