Chapter 4: The Wine and the Wound

The wine cellar of the Imperial Palace was less a room and more a cathedral dedicated to excess.

Rows of oak barrels stretched into the gloom, stacked floor to ceiling like the ribs of a leviathan. The air here was cool and smelled of fermentation and dust—a welcome reprieve from the ozone-heavy atmosphere of the War Council.

Tristan didn't stop to admire the vintage. He dragged Saoirse past the racks of reds and whites, his grip on her arm unyielding. He didn't speak until they reached the very back of the cellar, where the light from the corridor torches barely reached.

He spun her around, pressing her back against a stack of crates.

"Breathe," he commanded.

Saoirse glared at him, her chest heaving. She felt like a kettle boiled dry, the heat of her magic still vibrating under her skin, seeking a release that wasn't there.

Tristan stepped back, running a hand through his hair. The fool's mask was gone entirely now. In the dim light, with his shirt collar unbuttoned and his eyes sharp, he looked dangerous.

"You have a death wish," he said, his voice low and hard. "Is that it? You survived the siege, you survived the journey, you survived Vane, just to commit suicide by magical combustion in front of the King?"

Saoirse stepped forward, her hands flying in a series of sharp, aggressive gestures. They are torturing her.

Tristan caught her wrist mid-air. "I know what they are doing!" he hissed. "I know exactly what the Inquisitors do. I know the sound a man makes when the skinning knife hits the bone. Do you think I’m deaf? Do you think I’m blind?"

He shoved her hand down, but he didn't let go. He stepped closer, invading her space until she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"You want to go down there," he stated. It wasn't a question.

Saoirse nodded. Her eyes burned with a mixture of desperation and challenge.

Tristan studied her. He was looking for the lie, trying to dismantle the puzzle she presented. A mute servant with the power of a mage and the fury of a soldier. She cared for the prisoner—the Decoy. Why? A sister? A lover? A mistress?

He needed to know the depth of her connection. If he was going to keep this dangerous creature as a weapon against his father, he needed to know her trigger.

"Fine," Tristan said abruptly.

Saoirse blinked, stunned.

"You want to see the Lower Cells?" Tristan asked, his voice turning cold. "I’ll take you. But not to save her."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"I’m taking you so you can see what happens to heroes in this Empire. I’m taking you so you understand why I play the fool."

He released her and turned to the wall of barrels. He counted three rows down, five barrels across, and pressed his thumb against a rusted iron band.

Click.

The barrel swung outward on silent, well-oiled hinges, revealing a dark, narrow passage cut into the stone.

Saoirse stared at it. Secret passages. The dissolute prince who spent his time drinking… or perhaps, the spy who spent his time disappearing.

"Stay close," Tristan warned, stepping into the darkness. "The rats down here are the size of dogs, and the guards are worse."

The descent was a journey into the bowels of hell.

The secret passage was narrow, forcing them to walk single file. The air grew colder, wetter, and heavier. It no longer smelled of wine. It smelled of rust, old blood, and the terrifying, antiseptic scent of magic inhibitors.

Saoirse stared at Tristan’s back. He moved with a terrifying familiarity. He didn't stumble in the dark; he glided. He knew exactly where the floor dipped, where the ceiling lowered.

Who are you? she wondered. You act like a spoiled child, but you walk like an assassin.

Tristan stopped abruptly. Saoirse nearly collided with him.

He reached back, grabbing her hand. His fingers interlaced with hers—not romantically, but tactically, ensuring she wouldn't drift.

"Quiet now," he breathed. "We are above the ventilation shafts."

They crept forward. The stone floor gave way to a metal grate.

Light—harsh, clinical white light—poured up from below, slicing through the darkness of their hiding spot.

The sound hit them first.

It wasn't a scream. A scream implies hope that someone might hear. This was a low, jagged sobbing. A sound of absolute defeat.

Tristan pulled Saoirse down to her knees beside the grate. He lay flat, peering through the metal slats. He gestured for her to look.

Saoirse dragged herself forward. She looked down.

Her heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

Below them was a circular chamber tiled in white porcelain, stained pink in the center. In the middle of the room was a table made of black iron, fitted with restraints.

Helena lay there.

They had stripped her of the white gown. Her pale body was a canvas of bruises. But it was her arm—her left arm—that made Saoirse clamp a hand over her own mouth to stifle a retch.

They had made an incision. A long, precise cut from shoulder to elbow. The skin was peeled back, pinned open with silver clamps.

Standing over her was a man in a white rubber apron. An Inquisitor. He held a glass vial, collecting the silver-flecked blood that dripped from the wound.

"Remarkable," the Inquisitor muttered, his voice echoing up the shaft. "The regeneration rate is slowing, but the potency… it’s still off the charts."

Liam, the Crown Prince, was pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged tiger. He swung his war hammer idly, chipping the tiles.

"Does she talk yet?" Liam asked, bored.

"She begs," the Inquisitor replied. "She pleads for mercy. She calls for her mother. But she does not reveal the location of the Dragon’s Heart."

"Maybe she needs motivation," Liam grunted. He walked over to the table.

Saoirse’s fingernails scraped against the metal grate. The magic in her blood roared, a tidal wave of heat. The metal beneath her hands began to glow a dull red.

Tristan felt the heat. He didn't hesitate.

He rolled on top of her.

It was a violent motion. He pinned her to the cold stone floor, his body covering hers completely, pressing her down. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, forcing her hands away from the grate before she could melt it.

Saoirse thrashed, her violet eyes wild. She opened her mouth to scream, to unleash the sound that would bring the ceiling down on top of them.

Tristan’s hand clamped over her mouth.

"No," he whispered into her ear. His voice was a harsh, desperate rasp. "Look at me. Look at me, damn you!"

She struggled, bucking her hips, trying to throw him off. She was small, but the dragon’s strength was waking up in her muscles.

Tristan used his weight, driving his knee between her legs to anchor her, his chest crushing hers.

"If you scream," he hissed, "Liam looks up. If Liam looks up, he finds us. He kills me. Then he takes you down there. He straps you to the table next to her. And then they have two of you to bleed."

Saoirse stopped thrashing. Her chest heaved against his. Her eyes were wide, filled with tears that spilled over and tracked into Tristan’s hand covering her mouth.

Below them, Liam laughed. "Break a finger. Let's start small."

There was a sickening crunch.

Saoirse squeezed her eyes shut, a whimper vibrating in her throat against Tristan’s palm.

Tristan didn't let go. He pressed his forehead against hers. He absorbed her shaking. He held her together while her world fell apart.

"I know," he whispered, his voice softening, cracking with a strange, dark empathy. "I know you want to burn it. I know you want to kill them. But not today. Today, she is the bait. If you take the bait, the trap snaps shut."

He shifted his hand slightly, allowing her to breathe, but kept it ready to silence her again.

"She is alive," Tristan murmured. "Focus on that. She is alive. As long as she breathes, there is a chance. But if you die down here, her suffering is for nothing."

Saoirse opened her eyes. The violet fire had dimmed, replaced by a cold, hollow abyss. She looked at Tristan.

She saw the sweat on his brow. She felt the erratic thrum of his heart against her chest. He was terrified. Not for himself, but for her.

She stopped fighting. Her body went limp beneath him.

Tristan waited a beat, two beats, ensuring she wouldn't bolt. Then, slowly, cautiously, he lifted his hand from her mouth.

"We have to go," he whispered. "The shift change is in two minutes. If we’re here, we’re dead."

Saoirse nodded. She didn't look back at the grate. She couldn't. If she looked again, she would never leave.

Tristan rolled off her. He pulled her to her feet. Her legs wobbled, threatening to give out. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her waist, taking her weight.

He half-carried, half-dragged her back into the darkness of the tunnel.

They emerged into the wine cellar twenty minutes later.

Tristan closed the hidden panel, locking it with a heavy click. He slumped against a barrel, sliding down until he hit the floor. He put his head between his knees, taking deep, ragged breaths.

Saoirse stood in the center of the aisle. She felt cold. Bone deep cold. The heat of the magic had vanished, leaving a void that ached.

She looked at her hands. They were trembling.

She had left Helena. She had walked away.

"You hate me," Tristan said from the floor. He lifted his head. His face was pale, the exhaustion of the adrenaline crash setting in. "Go on. Look at me with those eyes. Hate me for stopping you."

Saoirse walked over to him.

She stood over him, looking down at the Prince of the Empire. The son of the Butcher.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver hairpin he had given her.

Tristan tensed, his hand twitching toward his boot dagger.

Saoirse knelt. She didn't attack. She took the hairpin and used the sharp tip to scratch something into the soft wood of the wine barrel next to his head.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Tristan watched, mesmerized.

She pulled back.

Carved into the wood was a single word.

H O W

Tristan stared at the word. Then he looked at her.

"How?" he repeated. "How what? How do we save her? How do we kill them?"

Saoirse nodded. Her face was a mask of grim determination. The tears were gone.

Tristan let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. He leaned his head back against the barrel.

"You’re insane," he muttered. "I show you the slaughterhouse, and you ask for a butcher’s knife."

He looked at her, his blue eyes hardening.

"If I teach you," he said quietly, "you do exactly what I say. No outbursts. No magic unless I give the order. You are my shadow. You are my weapon. But the hand that wields you is mine."

He held out his hand.

"Do we have a deal, mouse?"

Saoirse looked at his hand. It was a hand that had killed a general to save her. A hand that had covered her mouth to keep her alive.

She didn't trust him. She couldn't afford to trust him. But she needed him.

She reached out and gripped his hand. His skin was warm now.

Tristan squeezed her hand, then used her grip to pull himself to his feet.

"Good," he said, dusting off his trousers. "Now, grab a bottle of the vintage red from the third rack. If we return to the room empty-handed, people will start to wonder what we were doing in the dark for an hour."

He paused, a flicker of something darker—something possessive—crossing his face as he looked at her messy hair and flushed skin.

"Actually," he murmured, stepping closer and tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. "Let them wonder. It keeps them away from the truth."

He turned and strode toward the exit.

"Come along, Seir. We have a war to plan."

The walk back to the North Tower was a daze.

Saoirse carried the heavy bottle of wine, clutching it like an anchor. They passed servants who averted their eyes, guards who sneered. None of it mattered.

All she could see was the white tile. The silver clamps. The blood.

When they reached Tristan’s chambers, he locked the door behind them. He didn't ask for coffee. He didn't ask for a bath.

He walked straight to his desk, swept the pile of useless poetry and fake correspondences onto the floor, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.

He dipped a quill in ink and began to draw.

Saoirse approached the desk cautiously. She peered over his shoulder.

He was drawing a schematic. It was the palace. But not the palace everyone saw—it was the skeleton. The ventilation shafts. The drainage pipes. The old catacombs.

He looked up at her, ink staining his fingers.

"The Lower Cells are designed to be impenetrable from the hallway," Tristan said, his voice clinical, focused. "Liam guards the door. Rowan watches the magic wards. But the ventilation system..."

He tapped a spot on the drawing.

"...the ventilation system was built three hundred years ago, before the inhibitors were installed. It connects to the old aqueduct."

He looked at Saoirse.

"I can't get you inside the cell," he admitted. "Not yet. But I can get you close enough to talk to her."

Saoirse’s heart leaped. Talk to her. She could tell Helena she was there. She could give her hope.

"But first," Tristan said, standing up. He walked around the desk. "You need to learn how to lie."

He stopped in front of her.

"Your face," he said, touching her chin. "It’s an open book. You wear your heart, your hate, your fear—it’s all right there. In this court, honesty is a death sentence."

He stepped back and picked up the dull training saber from the bed. He tossed it to her.

Saoirse caught it clumsily, the heavy steel nearly dragging her arm down.

"We aren't going to practice swordplay," Tristan said, picking up his rapier. "We are going to practice control."

He raised his blade.

"I’m going to attack you," he said calmly. "If you flinch, I hit you. If you get angry, I hit you. If you try to use magic, I hit you."

Saoirse glared at him, gripping the hilt of the saber.

"Defend yourself," Tristan whispered. "But do it without feeling a thing."

He lunged.

Saoirse parried, but she was too slow. The flat of his blade smacked her shoulder. It stung.

"Too emotional," Tristan critiqued. "You’re angry at me. Stop it."

He struck again. Thwack. Her hip.

"You’re thinking about Helena. Stop it."

Thwack. Her ribs.

"Be nothing," Tristan commanded, his voice relentless. "Be the ice."

Saoirse gritted her teeth. She focused. She visualized the cold stone of the wine cellar. She visualized the void.

Tristan lunged.

This time, Saoirse didn't think. She moved. She sidestepped, letting his blade pass through empty air, and brought her saber up in a clean, dispassionate block.

Steel rang against steel.

Tristan stopped. He looked at their crossed blades. Then he looked at her face.

It was blank. Her violet eyes were cool, detached. She was a statue of gray wool and dirt.

A slow smile spread across Tristan’s face. It wasn't the fool’s smile. It was the Viper’s smile—sharp, dangerous, and undeniably approving.

"There she is," he whispered.

He lowered his sword.

"Keep that face, Seir. And we might just survive the night."

Saoirse lowered her saber. Her shoulder throbbed. Her ribs ached. But the fire inside her was no longer a wild inferno. It was a forge.

And for the first time, she felt ready to hammer herself into something that could kill a king.