The Dungeon Warning  Part 2

The stairs ended at a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands that had gone black with age. The older servant produced a key from somewhere in his livery—a massive thing that belonged in medieval romances rather than any reasonable reality.

"Your quarters, miss," he said, turning the lock with movements that spoke of long practice.

The door swung open to reveal a cell.

Not a room, not chambers, not even spartan accommodation. A cell, pure and simple, carved from living rock and furnished with the bare minimum required to sustain human life. A narrow bed with coarse linens. A washstand with a chipped pitcher. A single chair drawn up to a table that looked like it had been hewn from a single piece of oak.

And bars. Iron bars set into the stone, creating a window that looked out onto... nothing. Darkness so complete it seemed to have physical weight.

"There's been some mistake," I said, though even as the words left my mouth I knew they were false. There had been no mistake. This was exactly what Kieran MacAllister had intended from the beginning.

"No mistake," the older servant confirmed. "These quarters have been prepared specifically for your... situation."

My situation. Such a delicate way to describe captivity. I wondered how many euphemisms this place contained, how many pretty words were used to disguise ugly realities.

"And what, exactly, is my situation?" I asked, stepping into the cell with movements that felt like walking to my own execution.

"You're to remain here for your own protection," the younger servant said, his voice carrying a note that might have been apology. "The master will explain when he deems it appropriate."

When he deems it appropriate. Not when I requested explanation, not when curiosity demanded answers. When it suited Lord MacAllister to enlighten his prisoner about the nature of her confinement.

"How generous of him," I said, running my fingers along the iron bars that separated me from the darkness beyond. "To be so concerned with my understanding."

The metal was cold beneath my touch, older than anything had a right to be. Symbols were carved into the iron—not decoration, but something that felt purposeful in a way that made my skin crawl. Protection, perhaps. Or containment.

What am I being protected from? I wondered. Or what is being protected from me?

"Your meals will be brought at regular intervals," the older servant was saying, his voice taking on the practiced cadence of someone reciting instructions. "You're not to attempt to leave these quarters under any circumstances. If you require anything for your comfort, you may ask the guards."

Guards. Of course there would be guards. Because apparently my word wasn't sufficient guarantee that I'd remain where I'd been placed.

"And if I choose not to cooperate with these arrangements?" I asked, turning to face them with my most polite smile. "If I decide that my own safety is less important than my freedom?"

The servants exchanged another of those quick glances—communication in a language of small expressions and careful silences.

"That would be... inadvisable," the older one said finally. "The master has made his expectations quite clear."

His expectations. Not requests, not suggestions. Expectations, with all the weight of absolute authority behind them.

"I'm sure he has," I replied. "Lord MacAllister strikes me as a man who's accustomed to having his expectations met."

Whether or not those expectations are reasonable, legal, or decent.

"Indeed," the older servant agreed, and something in his tone suggested he spoke from personal experience. "It's best not to... disappoint him."

The words carried weight beyond their literal meaning—a warning dressed as advice, counsel offered from one prisoner to another. Because that's what they were, I realized. These men with their careful neutrality and averted eyes weren't just servants. They were captives who'd learned to find safety in compliance.

How long? I wanted to ask. How long have you been here? How long since you've seen the world beyond these walls? How long since you've had a choice about anything that mattered?

But questions like that were dangerous for everyone involved. Better to let them maintain their illusions of willing service.

"I understand," I said instead. "I wouldn't want to cause... disappointment."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but it served its purpose. Both servants relaxed slightly, relieved to have delivered their unwelcome charge without incident.

"Someone will bring dinner within the hour," the younger one said, almost kindly. "The cook is quite skilled. You'll be well fed."

Well fed. Like livestock. Like something valuable that needed to be maintained in good condition for purposes I couldn't yet fathom.

"How comforting," I said. "To know that my appetite is such a priority."

They left without another word, the door closing behind them with the solid finality of a tomb being sealed. The sound of the lock turning echoed off stone walls like a period at the end of a sentence I'd never wanted to read.

Alone in my cell—for that's what it was, regardless of whatever euphemisms they dressed it in—I allowed myself a moment of pure, undiluted fury.

How dare he.

How dare Kieran MacAllister show me silk and courtesy upstairs while preparing stone and bars below? How dare he speak of companionship and arrangement while treating me like a criminal to be contained?

How dare he make me feel grateful for his consideration when this was his plan all along?