Amriel traced her finger along the tally marks she'd scratched into the stone wall—thirteen days. Nearly two weeks in this lightless pit they called the seventh layer of the Dreadfort. It was the only way to mark time in a place where morning and night meant nothing.
"The northern tower," she whispered bitterly, recalling the King's words. "Comfortable quarters."
A laugh escaped her, hollow and unfamiliar to her own ears. She pressed her fist against her mouth to silence it, afraid of what might follow if she let it continue. In the seventh layer, even laughter could be dangerous—it might never stop.
When Prince Tristan had handed her over to the Dreadfort warden—a gaunt man with eyes like frozen puddles—something in the prince's expression had suggested he knew what would happen. A flicker of apology, quickly buried beneath duty. The warden had merely glanced at the royal decree bearing the King's seal, then handed her to a guard whose breath reeked of sour wine.
"Take her down," was all he'd said.
She hadn't understood at first. Not when they descended the first winding staircase, stones worn smooth by generations of prisoners dragged to their fates. Not even when they passed the third level, where muffled sobs and prayers leaked through iron-barred doors. It was only at the fifth level, when the stone walls began to glisten with cold moisture and the air turned sharp with frost, that dread truly took hold.
Seven layers deep, the Dreadfort was said to run. Seven layers into the permafrost, where only the earthworms and fellow inmates could hear your screams. Where the mad were interred with the forgotten, and sometimes it became impossible to distinguish between the two.
Amriel pressed her back against the wall of her cell, drawing her knees up to her chest. The rough-spun blanket they'd provided—her only concession to humanity—did little against the perpetual chill that seemed to emanate from the stones themselves. Her breath clouded before her face, visible even in the dim blue glow that emanated from the enchanted stones embedded in the ceiling. Not bright enough to read by, if she'd had anything to read. Just enough light to ensure the darkness wasn't absolute.
Sometimes she thought that was the cruelest part. Total darkness might have been a mercy.
She'd known that ending up here was one of the possible outcomes of her actions. But the precise path that had led her to this cell was not what she had anticipated.
Unbidden, the vision of Princess Irina rose in her mind—the girl lying on that marble floor, her dark eyes dull and lifeless, deep brown hair spread around her head. Amriel had tried to help her. Had only tried to—
"The moon is a lie," a voice called out, harsh and grating, from the cell nearby, interrupting her thoughts.
Groaning softly, Amriel closed her eyes. It was beginning again.
"A fabrication," continued the first voice, the words floating through the darkness like debris. "A pretty, pretty lie to keep us lost."
"No, no, no," cackled another voice, this one warbling and unsteady. "The moon is real. As real as you or I." A pause followed, measured and considering. "Are we real?"
Every day, the same conversation, to the point where Amriel could recite the lines herself. "What is real?" she mouthed silently, lips barely moving.
And right on cue, as if reading her thoughts, a third voice hissed, "Whas iss weal? Can you tell me that, new-blood?"
She'd learned their patterns now, like a twisted theatrical performance. The high-voiced one had been a former advisor until the King had his tongue split for sedition. Now his words lisped and hissed between teeth and forked flesh. Then there was the one with a voice like curdled milk, who spoke of the moon as one might speak of a faithless lover, with bitterness and betrayal. The third was simply "the Old One," a prisoner who had been in the seventh layer so long even the guards didn't remember his crime.
Amriel pressed her palms against her ears, but it did little to block the voices. They seemed to bypass her ears entirely, seeping directly into her mind like poisoned honey.
"Can you shut up?" Amriel called out, immediately regretting the outburst. Engaging was dangerous. She'd learned that on her third day when another inmate—the one with a voice like curdled milk—had spent six hours reciting what he claimed were lunar prophecies after she'd asked him a simple question.
Don't engage. Don't become part of their madness, she chided herself.
Her fingers found the iron ring hanging from a leather cord around her neck—her father's. Its familiar weight and rough edges had been her anchor these past thirteen days. The guards had tried to take it during the humiliating inspection they'd subjected her to upon arrival, but something strange had happened. Their eyes had simply slid past it, as if it were invisible. She'd kept it hidden since, only touching it when she was certain no one was watching.
Something cold dripped from the ceiling, landing on her forehead. She wiped it away, the moisture somehow different from water—thicker, more viscous. Above, an unseen creature skittered across the stones. The lowest level of the Dreadfort hosted more than just human prisoners.
"Poor, poor new-blood," said the Old One, his voice almost gentle. "You'll learn. We all learn down here. The seventh layer reveals all truths eventually."
"She doesn't understand," Moonhater rumbled. "She still thinks the moon is real."
"Weal? Weal? What iss weal?" quarked the serpent-tongued advisor.
Her fingers found the iron ring hanging from a leather cord around her neck—her father's. Its familiar weight and rough edges had been her anchor these past thirteen days. The guards had tried to take it during the humiliating inspection they'd subjected her to upon arrival, but something strange had happened. Their eyes had simply slid past it, as if it were invisible. She'd kept it hidden since, only touching it when she was certain no one was watching.
Something cold dripped from the ceiling, landing on her forehead. She wiped it away, the moisture somehow different from water—thicker, more viscous. Above, an unseen creature skittered across the stones. The lowest level of the Dreadfort hosted more than just human prisoners.
"Poor, poor new-blood," said the Old One, his voice almost gentle. "You'll learn. We all learn down here. The seventh layer reveals all truths eventually."
"She doesn't understand," Moonhater rumbled. "She still thinks the moon is real."
"Weal? Weal? Whas iss weal?" quarked Serpent-tongue, his forked tongue giving each word an unnerving echo.
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold ran down Amriel's spine. Were they mad before they came here, or did the seventh layer create their madness? How long before she too began to believe the moon was a lie?
Then, something new—a voice she hadn't heard before.
"I know what you have, new-blood," whispered an inmate from the cell directly across from hers, their voice suddenly closer, as if they'd pressed themselves against their bars. "I can hear it singing. Iron sings differently in the dark."
Amriel's hand froze on the ring, her breath catching. How could they possibly know?
"Who are you?" she whispered back, straining to see into the shadowed cell across the narrow corridor.
A soft laugh answered her, melodic and disconcertingly lucid. "Names are the first thing they take from you here."
"Iron keeps the truth away," Moonshadow continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried perfectly. "Iron binds and blinds and shields. Is that why you keep it close? Are you afraid of seeing?"
Amriel's mouth went dry. "Seeing what?"
"The paths between," They replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The ways out that aren't doors. The reflections that lead elsewhere."
This one is just as mad as the others, Amriel thought, even as a part of her mind stirred with uncomfortable recognition.
In the dim blue light, she could now make out a pale hand gripping one of the bars of the cell opposite hers—long-fingered and elegant despite the grime beneath the nails.
"The moon is a lie!" The one who felt so bitterly towards the moon insisted, more forcefully now. "A beautiful lie!"
"Tell me the story of the silver lady," The Old One suddenly demanded, his voice rising. "Tell me about the silver lady who walks our world and theirs!"
And on and on they went.
Amriel wanted to scream, to block out their words. Instead, she pressed her forehead to her knees and began to rock slightly, a small, desperate motion that did nothing to calm the storm inside her mind.
Her father's ring seemed to pulse against her skin, growing warmer. Or was that just another delusion, another step toward the madness that clearly awaited her?
"She died and yet she returned," The one across from her observed, their voice thoughtful. "How curious. The silver lady must have plans for you, new-blood."
Amriel's head snapped up. "What did you say?"
"I can smell it on you," They continued. "Death's kiss. The void's touch. You crossed the boundary and came back. Very few manage that."
Cold sweat broke out across her forehead despite the chill. How could he know?
"You don't know anything about me," Amriel said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Pulling her threadbare blanket tight about her, Amriel fought back the sudden onslaught of tears that spilled down her cheeks.
Twenty-seven marks on the wall now. Nearly a month in darkness.
Time was a funny thing down here in the Dreadfort. Living in near perpetual darkness, it was hard to tell when it was night or day. Reaching out, Amriel traced over the twenty-seventh mark on the wall. Dirt crusted beneath her broken fingernails. Had it not been for these marks, she didn't doubt she would have lost track already.
Twenty-seven days. Almost a month.
Gods, how I miss them, Amriel thought as the faces of her loved ones swam before her eyes. Twenty-seven days since she'd last talked to Niamh or Simon. Twenty-seven days since she last ruffled the fur between Meeko's ears.
Beyond the walls of her cell the endless prattle of her fellow cell mates echoed through the corridors. Thankfully, the one across from her, the one who knew, had remained silent.
Amriel's eyes scanned across her dark cell. They didn't provide beds, only a dank bed roll she'd been reluctant to use. From the smell of it, she was pretty certain the cell's last occupant had died in it. The rough burlap was stiff with old stains she preferred not to identify, and tiny creatures occasionally skittered through its folds when she disturbed it. She'd taken to sleeping propped against the wall instead, which left her neck and back in constant pain.
In one corner sat her only other provision: a rusted metal bucket that served as her privy. The guards emptied it every three days—not often enough to prevent the sour stench from permeating every corner of her small space.
Her black hair hung in matted clumps, plastered against her scalp with grease and grime. Her cheekbones stood out sharply beneath skin that had taken on an unhealthy pallor. The plain shirt and trousers they'd given her upon arrival hung loosely from her frame—evidence of the weight melting off her with each passing day.
The meager rations they slid through the slot in her door twice daily were barely enough to sustain life—thin gruel in the morning, a chunk of hard bread and sometimes a bit of sour cheese in the evening. Water came in a clay cup she'd learned to ration carefully throughout the day.
She ran her tongue over cracked lips, wincing at the sting. Even the simple act of staying hydrated had become a challenge. The constant cold made her joints ache, a deep-seated pain that never truly subsided. A persistent cough had developed in the past week, and she wondered distantly if the damp was settling in her lungs. Many prisoners died of lung rot in the Dreadfort; everyone knew the tales.
Amriel fingered the iron ring at her throat, the only thing that still connected her to her former life.
She was about to attempt another fitful rest when a commotion erupted somewhere down the corridor—the sound of running feet and raised voices.
A guard shouted, his voice bouncing off the stone walls.
The clang of steel against steel followed, then a grunt of pain. More footsteps, heavier this time, and the sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor with force.
The prisoners around her erupted in response to the disturbance. Serpent-tongue began a high, keening wail that set Amriel's teeth on edge. The one who hates the moon rattled his bars, metal clanging against metal in a frenzied rhythm. The Old One started laughing, a terrible sound that rose above the others like smoke.
"They're coming! The reflections walk!" he cackled. "New-blood, the silver paths open for you!"
Amriel scrambled to her feet, heart hammering against her ribs. More shouts echoed from the direction of the level entrance, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a struggle.
The sounds of fighting grew closer. A guard screamed, the sound cut short with terrible abruptness. Then footsteps, heading in their direction.
Amriel clutched her father's ring in one hand, her other pressed against the cold stone wall for support. Her heart felt as though it might burst from her chest.