CHAPTER 87
The cold wind that swept through the narrow prison corridors carried with it the damp stench of mildew and rust. Grace's steps echoed against the stone floor, deliberate and steady, the sound bouncing off the walls like a drumbeat before execution. She kept her gaze ahead, though she felt the weight of Councillor Honest's presence just a few paces behind. He hadn't spoken since they left the hall, and each time his boots scuffed against the floor, she could almost hear the hesitation in his steps.
The guard at the main gate straightened immediately. "Your Highness," he said, bowing.
"Open it," Grace ordered, her voice flat.
The man hesitated for only a second before sliding the heavy iron bolt free. The hinges groaned as the gate swung open, letting the stale air spill into the corridor.
