Page 33 of The Starlit Ring (The Chronicles of Liridin #1)

T he dungeons were located to the west, facing the sea, and accessed through a back stairwell that I’d never noticed before. Down, down, down into a darkness so heavy that even the torches struggled to pierce it.

The guards were rough, despite Prince Marius’s commands.

I bowed my head and tried to cooperate, but it was difficult when the guard on my right dragged me at a slower pace than the one on my left.

In the hallway outside the throne room, I tripped over my own feet and was given no time to right myself.

A hand fisted in my hair, yanked me upright.

When I looked up, an audience had gathered.

The servants I’d spent so much time with over the last few months stood watching, awestruck.

Zellia pressed the palm of her hand over her mouth, her eyes bulging.

I wanted to beg for help, but I knew better.

Even if the servants believed me, I’d done nothing to earn their loyalty.

The soldiers were stronger, better armed, and acting on the king’s orders.

Going against them would be a death sentence.

I avoided eye contact and tried to not to sob as I was hauled down the stairs .

How was it that the Tocchian soldiers ensured minimal bloodshed during the attack in Olmstead, and yet took such delight in wrenching my wrists and grasping at my hair until my scalp screamed?

I wasn’t yet in chains, but I had no hope of fighting them off. If I survived this, I’d have bruises all over my body.

If they didn’t kill me as soon as I reached the dungeons.

Not every ruler enjoyed a spectacle. While Father believed it was best not to rob the people of an execution and the accompanying fanfare, I’d heard stories of other monarchs who had their enemies put to death quietly and quickly.

A guard squeezed my shoulder until I thought it might pop.

I should identify myself. I should make sure the guards knew that I was Princess Talina. They would at least hesitate before throwing me in a cell, or worse. But the only thing that escaped my mouth was a pained gasp.

Knees aching, scalp burning, wrists bruising, I could only succumb to the guards’ whims as I was dragged down one long, dark, winding hallway, and into another.

Torches lined the walls, barely illuminating heavy doors with metal grates.

I tried to memorize our path, but it was difficult when the hand in my hair kept tugging my head back and forth, as if trying to prevent me from doing that very thing.

By the time they threw me into a cell, my mouth tasted of iron and salt.

Hours passed. In the distance, I heard singing—a scratchy voice, an offkey tune, indeterminate words. Metal armor clanked. A door slammed. A high laugh echoed through the hallway. Waves crashed against the rocks outside.

I’d never set foot in a prison before, let alone a proper dungeon.

Though I’d heard plenty of stories, I was unprepared for the chill that wrapped itself around me and seeped into my bones.

Everything ached. There was a leak in my cell, a continuous dripping of water that could quickly grow maddening.

When I attempted to look through the grate on my door, the tip of a spear appeared, mere inches from my eye.

No passing soldiers would stop to talk to me. My voice echoed across the cell, reverberating off the stone walls.

There was nowhere to sit but the floor. Damp seeped into my skirts.

I tried to squat rather than sit, to keep from growing any colder, but eventually the strain in my legs became too much, and I was forced to stand again.

I paced back and forth like a kenneled dog, salivating at the thought of freedom.

I’d always pitied Father’s hounds, but never fully understood the hell they lived in—nights crammed into a cage, days spent running across rough terrain in exchange for scraps of meat and the chance to hunt vermin.

Skinny and scrawny, they begged for affection, for food.

Designed to hunt, kept desperate enough to comply.

If I’d felt sorry for myself on the day of the Spring Banquet, it was nothing compared to the way I felt now. For hours, I’d had no food, no water, no human interaction. My legs were beginning to ache from pacing, but I’d freeze if I sat on the stone floor.

This was where they put criminals. Was I a criminal now?

Following Ria here was stupid. I’d entered the kingdom under false pretenses, which might’ve been forgivable on its own, but I’d moved right into the palace and served as the princess’s maid.

My lies would be punished based on my proximity to the royal family.

If King Hergarv thought I was a spy, then I was well and truly doomed.

I should’ve seen this coming. I knew better than to get caught. Ria had tried to send me home at least a dozen times.

I should’ve listened .

If they came for me, I would confess. I would scream until I was blue in the face that I was Princess Talina of Olmstead, under the protection of King Amonrew. I’d repeat myself until they either listened or killed me, whichever came first.

No one would kill a princess, I told myself, squeezing my eyes shut so tears couldn’t escape. There would be an investigation. My execution would be a diplomatic scandal. After so much effort to acquire Ria, Tocchia wouldn’t leap straight into war.

A thought struck me. Did King Hergarv throw me in here to force a confession? Did he hope I’d admit to whatever nefarious deeds he suspected of me?

Eventually, my shock turned to exhaustion. Pressing my forehead to the rough, cold stone, I closed my eyes and tried to rest.

I’d never fallen asleep standing up before.

Avens used to claim that it happened to him sometimes, when a king forced him to play on throughout the night without breaks.

That he didn’t collapse, didn’t faint—just fell asleep, so that the hurdy-gurdy slipped from his fingers, and crashed to the floor.

One of his favorite things about Olmstead, he’d claimed, was King Amonrew’s willingness to provide breaks, drinks, and food.

Even when he played through an illness, he never worried about actually collapsing.

I couldn’t imagine the exhaustion he must’ve felt. For all the times I’d been punished by my father, forced to scrub floors or muck stables until my back ached, I’d never fallen asleep on the job.

I thought of my mother, her long blond hair, her tense features, her hand carding through my hair as one person after another accused her of betraying her husband. How had that felt? Was she as frightened and lonely then as I was now?

In the loneliness of my cell, I gave way to my grief.

Grief for my mother, who died before I really had a chance to know her.

Grief for Avens, who never knew if he was going to allowed a break, if he was going to be propositioned by courtiers he couldn’t say no to.

Grief for everyone who’d died during the attack in Olmstead.

Grief for the family I’d lied to and abandoned.

Grief for myself, trapped in this dark cell, waiting for death.

It was not death who arrived at my door some hours later, but Queen Tarra, flanked by guards and torches. Her crown was askew, her skirts wrinkled. She looked every bit the inconvenienced royal until she saw me, and something in her gaze shifted. “Come with me,” she said.

On stiff, sore legs, I followed. If I tried to curtsy, I’d crack in half, I was sure of it.

Too stunned to say anything, I followed her down the hallway and up the stairs, trembling all the way.

Faces appeared at the grates. Some simply observed, hollow and haunted, skeletal in the shadows.

Others shouted for help, for mercy. Queen Tarra stared straight ahead, as if she hadn’t heard them.

But I met their eyes, and watched their lips move, and heard their words, and ached.

What were they here for? Were they servants?

Merchants who had tried to cheat the king? Would-be assassins and thieves?

How long had they languished here, pleading for help?

Did they deserve it?

Did it matter?

We emerged in the daylight. A long hall greeted us. The guards walked close to me, ready to intervene if I tried to flee. But I was too exhausted for that.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, blinding me. I blinked furiously as I struggled to keep up.

I assumed we were going to the throne room, but the Queen took us up another flight of stairs, and round the corner to a cozy little room set up for tea.

Surely this wasn’t for me. This was a test. Or some kind of torture. Only time would tell.

Queen Tarra swept elegantly toward the carved chair at the head of the table. She gestured to the seat nearest her. “Sit. ”

Afraid to do anything other than obey, I sat. Fragrant teas steamed in tiny, pale cups with gilded rims. The pink roses painted on the sides seemed to dance and sway, but maybe that was because I was exhausted. I blinked, but the details never cleared.

Stacks of cakes and sandwiches rested on ornate platters. My stomach gave a rumble of agony.

The queen gestured to the table. “Please, help yourself. You must be hungry.”

What could I do but oblige? I spooned some preserves onto a plate, added a couple of thin cookies and a miniature sandwich.

Queen Tarra reached for a frosted pastry and took a delicate sip from her cup. “Needs cream,” she grumbled, and a servant rushed to present her a pitcher.

After adding cream and sugar to her tea, the queen raised her gaze to me. “Eat,” she said. “I’m sure that was no easy night.”

I took a hesitant bite of the sandwich. I wanted to gulp it down the same way I imagined Fallamor might, jaw unhinged and all, but I forced myself to take small bites. “Thank you, Your Highness.”