Chapter One: Descent

Melianthe

The iron keys burn cold against my palm, their weight heavier than the crown I'll never wear if I'm caught. Three guards lie unconscious in the upper corridors; drugged wine courtesy of my careful planning over the past two weeks. I have perhaps an hour before the next watch discovers them.

An hour to commit treason. An hour to save a kingdom. An hour to become something more than a decorative princess waiting for the Empire to finish strangling us with silk ribbons and trade agreements.

I descend the dungeon steps, soft leather boots silent on stone worn smooth by centuries of prisoners' feet. Above me, the palace sleeps… or pretends to. These days, it's hard to tell the difference.

"Remember the Raven Queen," my mother had written in her hidden journals. "She who saved the kingdom through deception, who wore a crown of thorns while her enemies believed her weak."

Tonight, I hope I understand what she meant.

The temperature drops with each step downward, and I pull my dark cloak tighter around my shoulders. The heavy wool was supposed to disguise my identity, but now it feels more like armor against the suffocating atmosphere of this place. The scent of burning oil from the torches mingles with darker odors - unwashed bodies, human waste, the metallic tang of old blood that no amount of scrubbing can erase from ancient stones. Here, on the third landing, new Imperial locks gleam beside ancient Ravencrest ironwork. Even our dungeons require "modernization" according to Imperial standards. Six years of occupation, and they're still finding things to "improve." Ambassador Jarrod left last month - good riddance - but his replacement hasn't arrived yet. The uncertainty makes everyone nervous.

This morning, I'd been Princess Melianthe, dutiful daughter practicing her embroidery while court ladies whispered about which Imperial fashions would arrive with the spring trading ships. Tonight, I'm a thief creeping through my own palace's bowels, carrying stolen keys and treasonous intentions.

I pause at the first junction, trying to remember the layout I'd memorized during sleepless nights of planning. Left leads to the common cells where drunkards and petty thieves wait out their sentences. Right descends to the deeper levels where Father houses his more politically inconvenient prisoners. The men and women who dared speak of better days, who remembered when Ravencrest's banners flew without Imperial eagles clutching them in golden talons.

The choice is obvious, but my feet hesitate anyway. Once I turn right, once I walk into that deeper darkness, there's no pretending this is just a princess's foolish whim. This becomes real. This becomes treason.

A rat scurries across my path, its claws clicking against the stones as it disappears into the shadows. Even the vermin know these tunnels better than I do. It’s a sobering reminder of how little I truly know about my own kingdom's dark places. Six years I've spent in gilded rooms, practicing courtly graces while the real Ravencrest rotted in cells below my feet.

No more.

I turn right and continue descending. The sound of my own breathing seems unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet, broken only by the occasional groan of old timbers or the distant drip of water finding its way through cracks in ancient mortar. How many people have walked these steps over the centuries? How many have descended as prisoners and never climbed back up as free men? The stones here predate the Empire by eight centuries. Carved into one wall, barely visible beneath layers of grime, I spot the ancient raven sigil. Its eyes seem to follow me as I pass.

Focus, Melianthe. You practiced this route twelve times in your mind.

But practicing in my bedroom and walking these cursed halls are different things. Up there, I could pretend this was just another strategic exercise. Down here, surrounded by the weight of suffering and centuries of secrets, my carefully crafted plan feels like tissue paper held up against a storm.

What if he refuses? What if he's broken? What if-

The first occupied cell appears on my left, and I force myself not to look directly at its inhabitant. A glimpse of tattered clothing and hollow eyes is enough; I can't afford to be paralyzed by guilt over people I might still save. Focus on the task at hand. Focus on the one man who might help me transform good intentions into actual change.

"Looking for someone special, sweetheart?" The voice drifts from the shadows, cultured despite its circumstances. I freeze, my heart stopping entirely for a moment before resuming at double pace. "Or perhaps you're lost?" the voice continues with dark amusement. "Easy to lose your way down here. All the corridors look the same after a while, all the cells full of the same broken dreams."

I quicken my pace, but his words follow me like smoke. Broken dreams. Is that what I'm chasing? Just another broken dream that will shatter against the reality of Imperial power? Father certainly thinks so. His cold dismissal of my carefully worded suggestions about "preserving cultural heritage" had made his opinion abundantly clear.

You speak like your mother, he'd said, and the words had cut deeper than any blade. She was a dreamer too. Dreams are luxuries we can no longer afford.

But Mother hadn't been just a dreamer. I'd found her hidden journals months ago, tucked away in a secret compartment of her writing desk. Page after page of coded observations about Imperial troop movements, careful notes on which nobles might be turned against the occupation, detailed maps of old smuggling routes that could move people or supplies without Imperial oversight. She'd been building something before the fever took her.

The deeper cells begin now, each one more isolated than the last. Here the torches burn lower, casting dancing shadows that make every corner seem to writhe with hidden movement. The very architecture changes at this level; older stones, carved before the Empire was even a distant threat, when Ravencrest was barely a name.

Another cell shows evidence of Imperial efficiency. New iron bars replace the old wooden ones, locks that bear the Empire's eagle stamp, hinges that don't squeal when opened. They've modernized even our dungeons, as if imprisonment itself needed to be made more civilized, more palatable to their delicate sensibilities.

Finally, I reach the deepest level, where the most dangerous prisoners are kept in isolation. Here, silence reigns absolute except for the whisper of my own breathing and the steady drip-drip-drip of water finding its way through ancient stone. The air feels thick here, oppressive with the weight of years and the accumulated despair of forgotten souls.

Three cells occupy this level. Two stand empty, their doors hanging open like mouths frozen in silent screams. The third remains sealed, its heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands and secured with locks that would challenge even a master thief.

But I already know who waits beyond that door.

Sir Talos. The King's Shield. The man who held the throne room steps for three hours while King Everett and his sons bled out above him. The legendary captain who'd never lost a battle until the night he lost everything that mattered. The great Captain Talos, hero of the Battle of Thornfield, defender of the realm, reduced to a number in a cell but never reduced to begging. Even Father, in his rare moments of candor, has admitted a grudging respect for the man's resilience.

"Magnificent stubbornness," he'd said once, wine loosening his tongue after a particularly difficult council session. "Lesser men would have broken in months. Talos... he endures. Part of me wonders what might have been if he'd chosen differently."

My hands shake as I examine the keys Master Willem's wine-sodden neglect had made so easy to steal. Five different locks secure this door. Imperial paranoia at its finest. They want to make absolutely certain that this particular prisoner never sees daylight again, never has the chance to remind anyone what resistance looks like when backed by skill and determination.

"I can hear you breathing." The voice comes from beyond the door, rich and cultured despite years of imprisonment. "Whoever you are, you might as well speak. It's been weeks since anyone ventured down here who wasn't bringing gruel or emptying waste buckets."

I press closer to the door, my voice barely above a whisper. "Sir Talos?"

A pause. Then: "That depends on who's asking. Though I should point out that titles become somewhat meaningless when you're chained in a cell beneath the palace of the man you failed to protect."

The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut, but I hear something else beneath it; curiosity, perhaps even hope. How long has he been waiting for someone to speak his true name instead of referring to him as just another prisoner?

"My name is Melianthe," I say, abandoning any pretense of concealment. If I'm going to do this, I need to do it honestly. "I'm King Everett's... I was King Everett's niece."

Another pause, longer this time. I hear the rattle of chains, footsteps moving closer to the door.

"Melianthe." His voice carries a weight of recognition now, and something that might be sorrow. "Little Melly who used to sneak honey cakes from the kitchen and fall asleep during court sessions. Though I suppose you're not so little anymore. You were twelve the last time I saw you. Skinny little thing hovering behind your mother at court functions."

Tears sting my eyes at the childhood nickname, at the memory of a simpler time when my greatest concerns involved avoiding tutors and convincing the kitchen staff to let me help knead bread. "No. Not anymore."

"What in the seven hells are you doing here? Surely your royal duties don't extend to checking on imprisoned traitors."

"You're not a traitor." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "You never swore loyalty to my father. Your oath was to King Everett and his line."

"Was it? And where did that loyalty lead?" His laugh is bitter as winter wind. "To a throne room full of corpses and a kingdom under Imperial boots. Tell me, Princess, was my loyalty worth the price it cost?"

The question hangs in the air between us like a blade. How do I answer that? I lean against the door, pressing my forehead to the rough wood as I gather my thoughts. How do I explain six years of watching my kingdom slowly suffocate? How do I convey the daily humiliations, the constant erosion of everything that once made Ravencrest proud and free?

"Wasn’t it? You're the legendary Sir Talos. The King's Shield. The man who never lost a battle-"

"Until I lost the only one that mattered." His voice cuts like a blade. "Do you know what it's like, girl? To hear your king dying above you while you hold a door against impossible odds? To know that every moment you survive is another moment of his agony?"

"No. But I know what it's like to watch everything I love slowly suffocate while I'm forced to smile and curtsy." I step closer, abandoning caution. "I know what it's like to have the skills and the will to fight but no way to use them. That's why I need you."

"Need me for what? To train you in swordplay? To make you feel like a warrior instead of a caged bird?" He shakes his head. "Find another teacher. I'm done shaping young nobles into corpses."

"I don't want to be shaped into a corpse. I want to be shaped into a weapon."

"Same thing, in the end."

"They're killing us by inches anyway," I say finally. "Not with swords or fire, but with taxes and bureaucracy and gentle suggestions that become commands. Every month, another tradition gets quietly discontinued. Every season, more Imperial 'advisors' arrive to help us govern ourselves. We're becoming a province in everything but name, and no one seems to care as long as the transition stays comfortable."

"And what would you have me do about it? I'm hardly in a position to challenge Imperial policy from down here."

"That's why I brought these." I hold up the keys, letting them catch what little light filters through the door's iron grating. "I want to change your position."

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness. I can almost feel him thinking, weighing possibilities and risks with the same careful calculation that had made him Ravencrest's greatest military mind.

"To what end?" he asks finally. "Even if you could free me - and that's a considerable 'if' given the pains they’ve taken to secure me - what then? I'm one man, and not a young one anymore. The Empire has armies, gold, political connections that span half the known world. What exactly do you think the two of us could accomplish against such power?"

"I don't know," I admit again. "But I know that doing nothing guarantees we lose everything. At least this way, we have a chance."

"A chance at what? Glorious death? Martyrdom for a cause that died four years ago?"

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"A chance to matter." The words surprise me with their vehemence. "A chance to do something other than watch our kingdom bleed out while we pretend everything is fine. A chance to look in the mirror and see something other than a coward staring back."

"Ah." His voice carries a note of understanding now. "This is about more than noble ideals, isn't it? This is personal."

He's right, of course. This is about waking up every morning in a palace that feels more like a beautiful prison with each passing day. This is about watching Imperial flags replace Ravencrest banners and saying nothing. This is about smiling politely while Imperial 'cultural advisors' explain why our festivals need to be 'refined' and our history books need to be 'updated' to reflect a more balanced perspective.

This is about refusing to become the perfect Imperial princess they're so carefully grooming me to be.

"Yes," I say simply. "It's personal."

"Good." The approval in his voice surprises me. "Personal motivations last longer than abstract principles. They burn hotter and cut deeper. If you're going to commit treason, better to do it for reasons that will sustain you when everything goes wrong."

"So you'll help me?"

"I haven't said that yet." But there's something different in his tone now, less bitter resignation and more active consideration. "Tell me, what exactly do you know about resistance? About what it actually costs to fight an empire?"

"Nothing," I admit. "That's why I need you."

"It takes blood, Princess.” The title is mocking. “Are you prepared for that?" His eyes scan me through the barred opening, searching, testing, the same way he used to watch new recruits in the practice yard. Looking for the steel beneath the shine, my mother used to say.

I narrow my eyes. "I've watched blood spill for six years. Time to choose whose." Let him look. Let him see the steel in my spine.

“And whose blood will it be, Princess? Your father’s friends? Your father’s enemies?” He pauses meaningfully. “Your father’s?”

I don’t falter. “I’m not stupid. I understand what taking power means. I watched it happen with my own eyes, just like you. It’s not what I want, but I’m prepared for the possibility.”

"Your father-"

"My father..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. Above us, somewhere in the palace, he's probably still awake, pouring over reports or meeting with his council, playing the part of the tyrant king so perfectly that sometimes I wonder if it's really a performance at all. "My father sees what he needs to see."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm very good at being the daughter he expects. Quiet, obedient, properly grateful for Imperial guidance. It's amazing what people will say in front of you when they think you're not really listening."

"And are you? Listening?"

"I've been listening for six years," I admit. "Long enough to understand that if things continue as they are, there won't be a Ravencrest left to save. Just another Imperial province with a puppet government and forgotten traditions."

"Some would say that's already the case."

"Some would be wrong." The vehemence in my voice surprises us both. "We're wounded, not dead. Bent, not broken. Unless we choose to be."

“Bold assumptions for a girl who's barely… what, sixteen?"

"Almost eighteen," I correct, not mentioning that those six years have aged me in ways that have nothing to do with birthdays. "Old enough to make my own choices. Old enough to see what's happening to our kingdom."

Sir Talos moves slowly to join me at the cell door, wrapping his fingers above mine. "And if I choose to serve?" There's something new in his voice now, testing but different.

"Then you choose to serve me. You choose to fight." I hesitate, then add what I've never dared say aloud: "For what's left. For what could be. For what Father-" I catch myself, the words burning my throat like Empire brandy. "I'm not looking for glory. I'm looking for hope."

"Hope." He repeats the word like he's tasting something foreign. "It's been a while since anyone offered me that particular commodity. Tell me, what makes you think I'm worth the risk you're taking? I failed once already, rather spectacularly. What makes you believe I won't fail again?"

It's a fair question, and one I've asked myself countless times during the sleepless nights when I planned this moment. What am I really betting on here? A broken man's pride? A legend that might be nothing more than glorified stories told by people desperate for heroes?

"Because you're still alive," I say finally. "The Empire had every reason to execute you publicly, to make an example that would terrify anyone else thinking of resistance. Instead, they buried you down here where people would forget you existed. That suggests they're afraid of what you represent, afraid enough to keep you alive but contained rather than risk making you a martyr."

His laugh is sharp and surprised. "Clever girl. Yes, you're probably right about that. Though I should mention that my continued silence came at considerable personal cost. I'm not quite the man I was six years ago."

"None of us are. That's the point."

"True enough." The chains rattle again as he moves closer to the door. "Very well, my lady. Let's say I'm willing to entertain this mad scheme of yours. What exactly are you proposing?"

My heart leaps, but I force myself to stay focused. This is the crucial moment; I need to convince him that I'm serious, that this isn't just a desperate whim that will dissolve at the first sign of real danger.

“I’m here to ask you to be my personal bodyguard.” The keys hang between us, glinting in my outstretched hand. “Ambassador Jarrod has returned to the Empire due to his ill health and his retinue has gone with him. His replacement arrives any day now. If we move now, I can free you and assign you to me personally before the Empire knows what’s happening.”

"You want me to become your bodyguard." He's already thinking ahead, seeing the possibilities. "Close enough to protect you, to train you. Independent enough to move freely." A slight smile crosses his worn features. "Audacious. Dangerous. Something I wouldn't have expected from Aldrich's daughter."

"My father doesn't know I'm here." The admission costs me something. "And I'm not certain I'm his daughter in any way that matters anymore."

"Clever." There's approval in his voice. "Hide in plain sight. The broken prisoner reformed and serving his new king's daughter."

"And it would give us access to the palace, to information, to the people we need to reach."

“And why should I protect the daughter of a usurper?”

I hold his gaze. “Because I would protect what he betrayed.”

Sir Talos studies me, his eyes thoughtful now. “Do you understand what you’re asking?”

“No,” I respond, my back held straight and stiff like a sword. “But I understand what I’m fighting for.”

Sir Talos releases a soft laugh. “Then you understand more than your father did.” He pauses. “Or perhaps just as much as your father did. That remains to be seen.” He pauses for a long moment. "Your father will never allow it."

I smile bitterly. "He won’t have a choice when I present you at court tomorrow as my bodyguard. If he admits I made the decision without him he seems weak. Father will see the political advantage.” I remember the whispers around court speculating on the arrival of the new ambassador. Jarrod was a doddering old man, more a symbolic presence than anything. How many more prisoners will fill this dungeon when the new ambassador arrives? “Your appointment will appease the traditionalist faction before-“ I catch myself before saying too much. “We’ll show the Empire what they want to see, a broken man serving out of fear." I lean closer to the door. "Can you play that part?"

"My lady, I've been playing that part for six years. The only difference would be the quality of my accommodations."

"And once you're established as my guard?"

"Then the real work begins. Training you, yes, but also building networks, gathering intelligence, identifying potential allies." His voice takes on the focused intensity of someone outlining a campaign. "The bodyguard position would be perfect cover for all of it. I'd be expected to move through the palace, to observe potential threats, to understand the political landscape. Who better to map the resistance than someone whose job requires knowing everyone who might pose a danger to the princess?"

The beauty of it still takes my breath away. We won’t be hiding from the system; we'll be using it, turning Father's own security concerns into the foundation for rebellion.

"How long before we could act?"

"Patience, my lady. Empires aren't toppled overnight, and rushed rebellions usually end with everyone involved hanging from giblets." But there's excitement in his voice now, the enthusiasm of a master craftsman presented with an intricate challenge. "First we establish the cover story, then we begin the careful work of building something that can survive contact with Imperial power."

"Then you'll help me?"

"I'll consider it. But first, I need to know something. What are you prepared to sacrifice for this cause? What are you willing to lose if everything goes wrong?"

The question hits me like a hammerblow. I've been so focused on the possibility of success that I haven't fully confronted what failure would mean, not just for me, but for everyone who might follow me into darkness.

"Everything," I say finally, and realize as I speak that I mean it. "My position, my safety, my life if necessary. I can't keep living as I am now, pretending that comfortable slavery is better than dangerous freedom."

"And if your actions bring down Imperial retribution on innocent people? If your rebellion gets others killed?"

That's the question that has haunted my sleepless nights, the fear that has nearly stopped me from acting a dozen times. How do I weigh my own moral necessity against the safety of people who never asked to be part of any rebellion?

"Then I'll have to live with that guilt," I say quietly. "But I can't live with the certainty of doing nothing. At least if we try, there's a chance we might succeed. If we don't try, we definitely lose everything anyway. Just slowly enough that we can pretend it isn't happening."

"Very well, Princess. But understand this. Once we start down this path, there's no turning back. The girl who walked into this dungeon tonight won't be the same one who walks out. Are you prepared for that?"

I think of the ravens calling in the darkness above, of old stories about truth walking among lies, of a kingdom slowly dying while everyone pretends otherwise. "I've been preparing for this my whole life. I just didn't know it until now."

"Then let's see if these keys of yours actually work, shall we? Time to discover whether you're truly ready to act on all those noble intentions."

I examine the ring again, squinting in the dim light to make out the different shapes and sizes. Five locks, five different keys. "The large iron key probably fits the main door lock," I murmur, more to myself than to him. "The smaller ones for the chain restraints..."

"Actually," his voice carries a note of amusement, "you might want to start with the small brass key, third from the left on your ring."

I look at the key in question. It's unremarkable compared to the larger, more obvious choices. "How do you know?"

"Because I've had six years to study every detail of my accommodations, including watching which keys the guards use and in what order. That particular key opens the secondary lock they installed after my third escape attempt. Start there, then the large iron one for the main lock."

His casual mention of multiple escape attempts sends a shiver through me. This isn't just a political prisoner, this is someone who's remained dangerous despite everything they've done to contain him.

The brass key slides into the lock with surprising ease, turning with a soft click that seems to echo through the corridor like thunder. One down. The main lock proves more stubborn, years of moisture and neglect making the mechanism sticky. I have to use both hands to force it, the metal groaning in protest before finally yielding.

The door swings open on hinges that shriek like wounded animals, and I freeze, certain the sound must have carried to the guards above. But no footsteps come running, no shouts of alarm pierce the darkness. After a moment, I force myself to breathe again and step into the cell.

The smell hits me first. Years of unwashed humanity confined in too small a space. But beneath that, something else: the iron scent of determination, the sharp tang of unbroken will. My eyes adjust slowly to the deeper darkness within, making out a figure seated against the far wall.

He's smaller than I remember; imprisonment has a way of diminishing even the largest men and I’ve grown. His hair, once dark, has gone wild and grey-streaked. But his eyes, when they meet mine, burn with an intensity that makes me take an involuntary step backward.

"Second thoughts, my lady?"

"No." I force myself to move forward, to kneel beside him with the remaining keys. "Just... you're not what I expected."

"I could say the same." He extends his wrists, the chains that bind them clanking heavily. "Most princesses don't have the stomach for this kind of work."

"I'm not most princesses." The shackles are heavier than I anticipated, the locks corroded with rust and age. It takes three tries to find the right key, and even then I have to work it carefully to avoid breaking it off in the lock.

"Evidently not." He watches me work with those burning eyes, assessing every movement. "Tell me, what made you decide tonight was the night? What changed?"

"Father announced new Imperial administrators are coming. More oversight, more control, more chains disguised as assistance." The first shackle falls away with a dull clang. "I realized if I waited much longer, there wouldn't be anything left to save."

"Ah." He flexes his freed hand experimentally, wincing as circulation returns. "The slow death. Yes, that's their preferred method these days. Why create martyrs when you can create comfortable slaves?"

The second shackle proves more difficult, the lock mechanism completely seized. I have to use the edge of my cloak to get better purchase on the key, twisting with all my strength until something finally gives. Whether it's the lock or the key itself, I'm not sure, but the shackle falls away.

"There," I breathe, sitting back on my heels. "You're free."

"Free." He says the word like he's tasting something foreign. "That's a relative term, Princess. But yes, I suppose I'm free of these particular chains."

He stands slowly, using the wall for support. Six years of confinement have taken their toll; his movements are stiff, uncertain, like a man relearning his own body. But there's still strength there, coiled and waiting.

"Can you walk?"

"I can do whatever needs doing." There's pride in his voice that no amount of imprisonment could crush. "Though I might need a moment to remember how legs are supposed to work."

I offer my arm for support, and after a moment's hesitation, he takes it. His grip is surprisingly strong despite everything. "The passages I mentioned," I say as we make our way slowly to the cell door. "There's an entrance two levels up, behind a statue of King Aldwin the Third. We'll need to move quickly once we're in the main corridors."

We leave together, my stolen keys locking the cell behind us to buy precious time. As we navigate the dark corridors, Talos moves with surprising grace for a man so long confined. He pauses at the boarded shrine, head tilted.

"What is it?"

"Just remembering." He touches the boards briefly. "We used to leave offerings here before battle. Seemed to help, though that might have been wishful thinking."

"Mother wrote about the Raven Queen in her journals. Just fragments, nothing I could fully understand." The Raven Queen protects those who wear her truths. Even when those truths must be buried beneath necessary lies.

Behind us, echoing up from the depths we're entering, comes the sound of wings. Hundreds of them, as if an entire conspiracy of ravens has made these tunnels their home. Talos freezes.

"That's... unexpected." His hand moves instinctively to where his sword would have hung. "I've never heard of ravens nesting this deep."

"Maybe they're hiding too," I suggest, trying to sound braver than I feel. "Like everything else that remembers what Ravencrest used to be."

"Maybe." But he doesn't sound convinced. "Stay close, my lady. I may not know much about subterfuge and shadows, but I still remember how to keep someone alive."

I follow my unlikely ally into the dark, toward whatever destiny waits for a princess foolish enough to free legends and chase her mother's ghost.

The ravens' cries follow us down, down, down… and I can't tell if they're warning or welcome.

The Raven Queen rises when the kingdom bleeds.