"How did he beat the guards down here?"
Cerys didn't bother wondering. Of course he found a shortcut. She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at the prince. Mikhailis responded by raising an eyebrow and tilting his head toward the largest wine barrel crouched in the cellar's darkest corner. It had always looked too polished, too dust-free compared to its neighbors—Cerys had thought so even during training years ago, but she'd never asked.
Lucien frowned, lips parted. "What's he pointing at?"
"The barrel," Cerys breathed, already crossing the floor with soft, measured strides. Her cloak brushed cobwebs from the rack edges. "Stay close."
When they reached it, she ran her palm along the curved staves until her fingers snagged a hair-thin seam. She pressed. Click. The entire front quarter of the barrel hinged outward in silence, revealing an oval doorway and a lantern-lit wooden platform no bigger than a market cart's bed.
Lucien blinked hard. "A… wine elevator?"
