I looked at Lucien as we followed the guard deeper into the prison, but I did not say anything. The narrow corridor stretched ahead of us like the throat of some ancient beast, torch brackets fixed to the walls at uneven intervals, their flames throwing restless orange light across the damp stone. Water dripped somewhere in the distance with a slow, maddening rhythm.
The air smelled of mildew, old blood, and the faint metallic tang of iron. My boots struck the floor in measured steps while Lucien walked half a pace behind me, silent as always when he sensed I needed the quiet.
I was still trying not to point fingers. The guards' confirmation that Sera had been here earlier settled like ice in my chest. I really had been onto something. For the love and respect I still carried for her father, an old ally whose loyalty had once meant more to me than most blood ties, I wished, with every stubborn fiber of my being, that I was wrong.
