Boots. Outside her door.
Not the lazy drag of a bored guard.
Soft. Measured. Like the person walking had practiced not being heard.
Mireya kept her head down.
Her wrists ached in the cuffs. She didn't shift. Didn't swallow. Didn't breathe any louder than necessary.
The torch hissed once.
A chain somewhere down the hall rattled, then went still.
Outside her cell, the boots stopped.
Right at the threshold.
Mireya stared at the crack under the door. The thin line of torchlight. Waiting for a shadow to block it.
Nothing.
No key. No voice. No threat.
Just stillness.
He heard it, she told herself. Stellan heard it.
That thought steadied her more than it should've.
A key ring chimed once—metal kissing metal.
Then the boots moved away.
Quiet. Careful. Deliberate.
Mireya didn't relax until the sound faded into the dungeon's usual noise: dripping water, distant cough, rats scratching a life out of stone.
Even then, she didn't let her shoulders drop.
She couldn't afford the habit.
She rolled her wrists once, testing the cuffs. The chain scraped stone.
Once.
She made it sound like exhaustion.
Then she hooked a finger into the wall ring and pulled it taut.
If she couldn't talk, she'd signal.
Small. Clean. Unnoticeable.
Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
A simple cipher. The kind the Ministry drilled until it lived in your fingers.
NAME.
She repeated it once—same spacing.
Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
Then she stopped and stared at the floor like she'd given up.
No guard stirred. No spear shifted.
Good.
Mireya closed her eyes.
—
Stellan heard the taps inside his skull.
Not loud. Not painful.
Just… there.
Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.
His body went still. His ribs complained. He ignored them.
Mave was across the hut with a bowl and a scowl. "Don't tell me she's back."
Stellan didn't look at her. "She's asking something."
"You're hearing taps again?"
He nodded once. Short.
Mave's mouth tightened. She didn't like magic that didn't ask permission. Neither did he.
Stellan grabbed the plank he'd used last night and dragged it closer to the hearth. Ash dusted the floor. He flattened it with his palm.
Charcoal. Big letters. No fancy script.
If she was watching through his eyes, she'd need it clear.
He wrote:
STELLAN.
Then, after a beat:
HUT. FOREST EDGE.
He hesitated—then added distance, because distance was survival.
TWO HOURS FROM CITY.
Mave leaned over his shoulder, reading. "Stellan? You're giving your name to a stranger?"
"She already has my head," he said. "A name won't make it worse."
Mave snorted. "Famous last words."
Stellan set the charcoal down and waited.
—
Mireya blinked into his sight and read the ash-black letters.
STELLAN.
HUT. FOREST EDGE.
TWO HOURS FROM CITY.
She opened her eyes back to the dungeon. Her face stayed blank, but her mind cataloged everything.
Forest edge meant cover. Two hours meant reachable—if she could get out.
She pulled the chain taut again.
Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
MIREYA.
Then a second pattern, slower.
Tap… tap.
Long pause.
Tap.
WHERE.
She didn't need full sentences. She needed proof he understood. She needed to know if he knew she was caged.
Mireya closed her eyes again.
—
Stellan's jaw set as the next taps came.
Name. Then a question.
He wrote fast:
SUN PALACE. DUNGEON.
Then, because pretending wouldn't help:
I HEAR THROUGH YOU.
A pause.
He added the other half.
YOU SEE THROUGH ME.
Mave watched him, arms folded tight. "So you're… what? Linked?"
Stellan didn't like the word. It sounded too soft.
"Cursed," he said.
Mave's eyes flashed. "And you're just going to accept it?"
"No." He stared at the plank. "But fighting it blind will get her killed."
He wrote the conclusion that had been chewing through him since the banquet toast.
WE WERE FRAMED.
He underlined it once. Hard.
—
Mireya read it and felt something click into place.
Not comfort.
Coordination.
SUN PALACE. DUNGEON.
I HEAR THROUGH YOU. YOU SEE THROUGH ME.
WE WERE FRAMED.
She opened her eyes to stone and torchlight.
So it wasn't only her problem. It wasn't only her mess.
Good. Shared messes were easier to weaponize.
She pulled the chain and tapped again—short and sharp.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
TERMS.
She held the ring a moment, then sent one more—slower.
BOUNDARY.
Not Ministry cipher. Just the word.
Because Stellan sounded like a man who would understand it.
She closed her eyes.
—
Stellan read it and let out a breath through his nose.
"Terms," he muttered.
Mave cocked her head. "What kind of terms?"
"The kind that stop me from going insane," Stellan said.
He wrote:
NO COURT NOISE.
Then, after a beat, more honest than he liked:
I CAN'T THINK WITH IT IN MY HEAD.
Mave's gaze narrowed. "Court noise?"
Stellan's fingers paused. The banquet clatter was gone right now, but the memory of it still sat behind his eyes like a bruise.
He wrote one more line before pride could stop him:
YOUR FEAR HITS ME.
He almost softened it.
He didn't.
He set the charcoal down.
—
Mireya read the ash words through his eyes and didn't blink.
Of course he could tell.
Of course her fear leaked.
She hated that.
She hated it even more because it meant she couldn't lie cleanly.
She opened her eyes and stared at her chained wrists.
Then she tapped—controlled, precise.
Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
I NEED HEARING.
Another tap sequence, clipped.
TO LIVE.
She paused, then added the part she hadn't planned to admit.
YOUR PAIN.
Beat.
IN MY BONES.
She swallowed once. Kept her face steady.
Then she sent the rule that mattered most.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Short pause.
Tap. Tap.
NO LOOKING. WITHOUT ASKING.
She didn't bother making it pretty.
Consent wasn't pretty. It was necessary.
Mireya closed her eyes.
—
Stellan stared at her words until ash blurred.
Mave read over his shoulder and made a sound like she'd bitten a seed. "She's bossy."
Stellan's mouth twitched. "She's trying not to die."
He wrote back:
AGREE. NO PEEKING.
Then, because blunt was safer than polite:
DON'T USE POISON NEAR ME.
Mave's eyebrows shot up. "Poison?"
Stellan didn't look away from the plank. "Long story."
He added one more line, rough and practical:
I'LL TRY NOT TO BLEED.
He set the charcoal down, flexed his fingers once, and stood.
His ribs protested. He ignored them.
Mave stepped into his path. "You're not going anywhere."
"I am," Stellan said.
"Stellan—"
He cut her off, voice low. "Pack."
Mave stared. "Pack what?"
"Only what you can carry," he said. "If they're hunting her, they'll hunt me next."
Mave's jaw tightened. Under the sharpness, fear flickered. She hated that too.
"You think this is because of you?" she snapped.
"No." Stellan grabbed his cloak from the chair. "I think it's because I'm useful."
Mave's eyes went flat. "You always think you're useful. It's your worst habit."
Stellan almost smiled. Almost.
He didn't get the chance.
Because Mireya's sight slammed into his eyes without warning.
Not a gentle blink. A jerk.
As if she'd grabbed the edge of his vision.
Stellan froze.
Mave turned, following his sudden stillness.
Stellan's gaze locked on the window.
The small pane looked out onto trees and snow-scrub.
And there—between two trunks—stood a figure.
Too still.
Not a hunter's stillness. Not a villager's.
A posture Stellan didn't have a name for…
But Mireya did.
Straight spine. Hands quiet at the sides. Weight balanced like they'd been taught where to put it.
Court-trained.
Mireya opened her eyes in the dungeon, breath sharp in her throat.
Stellan wasn't alone.