Celestia's POV
I can't stop shaking.
My hands are covered in blood. The dead assassin lies at my feet, the letter opener still buried in his throat. His eyes stare at nothing.
I killed him. I actually killed him.
Celestia. Thorne's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. Look at me.
I can't. Can't look away from the body. From what I did.
Celestia! Stronger now. Commanding.
My eyes snap to his face.
He's covered in blood too, but his expression is calm. Steady. Like he didn't just kill six men.
Breathe, he orders. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
I try. My breath comes in ragged gasps.
Again. Slower.
I force myself to breathe. Once. Twice. Three times.
The shaking gets a little better.
Good. He steps closer, careful not to startle me. Now listen carefully. You did what you had to do. That man was going to kill you. You survived. That's all that matters.
I stabbed him, I whisper. I just... I didn't even think. I just...
Where did you learn that? His eyes are sharp, studying me with new intensity. That wasn't luck. The way you moved, the placement of the strike—that was training.
I swallow hard, tasting copper. My mother.
Your mother taught you to kill?
She taught me to survive. The words come out broken. When I was twelve. She said... she said noble ladies needed to know how to protect themselves. That pretty faces and family names weren't always enough.
Thorne's expression shifts. Your mother knew something.
She died two months after those lessons. The memory claws at me. Fell from her horse. Everyone said it was an accident.
But you don't think so.
I meet his eyes. Not anymore.
The silence between us is heavy with new understanding. My mother tried to teach me to fight. Then she died mysteriously. Now my father is trying to kill me too.
How long has this conspiracy been going on?
Help me with the bodies, Thorne says, breaking the moment. We need to see who sent them.
I want to refuse. Want to run from this room and never look back.
But I don't.
I'm done running.
Examining dead bodies is worse than killing them.
Thorne moves efficiently, checking pockets, looking at weapons, studying faces. I force myself to help, even though my stomach turns with every touch.
This one's a hired blade from the Lower City, Thorne says, pointing to a tattoo on one man's wrist. Professional assassin. Expensive.
And that one? I nod to the man I killed.
Thorne pulls back the corpse's collar, revealing a brand on his shoulder. My breath catches.
It's my father's house crest. The Ashford eagle.
He's one of your father's personal guards, Thorne says quietly.
My vision blurs. He sent his own men to murder me.
Not just you. Thorne stands, his jaw tight. These weren't here for you alone. Look at their weapons.
I do. The blades are different sizes. Different styles.
Some were meant for you, Thorne explains. Smaller blades. Quick kills. But these— He holds up a massive sword. These were for me. This was a coordinated strike meant to eliminate both of us.
Because I escaped my room. Guilt crashes over me. If I hadn't left, they wouldn't have known where to
If you hadn't left, we wouldn't have fought together. His voice is firm. And I'd probably be dead. You saved my life, Celestia.
The words stun me into silence.
But you're right about one thing. He moves to the window, studying the courtyard below. Someone told them you were out. Someone in this fortress reported your location.
The spy.
Yes. His hands clench into fists. And they're close. These assassins got past the gates, past the guards, straight to my study. Someone helped them.
A horrible thought occurs to me. The servants who bring my food. They see me every day. They could
No. Thorne shakes his head. My household staff are terrified of me, but they're loyal. Most have been here for years. The spy is someone with access to information. Someone I trust enough to—
He stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening.
What? I move closer. What is it?
He's staring at something on the floor. A piece of parchment that must have fallen from one of the bodies.
He picks it up, and I watch his face go completely white.
Thorne?
He reads it once. Twice. Then crushes it in his fist.
We need to leave. Now.
What? Why? What does it say?
It's a schedule. His voice is deadly calm. Too calm. Of my movements. Where I'd be and when. How many guards I'd have. Written in a hand I recognize.
My heart stops. Whose?
He looks at me, and I've never seen such cold fury in anyone's eyes.
Someone I've trusted for fifteen years. Someone who's been in this fortress since the beginning. Someone who knows every secret passage, every weakness, every—
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
We both freeze.
Heavy boots. Multiple people. Coming fast.
The guards? I whisper.
Thorne draws his sword. I didn't call them yet.
The footsteps stop right outside the door.
A voice calls out—male, authoritative: Lord Blackwell? We heard sounds of fighting. Are you injured?
I recognize that voice. It's the older man from the courtyard. The one who welcomed us to Shadow Keep.
Marcus. Captain of Thorne's personal guard.
Thorne's hand tightens on his sword. He doesn't answer.
My lord? Marcus calls again. Please respond. We're coming in.
The door handle starts to turn.
Thorne moves faster than thought, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the wall behind his desk. He presses on a panel, and it swings open—another hidden passage.
Inside, he hisses. Quickly!
But if it's Marcus
Celestia, the handwriting on that schedule? It's his.
The words freeze my blood.
Marcus. The loyal captain. The man who served Thorne's father.
He's the spy.
The door bursts open.
There! Marcus's voice, no longer kind. Don't let them escape!
Thorne shoves me into the passage and follows, slamming the panel shut behind us.
Darkness swallows us whole.
Behind the wall, I hear Marcus barking orders: Search every room! Check every passage! The Executioner and the girl cannot leave this fortress alive!
Thorne grabs my hand in the dark, pulling me forward through the narrow space.
Where does this go? I gasp.
The old dungeons. From there, we can reach the outer walls.
And then?
Then we run.
We stumble through the pitch-black passage, hands scraping against stone. Behind us, I hear pounding on the walls. Shouts. They're searching for the entrance.
How long until they find it? I ask.
Minutes. Maybe less.
We run faster.
The passage slopes downward, getting colder and damper. My lungs burn. My legs ache. But I don't slow down.
Finally, we burst out into a stone chamber lit by a single torch. The dungeons. Empty cells line the walls, their doors hanging open like screaming mouths.
Thorne pulls me toward an old wooden door at the far end.
Through here, there's a tunnel that leads outside the walls, he says, already working the rusted lock. It hasn't been used in—
The door we came through explodes inward.
Guards flood into the dungeon. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
And at the front, sword drawn, stands Marcus.
I'm sorry, my lord, the old captain says, and he actually sounds regretful. But the Marquess pays better than loyalty.
Thorne pushes me behind him, raising his sword.
We're trapped. Outnumbered. With our backs against a locked door.
Any ideas? I whisper.
Thorne's smile is sharp and deadly. Just one.
He hands me a dagger from his belt.
When I move, you run for that door and get it open. Don't stop. Don't look back.
What about you?
I'll handle them.
There's twenty of them!
I know.
Marcus signals his men forward.
And Thorne charges straight into the horde with a battle cry that shakes the stones.