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As we gather around the table for dinner, our bodies bruised and tired from the day’s sparring, there is a surprising lightness in the air. Ash, ever the one to stir the mood, tosses out joke after joke, spinning wild tales that have Zander and me laughing along.

It is refreshing to see both of them able to unwind, even if just for a moment. Ash has always had that carefree charm, but something shifted in Zander after today. He seems more open, more willing to let us into his space, acknowledging us for who we are.

It feels different, somehow, like a wall came down.

We pass a bottle around, filling one cup after another, letting the alcohol numb the soreness in our muscles and the lingering tension. The laughter flows freely, mixing with the buzz that begins to settle in.

We lose track of time, laughing until exhaustion finally creeps in. My head spins lightly, the world spinning a little too fast as the weight of the day catches up with us. With a final chuckle, we stumble upstairs, finding our way to our rooms, each of us eager for the sleep we’ve earned.

Sleep comes easily that night, my body surrendering to exhaustion almost immediately, but it is short-lived.

I wake suddenly, a hand pressing over my mouth with such force that no sound can escape. The darkness of the room is suffocating as I am lifted from the bed by someone I can’t see. They hold me against their chest, and I fight with everything I have, every move Zander taught me.

I kick and struggle, trying to break free. My mind races to scream, but it is useless.

In a desperate move, I manage to elbow them, hearing a soft grunt in response. But before I can react further, another figure appears in front of me, too fast for me to focus on.

Then, smack.

A punch lands with brutal force, and everything goes black.

Less than a minute. That’s how quickly it happened, and I was powerless to stop it.

I wake with a violent jolt, my head foggy, a bitter taste in my mouth, and my body cold and damp. I can feel the rough stone beneath me, its coldness seeping into my skin. I try to move, but the restraints on my wrists make it impossible. Panic bubbles in my chest, but I fight to remain still, my breath shallow, trying to keep myself composed.

I force my blurry eyes open, scanning the darkness around me, looking for anything that can give me a clue as to where I am or how I can get out.

The stone walls offer no answers, only a sense of crushing confinement. My ears strain to catch any sounds. A faint murmur echoes through the walls, voices too distant to make out. I feel a surge of hope. Maybe Zander and Ash have found me. Maybe they are close by, searching for a way in. But the thought is quickly followed by dread.

Have they even noticed I am gone? Could they be in cells of their own? My mind spins with questions I can’t answer, and with every passing second, panic grips tighter, threatening to consume me.

I know how strong they are, how fiercely they fight. Even drained from the day's exhausting sparring, I know they won’t have gone down easily. The weight of the unknown, the terror of not knowing if they are even alive, is almost too much to bear.

I close my eyes tightly, trying to shut out the thoughts, the fear, but it won’t stop. What if I am alone in this?

The voices grow closer, and I quickly lay my head back down, closing my eyes, hoping they will think I am still unconscious. My heart hammers in my chest, and I force myself to breathe deeply, trying to steady my pulse. If I can just stay quiet, they might leave me alone.

Then a voice, close enough now that I can make out the words, speaks, its tone filled with a cruel amusement. “Is this her?”

“Yep, that’s her,” another voice responds. “The King’s been looking for her.”

“She doesn’t seem like much,” the first voice says, almost dismissively.

“My orders weren’t to take note of her worthiness. Only to secure her.” The second voice sounds less certain, but there is something cold and calculating in it.

“Was it only her?” the first voice asks, a note of disappointment creeping in.

“There were two other males with her, but the Prince wasn’t among them.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze, praying they won’t notice I am awake. The Prince. They are talking about Oberon. I force myself to stay steady, not giving away that I am listening, that I can hear every word.

“That’s too bad,” the first voice muses. “I was hoping to bring the King proof of his treachery.”

Treachery? The word hits like a punch to the gut.

Oberon was always careful. Careful about who he trusts, careful about revealing his true identity. He is both the rebellion’s leader and the son of a king, a dangerous balance. He always uses a fake name when traveling, never letting anyone see his powers, his shadows. In doing so, he is a shadow himself, careful to never give away the truth about who he really is.

The only person outside the rebellion who has ever seen him for who he truly is, who knows what he is capable of, was Toro, the male we helped through the storm. Toro, who promised to keep Oberon’s secret as thanks for his aid. Toro understood the fragile line Oberon is walking, the delicate balance of his position, and swore never to reveal it. It can’t have been him.