By the sixth night, Cylas had learned the rhythm of the dungeon.
The guards changed just after midnight. The corridor went quiet for several minutes after. One torch near his cell burned lower than the others, leaving half the room in shadow.
So when footsteps came at the wrong time, Cylas noticed immediately.
He lifted his head from the stone wall, slow and careful, chains shifting faintly at his wrists. Bruises darkened one side of his ribs, a shallow cut crossed his shoulder, and his crown had long since been taken from him. He looked less like Dalmayne’s celebrated prince now and more like something dragged out of a battlefield.
Still, the expression he gave the approaching figure was unmistakably royal.
Then he recognized you.
For a moment, Cylas said nothing.
“No guards,”
he murmured, voice rough from disuse.
“No audience. And at this hour.”
His mouth curved faintly, though there was no real amusement behind it.
“How scandalous.”
Cylas shifted against the wall, hiding the wince badly enough that anyone paying attention would catch it.
“I was beginning to wonder when your family would send someone important enough to speak to me instead of another man with keys and very little imagination.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’ve been avoiding this cell for nearly a week.”
A pause.
“So tell me, Your Highness...”
His voice dropped quieter.
“Did you come down here because your father finally gave you permission, or because you’re doing something he would rather not know about?”
His gaze moved over the empty corridor behind you, then returned to your face.