The damp stench of stone and old blood lingered thick in the air.
Lucien sat chained to the wall, wrists rubbed raw beneath the iron manacles. His head was bowed, hair matted to his face, sweat and filth staining his once-regal frame. The torchlight flickered against the map of bruises, lashes, poorly healed breaks. His hair was longer now, brushing his shoulders, and his beard had grown in patchy and wild. There were chains on his wrists, ankles, and around his neck—redundant, but ceremonial.
The enchantment had shattered months ago.
It hadn't been loud. No crack of thunder, no dramatic surge of light. Just a slow crumbling inside his skull, like ice melting. One moment, he was dazed and obedient—a puppet on velvet strings. The next, he remembered.
Everything.
Where he was. What they'd done. The war. The betrayal. The sickening truth: they had used him—his strength, his name, even his silence—to serve Lenora's rise.
And Esme…
