House arrest, not dungeons—that's the only mercy.
I'm confined to my chambers with guards stationed outside my door. I hear them shift and murmur, their presence a constant reminder that I'm trapped. No visitors permitted.
Food arrives three times a day brought by silent servants who won't meet my eyes, who set the trays down and flee as quickly as possible.
The message is clear: I'm isolated, contained, neutralized while Cecily consolidates her victory.
Days pass in suffocating stillness. I pace the length of my chambers until I've worn a path in the carpet. Count the stones in the wall. Watch the sun track across the sky and disappear again. Try not to think about my sons sleeping in their nursery, growing without me, changing while I rot here unable to reach them.
Duke Phideus attempts to visit on the first day. I hear his voice in the corridor, demanding access, invoking his rank and his friendship with the late king. The guards refuse him politely but firmly—king's orders, no visitors for the prisoner.
Maren tries on the second day. Her voice carries through the heavy door—furious, demanding, threatening to cause a scene if they don't let her through. But they hold firm, and eventually I hear her footsteps retreating, her voice breaking on what might be a sob.
By the third day, I'm starting to understand what true isolation feels like. Not just physical confinement, but the suffocating knowledge that no one can reach me. That I'm utterly alone while my enemies move freely, plotting, planning, tightening the noose.
I stand at the window as night falls, staring out at gardens I can see but not touch. My mind races through possibilities, strategies, desperate plans. All of them end badly. All of them require resources I don't have, allies I can't reach, power I've been stripped of.
Then I hear it—a soft scraping against stone.
My heart leaps into my throat. I lean closer to the window, peering into the darkness, and see a figure on the narrow ledge outside my third-story window. Climbing with practiced ease, fingers finding holds in decorative stonework that I never noticed before.
Kyrell.
I fumble with the latch, throwing the window open as he reaches it. He climbs through with surprising grace given the danger, and the moment his feet touch solid floor, I'm in his arms.
"You're insane," I gasp against his chest. "You could have fallen. You could have been seen. You—"
"I had to reach you." His hands cup my face, tilting it up so he can see me properly in the dim light. His eyes are fierce, searching for injuries, for signs of mistreatment. "Are you hurt? Have they touched you? I swear if anyone laid a hand on you…"
"I'm fine, they haven't hurt me." I grip his wrists, anchoring myself to his solid presence. "Just isolated. No visitors, no information, nothing. What's happening out there? Was it Cecily?"
He pulls me to the chairs farthest from the door, keeping his voice low even though the guards shouldn't be able to hear through the thick wood.
"She's positioned this brilliantly," he says, and I hear grudging respect mixed with fury. "Told the entire court that you made threats against her and the children. That you've become increasingly unstable, obsessed with the delusion that the princes are yours. Leander seems to believe it as well."
"That's ridiculous! I never—"
"I know. We all know. But she has witnesses—servants who'll swear they overheard you making threats. Guards who'll testify you tried to access the nursery at odd hours. A physician who'll claim you showed signs of dangerous delusion."
His jaw clenches.
"All lies, all bought and paid for. But convincing enough to make Leander believe he's protecting his sons by keeping you locked away."
I sink back in the chair, the weight of it crushing. "So I'm trapped here while she wins, while my sons grow up thinking she's their mother."
"Not if my father has anything to say about it."
Kyrell leans forward, intensity radiating from him.
"He's working every political angle. We have evidence now—real evidence. Elspeth's testimony about the switch. Financial records showing bribes paid to the midwives. Witness statements about the pattern of deaths. It's enough to force an investigation."
"How long will that take?"
His silence is answer enough.
"She's working faster than we are," I say quietly. "Isn't she?"
"Yes." He takes my hands in his. "But we're not giving up. We're close, Sybil. So close to exposing everything."
I study his face in the candlelight—the determination there, the fierce protectiveness that's become as familiar as breathing. "How did you get past the guards? They're watching the door constantly."
"I scaled the outer wall." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Same way I used to sneak out when I was a boy. My father caught me once, made me practice until I could do it perfectly. Said you never know when being able to climb silently might save your life."
"You risked your life to reach me."
"Of course I did." He says it like it's obvious, like there was never any other choice. "I wasn't going to leave you to face this alone, trapped and isolated. Even if it means risking my own arrest."
We sit close, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. The intimacy is different from our night together—less about passion, more about partnership. About refusing to be separated even when every power structure demands we stay apart.
"I need you to do something for me," I say finally, decision crystallizing in my mind.
"Anything."
"Arrange a private audience with Leander. Just him and me. No guards, no advisors, no Cecily. I need to face him directly."
Kyrell pulls back, concern flooding his features. "That's too dangerous. He's the one who ordered your arrest. He might not even grant the audience."
"He will." I'm certain of this somehow. "Because he has doubts. I saw it at the ball, heard it in his voice. He's questioning everything, and Cecily knows it. That's why she moved so quickly to neutralize me."
"And if he refuses to listen?"
"Then at least I'll have tried." I grip his hands tighter. "This is my only move left, Kyrell. I can't just sit here waiting for your father's political maneuvering to work while Cecily consolidates power. I need to speak truth directly to the king, force him to choose. Make him look me in the eye and tell me he doesn't believe me."
He searches my face for a long moment, and I see the war playing out behind his eyes—the desire to protect me warring with respect for my agency, for my right to make this choice even if it's dangerous.
"All right," he says finally. "I'll arrange it. Though my father is going to be furious with both of us."
"He'll survive." I manage a weak smile. "Tell him it's a calculated risk. That sometimes the direct approach is the only one left."
He stands reluctantly, moving toward the window. Dawn is starting to lighten the eastern sky—he's running out of darkness to cover his descent.
At the window, he turns back and crosses to me one more time. His kiss is gentle but thorough, a promise and a reminder and a plea to be careful all at once.
"I'll make it happen," he murmurs against my lips. "I'll get you that audience. Just... don't do anything reckless until then."
"Define reckless."
His laugh is barely a breath. "I love you. Remember that, whatever happens."
Then he's gone, slipping through the window and disappearing into the pre-dawn shadows like he was never there.
***
By mid-morning, I hear voices in the corridor. The door opens, and the guard captain enters with two of his men.
"King Leander has granted your request for a private audience," he announces formally. "You're to be escorted to his chambers immediately."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Kyrell did it. He actually did it.
"I'm ready," I say, rising with as much dignity as I can manage.
The walk through corridors feels like walking to my execution. Servants stop what they're doing to stare. Nobles pause their conversations to watch me pass, whispers following in my wake. I hold my head high, channeling every ounce of Princess Sybil even though terror threatens to choke me.
They're all wondering what will happen to the mad woman who claimed to be a lost princess. Whether the king will show mercy or make an example of me. Whether this is the beginning of my vindication or the final step toward my complete destruction.
We reach the King's private study—not the throne room, not a public space. Somewhere intimate, personal. The guards open the doors, escort me inside, then withdraw.
Leaving me alone with Leander for the first time since my arrest.
He stands by the window, his back to me, shoulders tense. The crown sits on his desk rather than his head. He looks tired, older than his twenty-five years, burdened by weight he never wanted to carry.
I'm ready to fight, ready to rage. Ready to demand he look at the evidence, question the timing, see Cecily's manipulation for what it is. The words are already forming, fury building in my chest.
Then Leander turns to face me, and speaks before I can.
"I believe you."
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