POV: Beth
The lock hangs open like a secret I wish I could take back.
The man steps fully into torchlight, chains dragging, bare feet silent against stone. He rolls his shoulders once, testing his restraints. Metal scrapes bone. His smile sharpens, hungry in a way that makes the cold seem warmer by comparison.
“Stand back,” he murmurs.
I stumble away instinctively, pressing against rough wall. My heart punches ribs. Panic stings like salt in raw wound.
He wraps the chain between fists, muscles tightening beneath scars. A low breath escapes him—not struggle, but anticipation. Then he jerks.
The iron bolt snaps like rotten wood.
The sound rattles through the dungeon. Dust sifts from ceiling cracks. He moves to the second shackle and does the same. With every break my stomach twists tighter. No normal man breaks prison chains with brute force.
He tosses the severed links aside. They clatter across stone like bones. His wrists bleed from the friction, skin torn and red, but he doesn’t flinch. He looks exhilarated.
“Perfect distraction,” he says. “Let’s begin. By the way, my name is Alaric”
Before I find words, voices echo from the stairwell—guards returning, lantern flames brightening. Alaric doesn’t hide. He stands in center of corridor as if welcoming them.
The first guard appears, eyes widening. “How—”
Alaric is on him before the question finishes.
He moves like a wave breaking—sudden, unstoppable. His fist crashes into the guard’s throat. A sickening crunch. The man drops soundlessly. The lantern falls and rolls, flame licking old straw.
The second guard yells, drawing sword. Alaric grabs his wrist, twists, steel clattering to floor. He slams the guard’s head into bars once, twice, until skull meets iron with dull crack and body slumps limp.
I stand paralyzed—breath gone, pulse roaring through ears. He just killed two men with bare hands. Effortless. Efficient. Terrifying.
He wipes blood from his knuckles onto the guard’s tunic with casual annoyance. “Come, princess. Dungeon’s awake now.”
Flames catch in straw. Smoke curls. Shouts erupt upstairs—more boots pounding. Alarm bells begin to ring, shrill and close. Torches flicker. The dungeon transforms into chaos.
I nearly collapse again, but his hand clamps around my wrist—the marked one. He drags me forward.
“Wait—” My voice tears loose. “My father—”
“We’ll reach him,” he says calmly. “Dead if we linger.”
The fire crawls across straw, devouring shadows. Heat pulses through iron bars. The dungeon screams with echoes and panic. Alaric kicks open a rusted door, revealing a narrow side passage slick with mildew.
“Move,” he orders, hand firm between my shoulder blades.
I stumble into darkness. Water weeps from the ceiling. Roots poke through cracks like ribs. The passage slopes downward—deeper. My bare feet slap puddles, toes numb and stinging.
Alaric follows close behind, breath steady, as if breaking out of royal dungeons is routine.
We reach a grate near floor level—thick iron bars, slime-coated. Beyond it, a black river of sewage rushes under the palace.
“No,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he corrects.
He jams a broken chain link into the grate hinges, muscles coiling. Metal screams. One bar bends, then another, opening space barely wide enough for a person.
He motions. “Ladies first.”
“I can’t—”
He grips my waist before I finish, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My stomach drops. I claw at stone ceiling, panic flaring. He pushes me through the gap. Cold filth surges over my feet, up my shins, soaking my shift. The smell hits like a physical blow—rot, waste, mold, dead things.
“I-I can’t do this—” My voice cracks.
“You can,” he says. “Shaking doesn’t mean failing.”
He crawls through behind me, chain ends clinking. The tunnel is cramped, barely allowing crouch. Sewage rushes ankle-deep, then knee-deep. Darkness eats sound. I gag, hand over mouth.
Alaric’s hand presses between my shoulders again. “Straight ahead. Storm drains lead to docks.”
Alarms intensify above—soldiers shouting orders, iron doors slamming. The prince will know soon. Every moment stretches too thin.
I wade forward, breath shallow. The tunnel narrows further, ceiling dropping. Soon I’m forced onto hands and knees, cold sludge swallowing my elbows. Panic climbs throat like claws.
Behind me, Alaric moves with infuriating calm. “Keep going.”
The tunnel dips suddenly. Water rises to my chest. My breath falters.
“Stop—wait—please—” But water surges, rushing like river unleashed. It hits my face. I choke. It drags. My fingers slip from slimy stone and I am plunged fully under—liquid blackness filling nose, mouth, lungs. I thrash blindly. Panic blinds thought.
A hand clamps my wrist.
He yanks.
I break surface coughing, retching, clawing at air. I cling to his arm, shaking violently. Alaric’s grip is iron, hauling me against current until my hands find a ledge of crumbling brick.
“Breathe,” he says, voice firm but steady. “You’re not dying today.”
I sob once and drag air that tastes like rot. My limbs tremble so hard I almost slip again, but he anchors me with one arm around my waist until I gather enough strength to crawl forward. The tunnel widens ahead—faint light glimmers like salvation.
We push through the last bend and burst into night.
Cold rain slams my skin like knives. Storm clouds churn overhead, lightning splitting sky in jagged white scars. We stand beneath the lower docks, water crashing against pillars. Waves roar like beasts.
Alaric inhales deeply, as if seawater is freedom itself.
I sag against the stone wall, gasping, soaked and shaking. My shift clings indecently to skin. My teeth chatter. I feel small, breakable, held together only by desperation.
“We made it.” My voice is disbelief.
“For now,” he says.
He moves to the shadows beneath dock roof, untangling chains from wrists. He looks almost amused by the chaos behind us—guards shouting through sewer grates, bells ringing wildly above.
Then I see it.
Pasted to a damp post by the pier, rain streaking ink: A wanted poster. Edges torn, but clear enough.
A man’s face drawn in harsh charcoal. Wild hair. Scar across brow. Smirk cut like blade.
My breath freezes.
His face.
Beneath it bold words scream through storm:
THE BLACK TIDE—PIRATE KING.
ALARIC STORMBREAKER.
WANTED DEAD.
Lightning flashes, illuminating him—water dripping from black hair, chains hanging loose like jewelry, eyes dark and unbothered. A pirate king. Not prisoner. Not victim.
Monster and myth. He sees where I’m looking.
Our eyes meet across storm and sewage. He doesn’t deny it.
Instead he tilts his head, rain sliding over jaw like silver. “Still want freedom, princess?”
My heart slams once—hard—like a warning bell too late.
Because escape with him is no salvation. It is stepping willingly into a tempest.