The key turned in the rusted lock with a screech that sounded far too loud in the sleeping silence of the dungeon, a sound of fate being forcibly bent.
The noise grated through the shadows, sharp and unforgiving, echoing across the damp stone. Celine's breath hitched in her chest, but her hands did not falter. Every second here was a gamble; hesitation meant death—for both of them.
She slipped the crude key back into her sleeve, her gaze darting to the corridor where the flickering glow of a guard's torch bobbed faintly in the distance. For a heartbeat, she thought she heard footsteps, but the silence returned.
The lock gave way, the iron door shuddering as though reluctant to betray centuries of confinement. Celine pressed her shoulder against the weight, pushing just enough to widen the gap. The cell reeked of mold and rust, but beneath it all was the sharp scent of iron and blood. Adrian Voss sat chained within, every line of his battered figure taut with anticipation.
When the door opened fully, he didn't rise right away. He studied her, head tilted, the flickering light catching the sharp angles of his face.
"You've done it," he murmured, voice low, roughened by days of damp and silence.
Celine met his gaze evenly. "Don't waste time. Move."
He stood. Even starved of freedom, his presence filled the space like a drawn blade unsheathed. The chains fell heavy against his wrists as he stepped forward, and for the first time, Celine felt the shift—an unspoken truth. A prisoner he had been, but no longer. With one step outside the cell, Adrian Voss was once again the dangerous man whispered about in war councils.
Her hand brushed against his as she pressed the steel pin into his palm. "The cuffs."
He nodded once, crouching to work the lock with efficient precision. Within seconds, the first cuff clattered to the floor, followed by the second. The sound echoed through the corridor like a tolling bell.
Celine's pulse raced. Too loud. Too loud.
Without hesitation, she pulled the torch from the wall sconce and hurled it down the corridor to the east. The flames sputtered as they skittered across the damp stone, catching against a pile of rotting straw.
"Fire!" she cried, her voice sharp, carrying down the hallway. The word ricocheted through the dungeon, urgent and commanding, and within moments, the muffled thud of boots grew louder in the opposite direction. Guards shouted, their voices overlapping in confusion.
The diversion was set.
"Go," she hissed.
Adrian stepped free of the cell, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of his captivity. Even bruised and thin, his every movement carried the coiled readiness of a predator freed from its cage.
They slipped into the shadows, her steps swift and precise, his quieter but heavier. She led him past the torch-lit hall and toward the northern corridor where the flames dimmed and shadows stretched long. Her heart pounded, every sense sharpened to the smallest sound—the drip of water from the ceiling, the scrape of stone beneath their boots, the fading clamor behind them.
At the end of the corridor, the grate loomed, half-hidden behind stacks of decayed barrels. Just as she had remembered. She crouched and tugged at the rusted iron, her fingers digging into the corroded edges.
Adrian crouched beside her, his larger hands brushing hers aside with quiet authority. "Allow me."
She didn't argue. He wrenched the grate with a grunt, the iron groaning before it gave way, clattering onto the damp floor. A tunnel yawned beyond, black as pitch, the stench of stagnant water wafting out.
"Through here," Celine whispered. "It will take us beneath the old walls."
Adrian cast one sharp look down the tunnel, then back at her. "You've prepared well."
She almost smiled, though there was no time for pride. "I told you. I've lived this before."
Before she could step forward, a sound froze them both.
Bootsteps.
Not the frantic rush of guards chasing fire. Not distant echoes swallowed by stone. These were deliberate, steady, and growing closer—coming from the very corridor they had left behind.
Celine's blood ran cold.
Adrian straightened slowly, his body sliding instinctively into the stance of a soldier ready for a fight. Chains still hung from his wrists, clinking softly, but in that moment he looked far from weak. He looked lethal.
Celine pressed her back against the damp wall, her mind racing. The escape route stretched open before them, salvation in reach, but the sound of boots hammering against stone closed in from behind.
She met Adrian's gaze, their breaths shallow in the thick silence.
For a suspended moment, time seemed to hold its breath with them.
The grate lay open. The tunnel beckoned. Yet the noose tightened around their throats with every echoing step drawing nearer.