The air in the gallows was colder than usual.
It coiled like breath against stone, slithering down the curve of Lenore's spine where some lashes and bruises have not yet healed. She curled as deep into the corner of her cell as her chains would allow, her knees to her chest, wrists aching in their shackles. The iron cuffs bit into the same raw skin worn down from years of restraint. Her bones hummed with cold, and the same silence of the gallows entrance and the underhall thick, pressing. All sound above had long since faded to a low, distant murmur.
But then—a footfall.
Not the shuffle of the night guards, not the timid approach of a servant delivering water or stale bread. These steps were heavier. Intentional.
Lenore didn't move at first.
She knew that gait. Knew the rhythm of his stride, the weight of his presence before she even lifted her head. She'd learned to read the silence between steps like one reads a poem with too many teeth.
Darius.
She tilted her head up slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the torchlight that spilled through the bars. His figure loomed in the dim corridor, broad-shouldered, his black hair tousled like he'd left his room in a rush. He hadn't dressed for this confrontation—his shirt hung open at the throat, pants unlaced at the hips, bare feet padding softly on the stone. A prince at war with himself.
Lenore's lip curled. "Come to deliver the next round of lashes personally?"
His gold and dark blue eyes burned.
He came closer. Not to the edge of the corridor, but the bars themselves. His hands gripped them hard enough that the iron groaned.
"You saw Rowan."
So that was it.
Lenore ached a brow. "Is that a question, your highness?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes traveled over her face, her posture, as if trying to match the figure before him to the one he remembered.
She once stood tall as though the very clouds could not touch her. Grace, poise, and power exuded from her like a second skin. Now here she was, cowering in her cell corner, a shell of what she used to be.
"Why was he here?"
Lenore scoffed, the sound making her throat dry. "Shouldn't you be asking him that? Or are princes so used to speaking for others they've forgotten how to listen?"
Darius slammed his hand into the bars. The echo cracked down the corridor like a whip, startling and stirring other prisoners. Lenore, however, didn't flinch.
"Don't play games with me."
She smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes. "Games require pieces evenly matched, your highness. I'm just a prisoner, remember?"
"That didn't stop you from killing Lady Viranna."
There it was.
Lenore's spine straightened. She rose, slowly, her body screaming and aching in protest as the shackles dragged like dead weight as she moved closer to the bars. Closer to him.
They stood only inches apart now. His heat rolled off him, seeping through the cold air, though the iron, brushing against her skin. She could smell him—cedar, smoke, and something sharper beneath. Frustration. Guilt.
"You don't know what happened that night," she said quietly. "You didn't see her lifeless eyes…"
"You murdered her."
"Did I? Or is that what you believe?"
He sneered. "I saw her body. I saw her blood. On you."
"And yet you never saw me do it."
His jaw clenched. The torchlight carved shadows into his cheekbones, into the line of his throat where his pulse beat faster. He was rattled.
Good.
She stepped even closer, until her fingers brushed the cold iron just beneath his. Her voice lowered.
"You've come here seeking answers, but not the truth. You want a villain. Someone to hold all your mother's grief. All your brothers' silence. All your own shame."
His hand shot through the bars.
Fingers curled around her jaw, the contact sending a pleasurable shiver she could not understand throughout her body—it was not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Possessive. She let him.
"I should hate you," he whispered, his voice rough.
Did he feel it too?
Lenore blinked up at him, lashes lowering. "Then why don't you?"
The air between them thickened. His breath touched her lips, close enough to kiss or strike. His grip faltered, just barely. She saw it, felt it—how his thumb hesitated at her cheek, how the line between loathing and longing blurred like smoke.
She could have leaned in. Could have goaded him further, used it.
But instead, she said, soft and sharp, "What did you come here for, Darius? Truly? To see if I begged Rowan to save me? For his touch? Longing for our reunion?"
His eyes darkened. He released her so suddenly she staggered back a step.
"Careful," she murmured, licking blood from where his nail had nicked her lip. "Jealousy makes a poor disguise for justice."
Darius said nothing. Just stared at her like she was something buried beneath ice, something he'd never been brave enough to dig out.
Then he turned and left.
No threats. No promises.
Just silence.
And Lenore, alone in the dark once more—smiling, because she had seen a flicker of something in him tonight.
Something real.
Jealousy.
And with jealousy comes doubt.