I was about to discover that rage could be sharper than any weapon, and twice as deadly in the right hands.
My confinement stretched into its second week. The bruises on my cheek had faded to yellow-green shadows, but the rage underneath had grown sharper, more focused, like a blade being honed to the perfect killing edge.
“Play the part,” I told myself each morning. “Eat the meals. Dress when they come. Keep quiet. Don't give them any reason to suspect.”
To anyone watching, I was the chastened princess, properly subdued by her prince's discipline. But in the privacy of my own mind, I was planning.
"You're being very good, Your Highness," the guard commented as he brought my evening meal. "His Highness will be pleased."
"I've learned my lesson," I replied meekly, though inwardly I seethed. You have no idea what I've learned.
It started with whispers. Small things that might have been accidents if you weren't looking for them.
A Fae servant cleaning my chambers left a note tucked under my teacup, just a few words in careful script: He lives. He waits. Be ready.
“He's alive,” I thought, relief flooding through me. “Rios is alive. Hold on to that. Hold on to hope.”
Another servant, fitting me for a new gown, pressed a small key into my palm while adjusting the sleeves. Her eyes met mine for just a moment, long enough for me to see the steel there, the quiet determination of someone who'd decided to fight back.
“They're organizing,” I realized. “They're not just accepting this. Neither should I.” Rios sent no direct word, but I knew he was still out there. Still watching. Still waiting for the right moment.
"He hasn't forgotten you," I whispered to myself in the dark. "He's coming. You just have to be ready when he does."
One night, unable to sleep, I moved to my balcony and saw movement in the courtyard below. Luka stood in the moonlight, two Fae kneeling before him on the cold stones. He held a burning brand in his hand, the flames casting dancing shadows across his face.
"No," I breathed, gripping the balcony railing. "Please, no."
I didn't see what happened next. I didn't need to. The screams that echoed through the night air told me everything.
“Monster,” I thought, retreating to my chambers with shaking hands. “This is what love looks like to him now. This is what he's become.”
When I opened my wardrobe that night to change into my nightgown, something caught my eye. A loose panel near the back that I'd never noticed before. My fingers found the edges and pried it open.
"What is this?" I whispered, unfolding the piece of fabric hidden behind it.
Stitched into the lining was a diagram, detailed, precise, beautiful in its complexity. Tunnel routes. Guard rotations. Marked exits.
Times and patterns carefully noted in thread that would be invisible to casual inspection.
"Kieran," I breathed, tracing the lines with trembling fingers. "You brilliant, stubborn man. You never gave up."
“He never stopped fighting,” I told myself. “Even locked away, even beaten, he's still fighting for us. For me.”
The realization lit something in me, relief that he was alive, guilt that I'd been helpless while he suffered, and resolve harder than diamond.
"I won't be helpless anymore," I whispered to the empty room. "I won't be his victim."
From that moment, I started helping. Quietly, carefully, but helping nonetheless. A nod to the right servant who lingered too long while cleaning. A question to a hesitant guard about patrol schedules, disguised as idle curiosity.
“Memorize everything,” I told myself. “Keys, patterns, shadows. Become part of the plan.” I became a quiet part of the plan already in motion.
But Luka's cruelty escalated. Three nights later, I witnessed my worst nightmare from my balcony.
Guards held Kieran upright between them, his head hanging, blood dripping onto the courtyard stones. Luka stood before him, his knuckles split and bloody, breathing hard from exertion.
"No, no, no," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Please stop. Please."
Even from this distance, I could see the damage. Kieran's face was a map of bruises, his shirt torn and stained dark.
But he still held his head up, still met Luka's gaze with defiance that made my chest ache with pride and terror.
“He's not breaking,” I realized. “He's not giving up. Neither can I.”
I returned to my chambers shaking, but my hands were steady as I moved to my vanity. In the top drawer, beneath silk scarves and perfume bottles, lay a small knife, ornamental, meant for opening letters, but sharp enough for what I had in mind.
"Sharp enough," I whispered, testing the edge against my thumb. A thin line of blood welled up, bright red in the candlelight. "Sharp enough for justice."
I slipped the blade beneath my pillow, my fingers lingering on the handle.
“No one hurts those I love,” I promised the darkness. “Especially not him. Not anymore.”