Chapter 3: The Dungeon’s Prisoner
The water clung to my skin as I stepped from the pool, every inch of me still humming with a shameful heat that I could not scrub away. The attendants wrapped me in soft linen, their trembling hands working quickly, silently, as though afraid the orc guards outside might burst through the doors at any moment. I let them dress me in a robe of pale silk, my mind a storm of loathing and confusion.
Gromm stood at the far end of the chamber, his back to me, pulling on a tunic of boiled leather. The torchlight caught the scars that crossed his shoulders, pale ridges against dusky green. He did not turn when I spoke.
“I would ask a favor of you.”
My voice came out steadier than I felt. Inside, my stomach churned. I had just been touched by the beast who had slain my father. I had yielded to his fingers. My body had betrayed me. But my duty had not.
He turned slowly, amber eyes glinting beneath that heavy brow. “Speak.”
“Let me see Mythias. Before the ceremony.”
The silence stretched. I watched his jaw tighten, the muscles in his thick neck cord. For a moment I thought he would refuse, that the former captain of the guard was too great a threat, too tempting a symbol of defiance. But Gromm’s nostrils flared, and he gave a single, curt nod.
“You have until the bell tolls. Orc guards will attend you.”
I did not thank him. I could not. Instead I walked past him, my bare feet cold on the stone, and followed the two tusked warriors who fell into step beside me.
The descent into the dungeons felt like falling. Each step down the spiraling stair carried me further from the light, further into the damp and the chill. The air grew thick with the smell of stagnant water and old iron, and the torchlight flickered against walls slick with moss. The guards halted at a heavy door and pulled it open with a groan of rusted hinges.
I stepped inside.
Mythias hung from chains bolted to the dark masonry, his arms stretched above him, his honey-brown hair matted with blood that traced dark lines down his face. The raw wound on his cheek had been left to fester. But when his cerulean eyes found mine, they burned with a desperate fury that made my stomach clench.
“Liana.” His voice cracked, raw and broken. “What have you done?”
His question hung in the damp air like a blade. I opened my mouth, but the words tangled in my throat. Instead I turned to the orc guards who stood framed in the doorway, their hulking silhouettes blocking the torchlight.
"Please," I said, hating the tremor that crept into my voice. "Send for a healer. He needs tending."
The larger of the two guards grunted, tusks glinting. "The warlord said nothing of healers."
"Then I am telling you." I drew myself up, the silk robe thin against the dungeon's chill. "I am to be your queen. Fetch a healer, or explain to Gromm why you defied my first command."
A long pause. Then the guard muttered something in his guttural tongue and jerked his head at his companion, who lumbered away up the stairs.
Mythias strained against his chains, the iron rattling. "Liana. Answer me." His voice cracked like breaking ice. "What have you done? Has he touched you? Has that monster—"
"No." The word came too fast, too sharp. I felt heat creep up my neck. "We are not yet married."
"Not yet married." Mythias repeated the words as though they tasted of ash. His cerulean eyes searched my face, and what he found there made his expression twist into something jagged and wounded. "You speak as though it is merely a matter of timing. As though you have already accepted this."
"I have accepted what must be done to keep our people alive."
"Have you?" He laughed, hollow and bitter, and the sound echoed off the moss-slicked stones. "Or have you simply found a new master to warm your bed?"
The accusation struck like a slap. I stepped back, my chest tightening. "You do not know what you are saying."
"I know what I saw in the throne room. I know the way he looked at you. And now you come to me, still damp from the baths, asking if I am well." His voice dropped to a rasp. "Tell me, Liana. Did he make you feel good?"
His question cut deeper than any blade. I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
"Why are you being like this?" My voice came out small, fragile, nothing like a queen. "I came to see if you were alive. I came because I care about you, Mythias. And you throw accusations at me like stones."
He gritted his teeth, his jaw working as though he wanted to speak but could not force the words past the fury burning in his chest. His cerulean eyes held mine, fierce and unyielding, but I saw something else flickering beneath the anger. Pain. Fear. The helplessness of a man who had failed in his duty and could do nothing but watch.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the stairwell. The orc guard returned, his tusked silhouette filling the doorway.
"The healer comes," he grunted. "She will tend him."
I nodded, a hollow relief settling in my chest. The healer was secured. Mythias would live. That was what I had come for. And clearly, my presence here only sharpened his wounds.
I turned to leave.
"So that is it?" Mythias's voice followed me, ragged and sharp. "You are off to dress pretty for your master?"
I stopped. My hand clenched at my side. The urge to turn and strike him rose like a hot tide, my palm itching with the need to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he was dealing me. I whirled, my arm drawing back.
But I stopped. My hand hovered in the air, trembling.
"You mean too much to me to hurt you," I whispered, the words burning my throat. "I wish you felt the same way for me."
I let my arm fall. The tears I had held back finally slipped free, tracing silent paths down my cheeks. Without waiting for his reply, I turned and walked out of the dungeon, the orc guards falling into step behind me as the heavy door groaned shut, sealing him back into the dark.