The iron ring of keys felt heavier in Jaxon’s hand than his broadsword ever had.
He walked down the spiral staircase of the third tier, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the slick, weeping stone. With every level he descended, the air grew colder, shedding the greasy warmth of the upper barracks until it became nothing but a stagnant, freezing mist that smelled of limestone rot and ancient, trapped water.
This was the throat of the fortress, the lowest pits, where the light of the sun was a myth and the only company a prisoner kept was the scratching of the mountain rats behind the masonry.
Silas had given him the assignment with a cruel, knowing smirk during the midnight war council. “Watch the princess, Jaxon,” his brother had purred, wiping grease from his chin with the
