Page 83 of The Crown of the Dark Prince
The guard at the door frowned as he took in my appearance. My leather attire—dirty from travel, far too battle-worn for someone of my station—only deepened his confusion. In Athenia’s courts, women didn’t dress like this. Not ever.
I should have changed. I’d surely just sparked a hundred rumors about the ill-dressed Hyraxian Descendant skulking into the dungeons. The Dragon would hear of it by morning.
But that was tomorrow’s problem.
“I’m here to see a prisoner,” I said, keeping my voice even.
The guard tilted his head, fiery red hair flopping over his ears. He knew exactly which prisoner I meant. He shifted awkwardly, crimson spreading across his cheeks. “I’m not sure that’s wise, Lady Moore.”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”
“The Dragon hasn’t granted her leave for visitors.”
Ah. There it was. The protest I’d expected.
The Dragon’s command had been clear: no visitors, no exceptions. He had given me permission to see her once—months ago, but clearly that exception had long since expired.
Time to play my first card.
“I’m a Councilwoman,” I reminded him. “Would you defy me?”
He stiffened, jaw tightening. I watched his jaw work, watched him avoid a question that demanded an answer. Even if that answer was that he had to listen to the Dragon’s orders, as a Councilwoman he was still a lower station than me. He had to answer me.
So why wasn’t he?
His eyes darted toward the hall beyond the door and his fingers twitched. That’s when I realized it. The twitch of his fingers betrayed him. He wasn’t just following orders. He was hiding something.
“What’s your name?” I asked sharply, trying to peer over his shoulder into the prison.
He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “Gertrand, my lady.”
“Gertrand.” I let his name hang in the air like a weight. “Why are you trying to stop me?”
Still, he said nothing. The silence stretched between us, heavy and unyielding.
Fine, if my status wasn’t enough to convince him to let me in, then I would have to move onto my next play.
It was all a bit... ironic. The palace dungeon guards, selected for their ability to contain the kingdom’s worst enemies, were widely respected for their strength and power. Yet here I stood, nearly a year after I had been locked in those very cells, and Gertrand couldn’t stop me.
Not anymore.
I didn’t even raise my hand. My magic surged forward in a single breath, sending him stumbling back as the heavy door blasted open with a resounding crash.
I stepped inside, forcing my movements to stay slow. Deliberate. My boots echoed on the stone as I approached the last cell on the left—the one I knew far too well.
And then I saw her.
Camilla lay crumpled in the corner, a shriveled figure soaked in blood and filth.
Gods.
Her sun-kissed skin had gone pale, the fragile blue of her veins visible beneath its surface. She faced me, one arm outstretched, as though she had reached for help that never came. Bruises mottled her skin—handprints circling her forearms like shackles. If not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, I would have thought her dead.
The stench of festering wounds hit me, sharp and nauseating. I slapped a hand over my mouth, bile rising as my chest tightened in fury.
They brutalized Camilla until she now laid there helplessly.
Beaten.
