In her past life, his eyes had been closed forever by the time she thought to seek him. His execution at dawn had seemed like another tragedy among many, but only later did she understand—it was the turning point. Without Adrian Voss, the kingdom bled faster, her enemies moved bolder, and she was left to face them alone. This time, she would not make the same mistake. His survival was not mercy. It was necessity.
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The dungeon's chill seeped through her slippers, a welcome shock that anchored her to her new, grim purpose.
Celine pressed her back against the stone wall, the rough surface scraping through her thin gown. Above, the banquet still roared with laughter and music, but down here, silence and shadows reigned.
The air was damp, heavy with the stench of mold, rust, and unwashed bodies. Water dripped somewhere deep in the darkness, each drop echoing like a warning. Torches burned low in their sconces, their flames weak and smoky, filling the halls with a haze that clung to her throat.
Her heart hammered, not with fear, but with something far heavier—the weight of knowing she was unraveling the first knot of fate.
She had walked these halls before. Not in this moment, not in this way, but in her past life when it was already too late. She remembered the prisoners dragged past her throne, the whispered stories of those who rotted unseen beneath the palace. She remembered how she had ignored those whispers, too blinded by loyalty to Dorian to see the truth.
Not this time.
Not again.
She moved carefully, her slippers silent on the stones. She knew where the guards would be—she had memorized their rotations long ago, though in her past life it had been useless knowledge. Now, it was her weapon.
At the corner, she paused, peeking into the dim corridor. A guard leaned lazily against his spear, yawning, his shadow stretched long across the wall. Another sat slumped on a stool, half-asleep.
Celine's fingers clenched at her skirts. She waited.
The bell above struck midnight, its toll faint but clear. The first guard grumbled, shoved his companion awake, and the two shuffled off toward the upper stairwell, their muttering fading with their footsteps.
She exhaled slowly. Perfect.
Sliding into the corridor, she kept her head low, her steps measured. The damp air thickened as she descended deeper. She passed cells where prisoners stirred at her approach—pale faces with hollow eyes, hands curling around rusted bars. Some moaned softly, some whispered prayers, some simply stared as if she were a ghost.
Perhaps she was.
The scent grew fouler with each step, the weight of stone pressing heavier above her. She pressed on, past faces she did not know, past shadows that clawed for her attention.
And then she stopped.
At the end of the row, chained in a darkened cell, sat the man she had come for.
Adrian Voss.
Once, he had been the empire's sharpest blade, the general whose very name had made enemies tremble. In her past life, she had only known him as a distant figure—a man condemned, his legacy destroyed, his existence erased. She had not cared enough to question why.
But here he was now, not a legend, but a man stripped of glory. His clothes were torn, his body marked with bruises and dirt. Chains clinked faintly as he shifted, the sound metallic and hollow in the silence. His head was bowed, his dark hair falling over his face. To anyone else, he might look broken.
But Celine saw more.
The tension in his shoulders. The quiet steadiness of his breath. The way his hands, though bound, were not limp but coiled, as if waiting.
And then, as if sensing her presence, his head lifted.
Their eyes met through the gloom.
Celine's breath caught.
Those eyes were not defeated. Not weary.
They were sharp—dangerously sharp—and alive with a spark of curiosity that cut through the darkness like a blade.
He studied her in silence, and in that moment, Celine felt the threads of fate shifting.
This was the beginning.
The first thread, unraveled.