They shut the bolt with a sound like finality. The corridor outside my cell narrowed into a thin line of light; the torch flame guttered and the watchman’s boots receded. Silence settled like dust.
A guard’s voice broke it—low, routine. “Prince Kael, state your name for the record.”
“I am Prince Kael Draven,” I said. The rope marks hadn’t been set, but a bruise bloomed along my wrist where the knots had bitten. My voice sounded like a thing I’d used in other rooms, practiced and steady. It had to be. Panic was a blade that cut the lungs.
The guard—tall, blunt-featured, the sort of man who carried authority in his shoulders—flipped his list. “You were taken in the act of flight from the palace with a woman identified as Liora Vale. You are accused of conspiracy and fomenting unrest. How
