Ashtray stood upon the eastern wall as the iron gates groaned open below her.
Chains clattered first, sharp and unforgiving sounds that echoed through the stone like a warning bell. Then came the prisoners.
They were fewer than she expected. A dozen men at most, their armor stripped, their hands bound with rope darkened by sweat and blood. Their banners were gone, but Ashtray did not need to see them to know where they came from. She recognized the way they walked, heads held too high for defeated men, backs straight despite exhaustion. That pride belonged only to one kingdom.
Valenreach.
Her fingers curled around the cold stone of the battlement. The hatred came easily, as it always did, rising like breath in her lungs. She had been raised on it. Fed it with every story whispered by firelight, every scar shown to her by returning soldiers, every funeral bell that tolled for men who never came home.
Valenreach had taken them. Valenreach had started this war.
And Valenreach had been at war with her kingdom since the night she was born.
"Princess."
The voice came from behind her, soft and careful. Ashtray did not turn. She knew who it was.
"They've been searched already," Sir Aldric said. "No weapons. The council awaits your presence."
Ashtray nodded once, her gaze fixed on the prisoners as they were herded into the courtyard below. Townspeople had gathered despite the guards' efforts. Women clutched children, old men leaned on canes, faces twisted with fear and fury alike. A stone flew. It struck one of the prisoners on the shoulder. He staggered but did not cry out.
Good, she thought coldly.
"They deserve worse," she said.
Sir Aldric did not argue. He never did.
Ashtray finally turned away from the wall and descended the narrow steps, her boots echoing against the stone. She wore no crown. She rarely did. But her presence parted the crowd all the same. Cloaked in dark blue, her hair braided tightly down her back, she looked every inch the princess they feared and adored.
She stopped at the edge of the courtyard.
Up close, the prisoners looked younger than she had imagined. Too young. Dirt streaked their faces, their eyes hollow with hunger and fatigue. One of them lifted his head as she approached, defiance flickering across his expression until his gaze met hers.
He froze.
So did she.
He was not what she expected.
There was no snarling arrogance, no cruelty etched into his features. His hair was dark, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, his face marked with a thin cut along the cheekbone. His eyes were a deep, steady gray, sharp but calm, watching her with something dangerously close to curiosity.
Not hatred.
Something twisted uncomfortably in her chest.
She looked away first, irritated with herself.
"Take them to the holding cells," she ordered. "Separate them. Interrogate them at dawn."
"Yes, Your Highness," the captain replied.
As the guards moved to obey, the gray eyed prisoner spoke.
"Princess."
The single word cut through the noise like a blade.
Sir Aldric's hand went to his sword instantly. "Silence," he snapped.
But Ashtray raised a hand.
The prisoner met her gaze again, unflinching.
"You stand on a wall built of bones," he said quietly. "Ours and yours."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Ashtray felt heat rise to her face, not from shame, but anger.
"You dare speak to me of bones?" she asked, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. "Your kingdom has burned villages older than your throne."
"And yours has done the same," he replied.
Too calm. Too honest.
She stepped closer until only the length of a sword separated them.
"What is your name?" she demanded.
The prisoner hesitated. Just a heartbeat too long.
"Kieran," he said at last.
A lie, she knew instinctively. But she let it pass.
"Kieran," she repeated. "You are bold for a captive."
"Or foolish," he said quietly.
Her lips twitched before she could stop herself.
She turned sharply away, furious at the reaction. "Take them."
This time, the guards did not hesitate.
Yet as the prisoners were dragged toward the cells, Ashtray felt his gaze linger on her back like a brand.
That night, sleep refused her.
The castle was quiet, but her mind was not. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw gray eyes staring back at her, not with fear, not with hatred, but with something unsettlingly human.
She rose before dawn and wrapped herself in a cloak, slipping from her chambers without escort. The dungeons lay beneath the keep, carved deep into the rock, damp and cold. Torches flickered as she descended, their flames bending in unseen drafts.
She did not know why she was there.
She told herself it was duty. Curiosity. Assurance.
The guard stiffened at the sight of her. "Your Highness."
"Leave us," she said.
He hesitated, then obeyed.
The cell was small. Straw on stone. Chains fixed to the wall.
Kieran sat against the far side, one knee drawn up, his head lifting slowly as she approached.
"You came," he said.
She stopped just beyond the bars. "Do not mistake this for mercy."
"I wouldn't dare."
Up close, she could see exhaustion etched into his face, but also restraint. Control.
"You spoke boldly today," she said. "That usually means one of two things. Recklessness or rank."
His jaw tightened.
"Which are you?" she pressed.
He studied her in silence for a long moment. Then he spoke quietly. "If I tell you the truth, would you kill me?"
Ashtray did not answer.
That was answer enough.
A fragile understanding settled between them, dangerous and unspoken.
She turned to leave.
"Princess Ashtray," he said softly, using her name like a secret. "If this war continues, neither of our kingdoms will survive it."
Her hand paused on the torch bracket.
"Spare me your counsel, enemy," she said without looking back.
Yet as she climbed the steps once more, her heart beat faster than it ever had on a battlefield.
She did not know it yet, but she had just met the man who would either end the war,
or destroy her crown.