"Your meaning?" Tristan pressed.
Gwendolyn sat upon the rough-hewn bench, her shoulders bearing the burden of her confession. The torchlight cast dancing shadows across her face, lending an ethereal quality to her already striking features. "I believed, in my naïveté, that I was offering sanctuary to a lost soul," she began, her voice rich with the cultured tones of nobility, yet tinged with regret. "Through countless moons, I witnessed Rafe's struggles with the most mundane of tasks. Each dawn brought fresh tales of his misfortunes, whether with the stern-faced guides or his fellow prisoners, who cursed their ill fortune when fate paired them with such a hapless companion."
She cast her gaze across the assembled prisoners, their forms hunched like weathered gargoyles in the shadows. A h
