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"Move." The guard shoved Valen through the gate. Iron slammed behind him. No lock. Didn't need one—two more guards outside, and someone watching through the slit in the stone wall above.
Valen sat. Pressed his palms against his knees. Breathe.
Eliza owned him now. At least until midnight.
Twenty feet by twelve. Stone floor, one bench, one bucket. The kind of cell they threw fighters into when they got too drunk or tried to fix a match. He'd seen plenty. Never thought he'd be the one inside.
He replayed it. The way she'd used the old court tongue. Gareth Ironcrown's name, dropped like a knife between his ribs. That smile—cold, sharp. The smile of someone who'd spent five years in a cage and learned how to bite back.
She wasn't bluffing. If he ran, she'd burn him.
Footsteps.
Valen looked up. A younger guard, carrying a rolled parchment. Unlocked the gate, stepped in, handed it over. Then left. The gate stayed open.
Valen unrolled it.
A map.
East wing. Servant halls. A back stair down to the old wine cellar, then out through a drainage tunnel near the outer wall. Guard posts marked in red ink. Patrol times. Shift changes. The route was clean. Too clean.
At the bottom, in her handwriting: *Midnight. Don't be late.*
She'd planned this. Not today. Not this week. Months. Maybe longer. And now she'd folded him in because he had the one thing she didn't.
A reason to stay hidden.
He rolled the parchment, tucked it into his belt. Looked at the open gate. He could walk out. Find a horse. Ride south.
But Gareth would still be breathing.
And Eliza would make sure the entire north knew Carlos the mercenary was really Valen Frostblade, the dead prince who wasn't dead.
So. Midnight.
Valen stood. Walked out. The guards didn't stop him. One nodded toward the far end of the corridor. "You're wanted."
"By who?"
"Her Highness."
Of course.
They walked him back through the stone halls, past the barracks, past the armory, up two flights into the east wing. Warmer here. Tapestries, candles, carved wood. Where the nobles stayed during the trials. Where Eliza's cage had velvet curtains.
The guards stopped outside a door. Knocked.
"Come in."
They opened it. Stepped aside.
Valen walked in.
Small room. A desk, two chairs, a narrow bed. One window, iron bars. Eliza stood by the desk, still in the dark gown, but the jewelry was gone. Hair loose. She looked younger. Tired.
She gestured to the chair. "Sit."
Valen stayed standing. "Got your map."
"Good."
"You really think this'll work?"
Eliza picked up a folded parchment from the desk. Held it out. "Read this first."
Valen took it. Unfolded it.
A contract. Formal script, wax seals.
*Marriage Pact between the Northern Council and the Silverthorn Regency.*
*In exchange for peace along the silver border, the Silverthorn crown offers Princess Eliza Silverthorn as bride to the heir of the Northern throne.*
*Ceremony to occur within one year of signing.*
*Dowry: 10,000 gold marks, mineral rights to the eastern silver mines, indefinite truce.*
Valen read it twice. Looked up. "You're supposed to marry Gareth."
"No." Her voice was flat. "I'm supposed to marry whoever wins the throne. Right now that's Gareth's father. Or Gareth, if his father dies. Or whoever kills them both." She walked to the window. Stared through the bars. "I'm not a bride. I'm a placeholder. They keep me here so my family doesn't start another war. If I leave, the truce breaks. If I stay, I'm married off to whichever man holds the crown long enough."
Valen set the contract on the desk. "So you want out."
"I want my life back."
"And you're using me to get it."
Eliza turned. Eyes cold. "You want revenge. I want freedom. We both need the other to survive the next twenty-four hours. Don't pretend this is about morality."
Valen stepped closer. "Threatening to expose me isn't cooperation. It's extortion."
"Call it what you want." She didn't move. "You help me get out tonight. I disappear. You fight Gareth tomorrow, kill him or don't, I don't care. But I won't be here to watch."
"And if I say no?"
"Then tomorrow morning, before you step into that arena, I'll stand up in front of the trial masters and the entire crowd and tell them exactly who you are." She tilted her head. "They'll arrest you. Gareth's father will have you executed in public. Your revenge dies with you. I go back to my cage. We both lose."
Valen felt the anger rising, hot and sharp. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking." Her voice cracked. Just for a second. Then steadied. "I've been locked in this tower for five years. I've smiled at men who killed my cousins. I've poured wine for the people who burned my father's ships. I've sat in that judge's box and clapped for fighters while the man I'm supposed to marry watches me like I'm a dog on a leash." She took a breath. "So yes. I know what I'm asking. And I know you'll do it. Because if you don't, you'll never get close enough to Gareth to put a blade in his throat."
Silence.
Valen looked at her. Really looked. The exhaustion in her eyes. The way her hands were clenched. She wasn't lying. This wasn't a game.
She was drowning. And she'd grab onto anything.
"Midnight," he said.
Eliza nodded. "East wing. Servant stair. I'll meet you at the second landing."
"And after?"
"After, you never see me again."
Valen turned toward the door.
"Carlos."
He stopped. Didn't look back.
"I know what they did to you," Eliza said quietly. "I was there. At the funeral. I saw the crown they burned. I heard the priests say your name." A pause. "If it helps, I didn't believe them. Not even then."
Valen opened the door. Walked out.
The guards escorted him back down to the fighter's wing. Louder now. Voices, footsteps, the clang of metal. Evening meal in the common hall. Valen wasn't hungry.
He went to his bunk. Sat. Pulled the map from his belt. Studied the route. Memorized the guard posts. The shift change at midnight was the gap. Fifteen minutes when the east wing patrol swapped out. That was the window.
If Eliza was on time.
If her people didn't double-cross her.
If the trial masters didn't lock down early.
A lot of ifs.
Someone shouted from the far end of the barracks.
Valen looked up.
One of the trial officials stood in the doorway, flanked by four armed guards. Same man who'd announced the results earlier. Older, gray beard, the kind of face that had seen a hundred tournaments and didn't flinch at blood.
The hall went quiet.
"Attention." His voice carried. "By order of the trial masters, the compound is now sealed. No one enters or leaves until the final match concludes tomorrow."
Murmurs. A few fighters exchanged looks.
"We've received credible information that one of the remaining competitors may be using a false identity. Specifically, someone claiming common birth who may in fact carry royal blood."
Valen's chest went cold.
"All finalists will submit to a bloodline verification in one hour. The trial mages will conduct the test in the main hall. Attendance is mandatory. Anyone who refuses will be disqualified and detained."
The murmurs got louder. Someone laughed. "Royal blood? Who the hell here is royal?"
The official ignored him. "You have one hour. Prepare yourselves."
He turned. Left. The guards followed.
Valen sat frozen.
Bloodline test.
They were going to test him.
And when they did, the spell would light up like a torch. Because no matter how many times they'd burned his marks, no matter how many years he'd spent in exile, his blood still remembered what he was.
The map in his hand felt like paper and ash.
Midnight was too late.
He had one hour.",