Lady Eleanor

The dungeon smells of iron and old damp—the sort of scent that settles into your bones if you spend enough time here. Candlelight gutters along the stone as my hands finish the last knot, fingers steady even though my pulse drums at my throat. Tiriana’s wrists bear the marks of the cords, the pale tracks of strain, but she is breathing, breathing stubborn and slow, which is what I want. Broken isn’t useful if it’s silent.

My lady in waiting, Marette, moves like a shadow behind me, sweeping the straw and gathering the overturned basin. She keeps her head low when she looks at Tiriana; she’s been instructed...