Content warning:

Mild blood/gore

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Gwynnyth didn’t fight back when the soldiers dumped her in the dungeon. She huddled in the back of the cell, eager to get away from them. To her horror, two of the three stepped into the cell with her. “Don’t touch me. I’m the Queen.” Her voice quaked.

They chained her to the wall. As soon as the men secured her cuffs, they dashed from the cell and locked the door behind them.

“Who turned you against me?” she cried.

“Don’t answer her,” one man muttered to the other. “Don’t even look at her. She can steal your soul from your eyes.”

 They shoved a ring of keys into the youngest man’s hands. “Don’t leave me alone with her,” he begged. “What if she escapes?”

“She’s too weak. Just stand guard.”

“You’ll come back to trade shifts with me, right?” The door up above slammed shut. “Right?”

Overwhelmed, Gwynnyth wept. 

Daylight from the narrow barred window crawled across the stones, and rotten human bones littered the dank ground here and there. Forget the rusty shackles—the putrid air was more torturous to her sensitive nose. Whenever she pleaded for compassion, the guard thumped his spear against the ground to silence her.

Night settled in. Her blurry eyes shifted in and out of focus. The torch nearest to the door flickered, as though passed by a shadow. Did she imagine it? But then the guard screamed in pain, tackled to the ground by someone in a cloak.

Gwynnyth yelped as the shadowy figure pulled a knife from the guard’s neck and turned toward her. It had no face, only a dark shape with two blue lights for eyes.

The shape spoke in a grief-stricken voice. “Gwynnyth, it’s me.”

Fourteen years ago, she had scolded him for using pet names on her. “If you love me, you’ll pronounce my name correctly.” For him, she had always used his French name in affection. 

“Andre?”