Kael woke because his shoulder hurt.

  Not sharply. Not in the clean way pain usually arrived after a fall or a blow. This was deep and dull, the kind that came from being held wrong for too long. Pressure without release.

  He didn’t open his eyes.

  He catalogued first.

  Cold stone under his cheek. Damp, not slick. The air smelled old—sweat layered over rot layered over something chemical that stung the back of his throat when he breathed too deeply. Iron sat underneath it all, faint but unmistakable.

  His wrists burned.

  That was the second thing.

  Not pain yet—heat, friction, skin rubbed raw. When he tried to shift, something bit into him immediately and stopped the movement short.

  Restraints.

  Kael went still again.

  He opened his eyes.

  Darkness pressed close, but not complete. A dim, low light bled in from somewhere beyond his field of vision, thin enough that shadows swallowed most shapes whole. He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust.

  Bars.

  Not thick. Not reinforced. Old iron, pitted and rough, set vertically into stone. The spacing was narrow enough that he couldn’t slip through, wide enough that fingers could reach out if someone was desperate enough to try.

  He was lying on stone.

  No mat. No cloth. Just floor.

  Kael drew in a careful breath and lifted his head an inch.

  The cell was small. Just long enough to lie outstretched, just wide enough to turn onto his side. Shackles ran from his wrists to a ring set into the wall behind him, chain short enough to prevent standing fully upright.

  He tested his ankles.

  Free.

  Good.

  He rolled onto his side slowly, ignoring the way his shoulder screamed in protest, and pushed himself up until his back met the wall. The stone was colder there, leeching warmth through his shirt.

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  He sat.

  That was when he saw the others.

  The dungeon was open.

  Not corridors of sealed doors like he’d half-expected, but a broad, sunken chamber carved down into the city’s underbelly. Cells lined the walls in a rough oval, iron bars catching the dim light at uneven angles. Some held shapes curled tight against the floor. Others were empty, doors hanging open like mouths that had already eaten.

  Across from him, a boy about his age sat with his knees drawn up, forehead pressed against the bars. His shoulders shook, silently.

  To the left, a girl lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, eyes open and unblinking.

  To the right—

  Kael’s breath caught.

  Riven.

  He was slumped against the far wall of his cell, wrists chained high enough that his shoulders were forced back unnaturally. His head hung forward, chin pressed to his chest. One side of his face was swollen, skin darkening already.

  “Riven,” Kael said quietly.

  Nothing.

  Kael swallowed.

  He scanned the chamber again, forcing himself to see rather than feel.

  Rough count—twenty, maybe thirty cells. Not all occupied. Some chains hung unused, clinking faintly in the stale air when a draft moved through. A wide stairwell rose at the far end, half-lost in shadow, iron railing bolted into stone.

  Lights—if they could be called that—burned along the walls at irregular intervals. Not torches. Something steadier. Cold. No smoke.

  Cursed.

  Kael pushed that thought away.

  Focus.

  He tested the shackle at his wrist with his fingers. Old iron. Heavy. The ring was set deep into the stone, mortar dark and solid around it. No cracks. No give.

  He followed the chain with his eyes.

  Short.

  Measured.

  Enough to let him sit. Not enough to fight.

  A sob broke the quiet.

  Not loud. Not sudden. Just… there.

  Kael turned his head.

  The boy across from him had lifted his face from the bars. His eyes were red and unfocused, lips trembling as if he’d forgotten how to hold them still.

  “They caught us,” the boy whispered, not looking at Kael. “Didn’t they?”

  Kael didn’t answer.

  The boy laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “Stupid,” he muttered. “We were stupid.”

  Another voice murmured something unintelligible further down the line.

  Someone else was praying.

  Kael looked back at Riven.

  He watched Riven’s chest rise and fall—shallow, uneven. Watched the faint tremor in his hands where the chain pulled at his wrists.

  They’d almost made it.

  The thought came unbidden, sharp enough to hurt.

  The sacks. The food. The run through Seven. The wall getting closer with every step.

  Freedom had been real. Close enough to taste.

  Kael pressed his forehead briefly against the stone behind him and breathed through the hollow ache in his chest.

  A sound tore out of Riven suddenly.

  Not a word.

  A raw, broken noise, dragged up from somewhere too deep to control.

  Kael’s head snapped up.

  Riven jerked against the chains, head lifting, eyes snapping open as if he’d surfaced from drowning. He sucked in a breath and screamed.

  It wasn’t loud.

  It was hoarse.

  Ragged.

  “IT’S NOT FAIR!”

  The words ripped out of him, cracked and shaking.

  “It’s not—” Riven choked, breath hitching hard enough that the chains rattled. “It’s not fucking fair!”

  A few heads turned. Someone whimpered. No one told him to be quiet.

  “We had it,” Riven sobbed. “We had it—we were going to do it—we were going to be free—”

  His voice broke completely.

  “And now we’re here,” he gasped, shoulders straining uselessly against iron. “And we’re going to die. We’re just going to die.”

  Kael’s throat burned.

  He opened his mouth—

  A voice cut through the chamber.

  Soft.

  Uncertain.

  From somewhere further down the line.

  “Riven?”

  A pause.

  “…is that you?”

  Kael went very still.

  The darkness seemed to lean in.