"Don't move," she breathed, the command leaving her lips not as a plea, but as an order, and to her shock, he stilled.
Adrian froze, his body pressed into the shadows, every muscle coiled with lethal readiness. For a moment, she wondered if he had obeyed her because of strategy—or because something in her tone had carried the weight of inevitability. Either way, the heavy silence between them stretched taut.
The boots drew closer. Torchlight flared across the damp stone, licking at the walls as shadows stretched and danced.
Celine's pulse hammered in her ears. She remembered this guard captain, not from kindness, but from cruelty. Commander Rathor—square jaw, perpetually scowling brow, a man who thrived on suspicion. In her past life, he had been the one to drag Adrian out at dawn, gleefully overseeing the execution preparations. He was not clever, not imaginative, but he was quick to anger, quick to believe the worst in others.
Use what they are, she told herself, every word echoing like a lesson branded into her second life. Twist the cracks already there.
The torches rounded the corner. Three guards, with Rathor leading, his eyes narrowed and suspicious as they swept the corridor. Adrian shifted imperceptibly beside her, ready to strike if discovered, but she laid a hand against his wrist. A warning. Wait.
And then, before her courage could falter, she stepped out.
"Commander Rathor!"
Her voice rang sharp in the silence, pitched high with breathless urgency. Not a rebel, not a queen-in-waiting—no, she wore the skin of a frightened fiancée, trembling and pale in her finery.
The men froze, caught off guard. Rathor's eyes narrowed, confusion flickering across his harsh face. "Lady Seraphina's sister?" he barked, then corrected himself with a sneer. "No—the Crown Prince's bride-to-be. What are you doing here?"
Celine dipped her head, her lips trembling, though the trembling was deliberate. "I—there was someone. A shadow. I saw them slip through the western passage. I think… I think they were carrying a blade." She let her eyes widen just so, feigning both fear and determination. "I thought it was my duty to raise the alarm. But when I tried to follow, they disappeared."
Rathor growled, his suspicion shifting immediately into irritation. "An intruder? Here?"
"Yes." Her voice dropped to a whisper, meant for his ears alone. "A jealous noble, perhaps. You know how many whisper that the Crown Prince's engagement has… enemies."
That struck true. Rathor's nostrils flared. His pride, his paranoia—both pricked exactly as she intended. She let her hand clutch at her skirts, as if steadying herself, while inside she marveled at how easy it was to wear this mask again.
The other guards exchanged uneasy looks. One muttered, "I thought I heard something near the west wing earlier—"
"There!" Rathor snapped, seizing on the idea like a hound scenting blood. He turned to his men. "Check the passage! Search every alcove, every door! If there's a snake in these halls, I'll gut them myself."
The guards rushed past her, boots pounding in the opposite direction. Rathor lingered only a heartbeat longer, his eyes still sharp, still doubtful.
Celine lowered her lashes, forcing her voice to soften. "Commander… if anyone asks, I was never here. The Crown Prince would be furious if he thought I wandered the dungeons alone. Do not let this reflect on you."
His scowl deepened, but pride won over suspicion. "Hmph. I'll handle it. Return to your chambers, Lady. This is no place for you."
And then he was gone, his torchlight vanishing down the passage as the shouts of his men echoed away into the distance.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Celine stood rooted, her breath shallow, the echo of her own words ringing in her ears. Lies, perfectly spun, sharp as daggers—and every one of them a step further from the girl she had been before poison and betrayal.
Slowly, she turned back into the shadows, where Adrian waited. His gaze was unreadable, but she felt the weight of it, heavy and measuring.
For the first time, she wondered—not if she could keep deceiving her enemies. But if she could keep deceiving herself.