The Dungeon Warning Part 1

Catherine -

I should have known something was wrong when the servants appeared.

After Kieran left me in those sumptuous chambers—silk and mahogany and windows that overlooked impossible gardens—I'd allowed myself a moment to believe that perhaps Father's fears had been exaggerated. Perhaps this arrangement would be bearable, even comfortable. The rooms spoke of consideration, of care taken for my comfort and preferences.

Then came the knock at the door.

Two men entered without waiting for permission, dressed in the kind of livery that suggested old money and older traditions. They moved with the efficient precision of servants who'd learned not to think too hard about their duties, their eyes fixed on points somewhere over my left shoulder.

"Miss," said the older of the two, his voice carefully neutral. "We're to escort you to your proper quarters."

Proper quarters. The phrase sent ice sliding down my spine. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Lord MacAllister just showed me—"

"Temporary accommodation," the younger servant interrupted, though his gaze never met mine. "For the welcoming. Your actual quarters are... elsewhere."

Elsewhere. Another careful word that danced around truths too unpleasant to name directly. I looked around the beautiful rooms one more time—the silk hangings, the carefully selected books, the warmth that had made me think I might find some measure of peace here.

All of it a lie. A pretty stage set designed to ease the transition from guest to prisoner.

"I see," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "And if I refuse to be escorted?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. The older servant's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly—the only sign that my defiance had registered at all.

"The master's instructions were quite clear," he said. "You're to be moved for your own safety."

For your own safety. The most dangerous words in the English language, in my experience. The phrase tyrants used when they wanted to dress oppression in the clothes of protection.

"How thoughtful of him," I replied, letting acid creep into my tone. "To be so concerned for my welfare."

The servants exchanged a glance that lasted perhaps half a second—long enough for me to catch something that might have been sympathy before their professional masks reasserted themselves.

"Miss," the younger one said quietly, "it would be... easier if you came willingly."

Easier for whom? I wanted to ask. For you, who won't have to drag a struggling woman through the halls? For your master, who can pretend this is protection rather than imprisonment? For me, who can maintain the illusion of dignity while being caged like an animal?

But I was learning that dignity was a luxury I might not be able to afford much longer. Better to preserve what strength I had for battles that mattered.

"Very well," I said, moving toward my trunk. "I'll need to pack—"

"That won't be necessary," the older servant said. "Everything you require has been provided."

Everything you require. Not everything you want or everything you're accustomed to. Just the bare minimum needed to keep me alive and functional.

The message was clear: I was no longer a guest whose preferences mattered. I was an asset to be maintained in working condition.

I followed them from the chamber without another word, my spine straight and my chin lifted in what I hoped passed for composed acceptance. But inside, something cold and hard was crystallizing—a kernel of pure defiance that grew stronger with each step away from those beautiful, lying rooms.

The corridor we traveled was different from the grand hallways Kieran had shown me earlier. Narrower, older, with stone walls that wept moisture and torches that cast more shadows than light. The kind of passage designed for servants and prisoners rather than honored guests.

How fitting, I thought grimly. Now I know which category I truly belong to.

Our footsteps echoed off wet stone as we descended—down, always down, into the bowels of a castle that was revealing its true nature level by level. The air grew colder, dank with the smell of centuries-old dampness and something else I couldn't identify but instinctively disliked.

Fear. Old fear, soaked into the stones like blood into wood.

"How many others have made this journey?" I asked, my voice carrying clearly in the narrow space.

Neither servant answered, but I caught the way the younger one's shoulders tensed. Enough, that tension said. Enough that we've learned not to think about it.