The smell hit her first. Kind of mildew and old blood, despair soaked so deep into the stones it might as well be mortar. Seraphiel's eyes cracked open to absolute darkness.
Pain surged through her body and her wrists burned where blessed iron bit into skin. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass.
Somewhere down the corridor, someone was screaming . A sudden pain—the hoarse, exhausted kind that meant they'd been at it for hours. The royal dungeons didn't believe in quick answers.
"Finally." The voice came from her left, male, roughened by disuse but carrying an edge of dark amusement. "You've been making noise for the past six hours. Crying, mostly. Calling names I didn't recognize."
Seraphiel's head snapped toward the sound, which was a mistake. Her vision swam, nausea rolling through her gut. "Who—"
"Cell beside yours. Can't see much, and honestly? That's probably for the best." A shifting sound, chains clinking against stone. "Your nightmares are *loud*, dead woman. Kept me entertained, though. Better than the rats."
Her eyes were adjusting now, barely. Through the iron bars separating their cells, she could make out a shape. Hunched against the wall in a way that suggested the chains weren't quite long enough for comfort.
"You're Nyx Valdren." Not a question. Even half-dead and concussed, she'd recognize those eyes—pale as winter ice, with that particular quality of someone who'd looked at death so many times they were on a first-name basis.
The Eclipse Tyrant. The kingdom's boogeyman. The warlord who'd supposedly razed three provinces before the king's forces finally brought him down.
Except—
"And you're the traitorous Oracle who came back from the dead wrapped in hell's favorite color." He tilted his head, and what little light there was caught the scars crossing his face. Sword wounds, burn marks, something that might've been claws. "So we're both having a bad week. You win for drama, though. That entrance? Chef's kiss."
Despite everything, Seraphiel almost laughed. "They've been hunting you for a decade."
"Ten years, three months, sixteen days." Nyx's grin was visible even in the dark, all teeth and no humor. "Not that I'm counting. And they finally got me, so congratulations to the royal guard. I'm sure there'll be medals." He shifted, chains rattling. "But you—you're way more interesting. You smell like ash and broken oaths and something older than either. What are you?"
She studied him through the bars. Even chained, even clearly beaten half to death at some point, there was something relaxed about him.
"A dead woman walking," she said finally. "Your turn."
That grin widened. "Honest about what I am. Which is more than I can say for your friend upstairs."
"He's not my friend."
"No?" Nyx leaned forward as far as his chains allowed. "Could've fooled me. The way he looked at you before you passed out? That wasn't just fear, sweetheart. That was personal."
The screaming down the corridor stopped abruptly. The silence was somehow worse.
"They're executing me at dawn," Nyx said conversationally, like he was discussing the weather. "Big public spectacle. The king wants to make an example... show what happens to tyrants who threaten the realm. They're building the platform outside. Been hammering since midnight."
Seraphiel's chains clinked as she tried to shift into a less agonizing position but failed. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I know who you are. Really are, I mean." He paused. "Seraphiel Ashvern. The Oracle of House Ashvern. You didn't commit treason, you were the best damn prophet this kingdom had. And the Virtuous Shield needed your visions to stay three steps ahead of everyone. Once he'd wrung you dry, used your prophecies to predict every threat to the crown, to himself..."
"I became a liability." The words tasted like copper. Like blood.
"Exactly." Nyx's voice went softer, which somehow made it worse. "Can't have someone around who might see what he really is. Easier to paint you as a traitor, execute you, and keep the hero narrative polished."
Silence stretched between them. Another scream started up, different cell, different throat.
"Why were you exiled?" Seraphiel asked. "The official story says you started a war. Broke a peace treaty."
Nyx laughed.
"The Crimson Truce. Ten years ago. Your precious Caelum and the king invited me to peace negotiations—end a decade of border conflicts, unite the provinces. I brought my family. My wife, Elena. My son and daughter, twelve and eight." His voice stayed level, but his hands had clenched into fists. "They served us a feast. Roasted pig, spiced wine, the works. Then during the third course, the guards locked the doors."
Oh no.
"They butchered them at the table. Elena tried to shield the children—didn't matter. I watched Caelum run his blessed sword through my son's chest while he cried for me." The chains rattled hard now, Nyx's control slipping. "They let me live long enough to see it all. Long enough to go mad with it. Then they blamed me for the violence. Said I'd attacked first, that they'd defended themselves."
Seraphiel's throat had closed up. The black flames that lived under her skin flickered, responding to the rage radiating from the cell beside hers.
"The hero narrative," she whispered. "Always the hero."
"Always." Nyx's breathing had gone rough. "So yeah, I've been running for a decade. Building an army. Planning revenge. And now here I am, chained in the dark, scheduled to die at sunrise." He looked at her through the bars. "We've both been destroyed by the same man, Seraphiel. Both of us monsters he created."
"I'm not—"
"You're wreathed in death magic you shouldn't be able to touch without burning from the inside out. You collapsed unconscious and scorched ancient symbols into consecrated marble. You're definitely something."
Fair point.
"If you want revenge on the Virtuous Shield," Nyx said quietly, "you'll need me. I know his patterns, his weaknesses, where he goes when he thinks no one's watching. I've been studying him for ten years."
"And what do you need?"
"Out of this cell would be a good start." The grin flashed again, sharp and dangerous. "But you should decide quickly. I can hear them building that execution platform outside, and from the sound of it?" He cocked his head, listening to the distant hammering. "They're making it special. Multiple nooses, reinforced structure. I don't think I'm dying alone tomorrow."
The implication felt sour.
"They're going to execute both of us," Seraphiel said.
"Give the Oracle a prize." Nyx's eyes caught what little light there was, reflecting it back like an animal's. "The traitorous prophet and the Eclipse Tyrant, hanged together at dawn. The king gets rid of two problems, Caelum's secrets stay buried, and the crowd gets a show."
Her mind raced, trying to see the futures branching ahead. But the visions came sluggish, distorted—the blessed iron disrupting her gift.
"So here's my offer," Nyx continued. "You break us out of here—because those death-marks of yours suggest you can—and I help you destroy Caelum Thorne. Burn his reputation to ash. Make him suffer the way we've suffered."
"I don't trust you."
"Smart. I don't trust you either." He leaned back against the wall. "But trust isn't required. Just mutual hatred and a shared enemy."
The hammering outside grew louder. Rhythmic. Methodical. The sound of a gallows taking shape.
"How long until dawn?" Seraphiel asked.
Nyx closed his eyes, calculating. "Four hours. Maybe five if we're lucky."
"That's not much time."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."