Chapter 5 Whispers in the Dark

The damp, gritty stone bit into Lucian's knees. Seraphina lay limp in Rylan's arms, her head lolling back, pale as the underbelly of a fish. The frantic energy that had propelled her to grab the club, to throw the flare, was utterly gone, leaving behind terrifying fragility. Her breathing was shallow, barely stirring the torn fabric at her neck.

"Princess!" Rylan whispered, panic edging his voice. He gently lowered her to the cold cellar floor, cushioning her head with his folded jacket. "Your Highness, she's... she's ice cold!"

Lucian pushed aside the burning ache in his side. Blood seeped steadily, warm and sticky beneath his uniform, a counterpoint to the cellar's pervasive chill. Survival first. Triage. He leaned over Seraphina, pressing two fingers against the pulse point beneath her jaw. It fluttered, weak and rapid, like a trapped bird's wing. He checked her breathing again – too fast, too shallow. Shock. Adrenaline crash. Maybe injury he hadn't seen.

"Rylan, the lantern," Lucian ordered, his voice rough but steady. "Hold it close. Check her for wounds. Carefully."

The young guard obeyed, his hands trembling as he directed the beam over Seraphina's still form. The yellow light revealed the tear in her emerald gown at the shoulder, the darkening bruise where Lucian had grabbed her. Dust and grime smudged her face and arms. Rylan gently probed her limbs, her ribs, her head, his touch hesitant.

"No... no obvious breaks, Your Highness," Rylan reported, relief warring with anxiety. "But this bruise... it's bad. And she's freezing." He pulled his own thin undershirt over his head, ignoring the cold, and awkwardly draped it over Seraphina's torso, trying to offer scant warmth.

Lucian's gaze swept the small, dead-end space. Barrels lined the walls, smelling faintly of vinegar and neglect. The heavy door offered no escape. They were rats in a trap. Cassian's venomous promise echoed in his mind: *'Guards will swarm this place soon.'* Were they loyal to the Crown Prince? Or to the Duke whispering poison? He couldn't risk it.

He needed to stop his own bleeding. With a grunt, Lucian shrugged out of his heavy medal-laden dress jacket, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. Underneath, his white dress shirt was already soaked crimson near his lower ribs on the left side. Not a deep stab, he assessed, more a vicious tear from the thug's club or a shard during the struggle. Painful, messy, potentially dangerous if it kept bleeding, but not immediately fatal. Unlike Seraphina's alarming stillness.

He ripped a long strip from the tail of his shirt. Biting back a curse as fresh pain flared, he folded a wad of fabric from another torn strip, pressed it hard against the wound, and began winding the longer strip around his torso, tying it tight. It was clumsy, one-handed work, but it stemmed the flow. He used the remnants of his shirt to wipe the worst of the blood from his hands.

His eyes returned to Seraphina. Rylan was chafing her hands, whispering reassurances she couldn't hear. *'She saved your life.'* Rylan's awed words reverberated. Why? Why risk everything for the man who locked her in, who accused her, who represented everything her family had lost? The question gnawed at him, sharper than the pain in his side.

He remembered the flare of panic in her eyes when he grabbed her in their chamber. The raw terror when Cassian blocked their path. Not the calculated fear of a schemer caught. Primal. Visceral. The terror of prey. And her warning... *'They're coming for you!'* Had she known? Had she tried to tell him, and he'd dismissed it as lies?

He knelt beside her again, ignoring Rylan's startled look. He touched her forehead. Cold sweat beaded on her skin. Her eyelids fluttered, but didn't open. A low moan escaped her lips.

"Princess," Lucian said, his voice lower than he intended. "Seraphina. Can you hear me?"

Her brow furrowed slightly. Her lips moved, forming soundless words. He leaned closer, his ear almost touching her mouth. The scent of wild mint and salt was faint beneath the cellar's damp decay and the coppery tang of blood.

"...Cassian..." The whisper was barely a breath. "...lies... all lies..."

Lucian's heart hammered against his ribs. "What lies, Seraphina? What did he do?"

Her head moved restlessly on Rylan's jacket. "...spy... ours... warning... not attack..." Her voice faded, then returned, a thread of desperation. "...treaty... trap... Lucian... danger..."

*Lucian.* Not 'Prince'. Not 'Valtair'. His name, raw and urgent on her lips. The shock of it momentarily stole his breath. He'd heard nothing but cold formality or defiance from her until now.

"What danger?" he pressed, urgency sharpening his tone. "Seraphina, what trap?"

But her eyes remained closed. Her breathing hitched, then settled back into its shallow, rapid rhythm. She'd slipped away again, the fragile connection broken.

Lucian sat back on his heels, the cold stone seeping through his trousers. Her broken whispers painted a terrifying picture. The spy wasn't an infiltrator, but a messenger? Sent by the Dravens? To warn *him*? And Cassian had intercepted him, twisted the narrative, used it to frame Seraphina and justify... this. Murder. The fire. The ambush. All under the guise of protecting the throne from Dravens treachery. Cassian hadn't just wanted the throne; he'd wanted to destroy the peace treaty before it could solidify, using Lucian and Seraphina as sacrificial pawns.

The sheer, cold-blooded audacity of it took Lucian's breath away. He'd known his uncle was ambitious, ruthless. But this? This was treason painted as patriotism. And Seraphina... she'd known. Or suspected enough to be terrified. Enough to try and warn him. Enough to grab a knife for protection not against him, but against the real threat lurking in his own court.

Guilt, cold and heavy, settled in his gut, mixing with the pain. He'd locked her away. Accused her. Threatened her. While she was trying to save his life.

"Your Highness?" Rylan's voice was tentative. "What... what do we do? We can't stay here. They'll find us."

Lucian dragged his gaze from Seraphina's pale face. Rylan was right. Shock or not, they had to move. Cassian might be licking his wounds, but he wouldn't stop. He'd send others. Or the palace guard, fed lies about a Dravens plot culminating in fire and murder, might shoot first and ask questions later.

"We find a way out," Lucian stated, pushing himself up, gritting his teeth against the protest from his bandaged side. "Help me get her up."

Rylan nodded, his face set with grim determination. Together, they lifted Seraphina. She was a dead weight, her head lolling against Lucian's uninjured shoulder. Her slight frame felt insubstantial. He looped one of her arms around his neck, holding her torso securely against him with his good arm. Rylan supported her legs.

"The lantern," Lucian instructed. "Light the way ahead. We follow this passage back the way we came, but take the first branching path we missed before. Look for stairs. Vents. Anything."

Holding the lantern high, Rylan led the way back into the narrow, barrel-lined passage. Lucian followed, half-carrying, half-dragging Seraphina. Every step jolted his wound. Her cold cheek pressed against his neck, her faint breath ghosting over his skin. The conflicting currents of anger, suspicion, guilt, and a dawning, horrifying realization of her sacrifice churned within him.

They retraced their steps slowly, the lantern beam bouncing off damp stone and stacked crates. The air grew colder, damper. The distant roar of the fire was now a faint, ominous rumble, like thunder miles away. They passed the junction where they'd originally entered the cellars from the stairwell landing. Lucian didn't glance back. Going back was death.

Further down the main passage, Rylan stopped. "Here, Your Highness!" He pointed the lantern beam at a narrow, arched opening on the left, almost hidden behind a stack of moldering sacks. It wasn't a path they'd noticed in their earlier flight. A smaller tunnel, barely wide enough for one person, sloping downwards into deeper blackness. A faint draft, smelling of earth and something else... stagnant water?... whispered from its depths.

"It goes down," Rylan said, uncertainty in his voice.

"Down might be out," Lucian countered grimly. "Or it might be a dead end. But standing still is death. Go. Carefully."

Rylan ducked into the narrow opening. Lucian followed, turning sideways to maneuver Seraphina through the tight space. The stone scraped against his injured side, drawing a sharp hiss from him. Seraphina moaned softly in his arms.

The tunnel descended steeply, the ceiling so low Lucian had to hunch. Water dripped steadily somewhere ahead. The air grew thick and cold, the smell of damp earth and decay intensifying. The lantern light seemed feeble against the pressing darkness.

After what felt like an eternity of cramped descent, the tunnel opened abruptly into a larger, low-ceilinged chamber. Rylan stopped so suddenly Lucian almost bumped into him.

"Your Highness..." Rylan breathed, his voice filled with awe and dread.

Lucian peered over his shoulder. The lantern beam swept across the chamber. It wasn't a cellar. It was a crypt.

Ancient stone sarcophagi lined the walls, their surfaces worn smooth by time, carved with symbols Lucian didn't recognize – older than the Valtair dynasty, older perhaps than Eldorra itself. The air hung heavy with the silence of centuries and the chill of the grave. In the center of the chamber lay a dark, still pool of water, fed by a slow drip from the ceiling high above. The only way out seemed to be another arched opening directly opposite, leading into deeper darkness.

But it wasn't the crypt that held them frozen. It was the figures.

Three men stood near the far archway, caught in the act of turning towards the sudden light. They weren't palace guards. They wore rough, dark clothing, faces obscured by scarves pulled up over their noses. Each held a modern, compact submachine gun, sleek and deadly in the ancient gloom. Their eyes, visible above the scarves, widened in identical shock.

For a heartbeat, time stopped. The dripping water was the only sound. Lucian's blood ran cold. Cassian's men? Already here? How?

Then one of the men snarled, a guttural sound muffled by the scarf. He raised his weapon.

Rylan reacted on pure instinct. He didn't think. He dropped the lantern.

The glass shattered. The flame guttered and died instantly, plunging the ancient crypt into absolute, suffocating darkness. The sudden blackness was as shocking as a physical blow.

"DOWN!" Rylan screamed, throwing himself sideways.

Lucian dropped, pulling Seraphina with him, hitting the cold, wet stone floor just as the deafening chatter of automatic gunfire erupted, tearing through the darkness where they had stood. Muzzle flashes lit the crypt in strobing bursts of hellish light, illuminating the horrified faces of the gunmen, the stone coffins, and the terrified eyes of Rylan scrambling for cover behind a sarcophagus.

Bullets ricocheted wildly off ancient stone, whining like angry hornets. Chips of rock sprayed through the air. Lucian covered Seraphina's body with his own, pressing them both flat against the freezing floor behind the dubious cover of a low stone plinth. Adrenaline screamed through him, burning away pain and exhaustion. Trapped in a crypt. Armed assassins in the dark. Seraphina unconscious beside him. And the only ally he had was a terrified young guard.

The gunfire paused, replaced by shouted commands in a harsh, guttural language Lucian didn't understand. Footsteps crunched on stone, moving cautiously. They were being hunted in the dark.

Lucian's hand found the hilt of his dagger, slick with his own blood and grime. It felt pitifully small against automatic weapons. He strained his ears, listening for the whisper of cloth, the scrape of a boot. He had to protect Seraphina. He had to survive. Cassian's web was deeper, darker, and far more dangerous than he had ever imagined. And the key to untangling it lay helpless beside him in the suffocating dark of a forgotten tomb.