POV: Beth
I do not sleep.
I drift between shaking exhaustion and jolts of panic that wrench me upright again. Each time I close my eyes, I see the church doors slam, Father’s hand reaching as he vanished below. The straw scratches my bare skin. The dungeon breathes cold against my spine.
At some point the torches dim, replaced by the faint red glow of dawn from somewhere high above the stone ceiling. Rats squeal in the corners. My muscles ache with cold, and hunger gnaws slowly beneath my ribs like a dull-toothed animal.
Bootsteps wake the dungeon fully. Two guards walk deeper in, lantern swinging, metal boots clanking over stone. They pause near a cell down the hall where a man whimpers. Chains rattle. Someone begs for mercy. They ignore him.
I press my ear to the bars, pulse pounding. Their voices carry just enough.
“…Hawthorne’s to be executed next fortnight,” one guard mutters, voice gravelly with sleep. “The prince wants an example made. Claims the pirate blood tainted her from birth.”
Next fortnight. Two weeks.
My breath snags. I grip the bars so tightly my knuckles burn. Execution. The word is a blade. It carves everything inside me raw.
Father cannot die. He cannot. He has always carried our world alone. He laughed instead of eating. He worked instead of sleeping. When I scraped my knee at ten, he carried me three streets to the healer though his back already ached. He tucked me in with stories of brave captains and gentle queens. He gave me gloves to hide the thing that ruined me today.
He loved me when the mark already condemned me.
And I let him be dragged into darkness.
My knees nearly give. My breath becomes thin, ragged. I try to speak but only a whisper escapes me, broken and desperate. “I must reach him. I must—”
Chains shift in the opposite cell.
“Well,” that lazy voice drawls, “looks like reality finally sharpened its teeth.”
I whirl toward the sound. His silhouette sits exactly as before, lounging against the wall like a guest in a drawing room. Only the faintest glint of chained shackles reveals his captivity. He watches me, unseen eyes readable only in tone.
“What did you hear?” he asks, though I know he already knows. He hears everything.
“Execution,” I breathe. “Two weeks. They’re going to kill him.”
He remains silent a moment. When he speaks, it is softer—not kind, but focused. “Then you have a problem, princess.”
A sob climbs my throat. I force it down. “I need to get out. I need to save him.”
“Ambitious,” he says, amused again. “Most brides thrown in dungeons pray for mercy. You pray for escape.”
“I don’t pray anymore.” My voice cracks. “No one listens here.”
A low hum of approval. “Good. Faith breaks faster than bone. Steel is what survives.”
I press my forehead to the bars. “I don’t have steel. I’m scared. I—”
“You’re alive,” he cuts in. “Fear means you want to stay that way. Fear is useful.”
I hate that his voice steadies me. Hate it more that I need it.
I swallow. “You said you could leave anytime.”
“I did.”
“And that you were waiting for a distraction.”
“I am.”
I clutch the bars harder. “Help me reach my father. Help me escape. Please.”
He exhales like someone who’s just been offered a game worth playing. “And what do I gain, little bride?”
“Freedom,” I say. “If you help me, I’ll— I’ll do whatever you need. I’ll distract guards. I’ll—”
A soft laugh interrupts me. “Careful making open bargains in dungeons, sweetheart. You never know who’s listening.”
I fall silent.
Chains rustle as he leans forward. The darkness shifts, outlining broad shoulders, long tangled hair, one eye catching the faint gold of torchlight. Too confident for a man in chains. Too amused for someone bloodied yesterday.
“I propose a trade,” he says. “You open my cell, I get us both out. Once free, I help you reach your father. Simple.”
Simple. Nothing about this is simple.
“I don’t even know who you are,” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “Names are for banquet tables. Here we survive on hunger and opportunity.”
I stare at the bars. At his chains. At my shaking fingers.
“I don’t know how to open locks.”
“You will,” he says as if certainty is enough to create skill. “What do you have on you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re wearing pins in your hair.”
My hand flies up. Cold metal tangles in my hair—three pins still holding what remains of yesterday’s curls. I pull one free. It gleams weakly in torchlight. My heart hammers.
“You want me to pick a dungeon lock?”
“Yes.”
“It’s impossible.”
“No,” he says, patient in a terrifying way. “Just difficult. There’s a difference.”
I grip the pin, fingers slick with sweat. “What if I’m caught?”
He chuckles. “Then make sure you’re not.”
The absurdity nearly breaks me into hysterical laughter. Instead I stand. My legs tremble. I push my arms through the bars, gown scraps dragging.
“Show me,” I whisper.
His chains clink softly as he shifts closer, voice low as instruction.
“Slide the pin into the keyhole. Feel for tumblers—little bumps. You’ll need to coax them up one by one. Slow, patient. Locks are stubborn like nobles—push too hard and you break them.”
I try.
The pin scratches metal, scrapes edges. My fingers shake so fiercely I nearly drop it. I force air into my lungs. The darkness smells like rust. One wrong sound could bring guards.
“Quiet,” he murmurs. “Control your fear. Fear makes hands clumsy.”
Fear also makes me fast—but I breathe, slow, slow, until my pulse becomes something I can ride instead of drown beneath. The tip of the pin grazes something—a tiny click trembles through it.
“There,” he says. “Again. Higher.”
Another click. Then a third. Sweat drips down my spine.
Footsteps. Voices. Lantern-light swells faintly at the far end. Panic flares hot.
“Hurry,” he says—still calm, but tone deepens. Urgent now. “One more.”
A fourth click. Something shifts. The lock is stuck.
“No,” I gasp. “No no no—”
“You’re close. Breathe.”
The footsteps fade left instead of right. I might have seconds. Might have none. I swallow hard, press the pin deeper. A final click snaps like a held breath breaking free.
Something gives and the lock turns.
The cell door wheezes open half an inch—enough to say it is no longer locked. Enough to damn or save me.
My pulse roars in my ears.
I yank my hand back and stumble away, pin falling with a tiny metallic ping. The sound explodes like thunder in the silent dark. I slap a hand over my mouth.
Across from me, metal shifts. Iron grates. The man stands slowly, rising from shadow like a creature from deep ocean.
This time he steps forward into full torchlight. My breath stops.
He is taller than I imagined, shoulders broad beneath torn shirt sleeves stained with dried blood. Chains hang heavy around wrists but he moves as if they weigh nothing. Scars cross his forearms like pale lightning. A black tattoo coils up his right arm—serpents and waves, ink striking against tanned skin. Another mark curls at his throat, half-hidden beneath dark hair.
His face is sharp—cheekbones defined, mouth curved in a smirk too sure of itself, eyes dark and glinting like danger disguised as charm.
A pirate.
Everything about him screams it.
“Gods,” I breathe without meaning to.
He bows, chains clinking. “Pleasure to finally meet you properly.”
Fear spears through me so fast I stagger back. This is wrong. I should never have helped him. He is exactly the type Father warned me about. Wicked. Unshaken. Free inside chains.
“What have I done?” I whisper.
His smirk deepens—not cruel, but knowing. “Something very interesting.”
I am trapped—not just in stone walls, but in consequences.