The moon hung high over the palace, a cold, indifferent eye watching the world below.
Inside the royal dungeon, the air was damp and heavy, smelling of stone, rust, and the lingering despair of countless prisoners.
Marissa paced the length of her cell. Five steps forward. Turn. Five steps back.
The cell was surprisingly comfortable—a courtesy of the Prince's "protection." There was a bed with a clean wool blanket, a small table, and a single, barred window high on the wall that let in a shaft of moonlight. But it was still a cage.
"According to the witnesses at the establishment," Marissa muttered, her voice a low whisper in the silence. She was putting the pieces together, her mind working furiously to find the flaw in the trap. "I arrived in the afternoon. I went straight upstairs after entering."
She stopped pacing and leaned her forehead against the cold stone wall. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her.
"This person knew my whereabouts," she said softly.
