Page 113 of The Nymph King

As they prepared to step out, one guard’s steps hitched. He stopped and turned to scan the way he had come, his stare lingering on the shadows. After a breathless moment, he turned back around.

Finally, the patrol moved on. Their footsteps faded, leaving only the cold sweat of a near-miss. The group let out a silent, collective exhale.

Their advance continued, slower and closer. With painstaking care, they navigated each step to guard against the patrols’ unpredictability. Imani swiftly rerouted them, steering them away from the major thoroughfares and into a confined passage that sloped downward. The stairwell entrance suddenly materialized, recessed into the stone and unmarked. She changed direction, and the others followed suit. As they descended, the walls seemed to close in. Moisture made the stone underfoot slick as the air turned damp and biting.

Esa’s hand shot out, catching Imani’s wrist just before Imani’s boot hit the next step. “Stop,” she breathed, the word barely a whisper.

“What?” Lore asked.

“Wards,” Esa murmured, motioning to the empty air ahead. “Not blocking. Watching.”

Meira shuffled nervously behind them. “Can you break it?”

“No,” Esa said. She lowered herself slightly, her fingers hovering an inch above the stone. “Breaking it rings a bell. It tells them we’re here.”

Imani froze. “Then don’t break it.”

Esa exhaled slowly, her hand tracing a delicate path along the mortar. “I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m moving it.”

Lore’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “How long?”

“Long enough.” Esa’s fingers clenched once, a sharp, twisting motion, then eased as the invisible magic warped under her influence. She paused, then nodded curtly. “Go. Same spacing.”

Imani crossed the threshold first, confident in her friend’s skill. Everyone followed in turn, each step measured as they passed through the bent ward. The air held still for a heartbeat, then snapped back into place behind them.

Gratitude for Esa’s Defensive magic brand swelled inside her.

She shot a look over her shoulder. “Let’s keep moving. Stay close.”

Suddenly, the stairwell halted, depositing them on a dungeon level where the architecture changed. An icy chill filled the air, and a deep, persistent silence settled. The passages grew narrower, and time weathered the stone surfaces. Sparse, flickering torches offered little light or cover.

As they approached the main entrance, a guard stationed there forced them to slow. He stepped into their path, posture rigid, his hand dropping to his sword’s pommel as he gave them a once-over.

Imani pressed ahead with measured authority. Her expression was a mask of cold indifference as she met his scrutiny, and she let him stare open-mouthed at the crown on her head.

“I’m the Queen of Essenheim. We were instructed to familiarize ourselves with the lower levels before the summit,” she said. Her tone was flat, imitating someone who belonged there.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “The dungeons are not part of the standard tour.”

“No,” she agreed smoothly. “But given the delicate nature of the discussions ahead, understanding the full scope of the palace’s security seems… prudent.”

A tense pause stretched between them as the guard weighed her audacity. Finally, he stepped aside, unconvinced but unwilling to obstruct a monarch.

“Stay within the marked corridors,” he grunted.

Imani inclined her head once, already moving past him before the dynamic could turn bloody. She trusted the others to shadow her without breaking formation. The guard’s leer bored into their backs as they descended into the gloom.

Past the entrance, the dungeon opened into neat rows. Its builders had arranged the cells in orderly lines, leaving every prisoner fully exposed to the corridor. Whoever had designed the dungeon had built it for visibility. Every prisoner could be accounted for at a glance, and nothing about the structure offered a place to conceal someone as important as Saevel.

One reached through the iron with filthy, grasping hands. “Wait. Please—just look at me. I’m not supposed to be down here.”

A hand clamped onto Imani’s shoulder. She twisted away in a fluid, vicious motion, breaking the prisoner’s grip before it could fully take hold.

“Don’t leave me here,” the man babbled, his voice cracking.

Imani kept walking, stalking down the rows. Her gaze cut across each cell in efficient, sweeping arcs, parsing faces from shadows. The others matched her pace, scanning the opposite sides. Their silence held, broken only by the clink of chains, ragged breathing, and the heavy awareness of a hundred desperate eyes watching them pass.

A figure suddenly threw himself against the bars, chains rattling violently. His eyes snapped to Imani with wild recognition. “You—” his voice was a raw, urgent hiss as his fingers curled tightly around the iron. “It’s you. The queen. His⁠—”