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"Carlos of the North." The taller guard blocked the tunnel before Valen could reach it. "Her Highness wants you."
Valen's hand twitched toward his sword.
The guard noticed. "Don't."
Valen let his fingers fall. "Lead the way."
They took him through the stone corridors beneath the arena. The crowd faded behind them, but the roar still beat inside his skull. The princess had seen the blade glow. She'd recognized something.
Ten years of hiding could end in the next five minutes.
At a carved door trimmed in gold, the guard knocked.
"Send him in."
The door opened. Valen stepped through. It shut behind him with a hard click.
Eliza Silverthorn stood by the window, her hands folded behind her back. Gray silk. High collar. Perfect posture.
A pretty prisoner, dressed for court.
Her eyes said otherwise.
"You fight well," she said without turning. "Better than well. Who taught you?"
Valen stayed by the door. "The arena."
"The arena teaches survival. It doesn't teach northern high-guard forms."
"Maybe I'm a fast learner."
She turned. Pale gray eyes moved over his scars, his stance, and finally the sword at his hip.
"Carlos, is it?"
"That's what people call me."
"Funny. I knew a Carlos once. A stable boy. Sweet face. Soft hands. He died of fever." She crossed the room. "Your hands aren't soft. Your stance is wrong for a stable boy. And that sword—"
"It's a sword."
"It glowed."
"Cold metal does strange things."
"Not blue and white. Not frostfire. Not royal frostfire."
Valen kept his face blank. "You're mistaken."
"Am I?"
She stopped close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath between them. Her gaze lingered on his mouth for half a second before rising again.
"Tell me I'm wrong," she said. "Tell me you're only a mercenary who learned palace forms by accident."
"You're only a princess who asks too many questions."
Her mouth curved. "There you are."
"Where?"
"Behind the fake name."
Valen's jaw tightened. "Get to the point."
Eliza's smile faded. "Fine. I think you're Valen Frostblade. The prince who died in the coup."
The room seemed to shrink around him.
"You're talking nonsense."
"I was thirteen when they held your funeral. I stood in the cathedral with the treaty delegation. They burned incense for a body no one had found and sang about the lost prince." Her voice stayed calm, but her fingers curled behind her back. "They said your blood covered the throne room."
"You saw a ceremony. Not me."
"Then prove it."
She stepped closer.
"Aeryth val noreth," she said.
The old palace code struck before thought could stop it.
"Khael send ornen."
Silence dropped between them.
Eliza's eyes sharpened. "There you are."
Valen's fists closed. "What do you want?"
"Out."
"Out of this room?"
"Out of this frozen cage." She moved to a table and poured wine into a crystal glass. "Out of the alliance that traded me to a court that smiles while it locks doors. Out of the life they've chosen for me."
She took a sip and didn't offer him any.
"I need leverage," she said. "You are the best leverage I've had in years."
"I'm not a prince."
"You were. You still are. Burning your marks and changing your name didn't change your blood."
"Careful. That almost sounded like sympathy."
"Don't worry. I have very little of that left."
Valen watched her set down the glass. "If you think I'm going to help you because you guessed a name—"
"I don't need you willing."
Her voice cut through his.
"Tomorrow, I can stand in the arena and announce that Carlos of the North is Valen Frostblade. I can say it to the trial masters, the judges, and every person in the stands."
Valen's pulse kicked.
Eliza leaned one hip against the table. "Including Gareth Ironcrown."
The name hit harder than any blade.
"He's here?"
"You didn't know?"
"Answer me."
"He's your opponent in the finals. Noon tomorrow. The trial masters thought it would make a lovely story. The usurper's son against the mysterious northern fighter."
Valen's vision narrowed. Gareth. The son of the man who had burned his palace and buried his family.
One fight away.
"You're thinking about killing him," Eliza said.
"I'm thinking about leaving."
"Liar."
"You want my help. Try not to insult me while asking."
She pushed away from the table. "Help me escape tonight. I disappear, you keep your name, and you get your fight tomorrow."
"And if I refuse?"
"I tell the world who you are."
"You'd destroy yourself just to expose me?"
Eliza's face went still. "I'm already trapped. If they catch me running, they'll bury me in a cell or marry me to another cage. At least this way, I choose the fire."
"You expect me to trust that?"
"No. Trust is expensive, and neither of us can afford it." She picked up the glass again. "You know I'll expose you if you refuse. You don't know what I'll do if you agree. Pick the risk you can live with."
Valen stared at her. He wanted to walk out. He wanted to put his sword through Gareth's throat tomorrow and vanish before the court understood what had happened.
Eliza had placed herself between him and the only revenge he'd wanted for ten years.
"When?" he asked.
"Midnight. The east wing. There's a servants' passage behind the kitchens."
"You have a route. Guards. A carriage?"
"I have enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She came to the door and rested her hand on the latch. "Don't run before midnight. I have people watching you. If you vanish, I say your name."
"You threaten everyone this politely?"
"Only people who can start wars."
The door opened. Two guards waited outside.
"Escort him back," Eliza said. "And make sure he stays in his quarters."
Valen passed her without looking back. He felt her eyes between his shoulder blades all the way down the corridor.
By the time he reached the fighters' quarters, he had one problem with a name and another with a deadline.
Gareth Ironcrown. Tomorrow.
Midnight first.
The guards shoved him inside. The door slammed behind him.
Valen stood in the dark and listened. No lock on his side. Footsteps outside. Two men, maybe three.
He pressed his palms to the cold wall.
"Help the princess escape," he muttered. "Fight Gareth. Try not to die. Simple."
The plan sounded worse out loud.
He turned toward the narrow window. The moon had climbed above the outer wall. A few hours remained.
The east-wing passage ran behind the kitchens and down toward the stables. He'd studied the palace as a child. Smugglers had used that route during the war.
If Eliza knew about it, she had either done her homework or found someone who had.
Neither option comforted him.
A hostage princess shouldn't have people watching a disguised fighter. She should have jailers and handlers.
Not a network.
Valen drew his sword and rested it across his knees. The metal still held the cold from the arena. Blue-white light had crawled along the blade for one breath, and Eliza had seen it.
He should have abandoned the sword years ago.
He couldn't.
It was the last piece of the prince he'd been before the palace burned. The last thing that still answered when he called.
Tomorrow, it would answer Gareth.
A knock struck the door.
Valen's hand closed around the hilt. "Who is it?"
"Dinner, sir."
"I didn't order dinner."
"Compliments of Her Highness."
The door opened. A young servant entered with a tray. He kept his eyes down and set out bread, meat, and wine with shaking hands.
Valen didn't move. "Your name."
The boy swallowed. "Tam, sir."
"You work for the princess?"
"I only carry the food."
"That wasn't my question."
Tam's fingers tightened around the tray. "She told me to make sure you ate."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Try again."
"I swear, I don't know."
Valen picked up the wine and held it beneath his nose. No bitter scent. No poison he recognized.
He set it down.
"Tell Her Highness I'm not hungry."
Tam nodded too quickly.
"And Tam?"
The boy froze.
"If you lie to me again, I'll find out before you reach the east wing."
Tam's face drained. "Yes, sir."
He fled.
Valen watched the door close.
Food could be kindness. It could also be a drug, a test, or a way to make him easy to move. Eliza wanted control. She'd said so herself.
He poured the wine out the window, broke the bread, and scattered half of it near the cot. Then he lay down with his sword within reach.
If the princess wanted him drugged, she could learn how hard he was to fool.
An hour passed.
Footsteps stopped outside.
The door opened without a knock.
Valen slowed his breathing and kept his eyes shut. Someone entered, soft-soled and careful. The door clicked closed.
A hand touched his shoulder.
"Carlos," a woman's voice whispered. "If you're awake, don't move. Her Highness's guards are in the hall, and the passage isn't an escape route—it's a trap."
Valen's fingers slid around his sword hilt as the woman leaned closer and said, "They know you're—