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As they descended lower into the prison, the halls grew darker. Only the flickering light of the torches lit the way, giving the damp corridors an eerie glow. Peterson’s breath fogged in front of his face as he moved. His eyes scanning the door numbers as he walked. 507, 509, 511… Peterson froze in place as 513 came into view. The Private, now walking behind him, nearly slamming into him because of his sudden stop. The increasingly cold temperature had nothing to do with why Peterson froze in place at the sight of the cell door.

It was wide open.

For a moment, Peterson had the overwhelming desire to run. As if every instinct in his body was screaming of the danger ahead. But she was there, still chained, sitting just inside the threshold of the door.

The female looked almost peaceful sitting there with her eyes closed. Peaceful — and so incredibly beautiful. Even in the tattered clothes, and filthy state she was in, there was a haunting beauty to her. Her face was turned towards the torchlight, like a house cat sunning in the afternoon light streaming through a window. The longer he looked, the more he realized she looked almost like a normal girl, no older than his youngest sister. She was just a weak, frail, girl. Her lips twisted into a smirk as her ice-blue eyes lazily opened.

The facade fell.

Her peaceful face was quickly replaced with a cocky smile. This monster was no girl. She was a cold-blooded killer who needed to die, Peterson reminded himself. His lip curled up in disgust.

"I hear you lost another one of your humans," she rasped. It was in harsh contrast to the melodic voice she used when she first arrived at the prison.

Her taunt sent a flare of anger through him, anger quickly doused by the realization that she could still talk. With how long she had been here, it was impossible. He had just assumed she had gone mad as the other prisoners had. None of the mad ones could speak, or at least not coherently. Yet there was clarity in her eyes that no prisoner in this place had.

Peterson knew she had been imprisoned shortly after he arrived at Arden. He was still new when she was taken to her cell. It was his order to only send four guards with her. A mistake he would never forget. Nor would he forget the day she killed so many of his men in the pit.

But that was…

Peterson grabbed the chart by her door and began flipping through her records. His heart stopped as he read the information written before him. Three years. She had been here for over three years. Most prisoners in Arden lasted only a few months before the iron killed them, the strongest might make it a year. No wonder he had assumed she was dead.

She should be dead.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold temperature of the lower prison levels snaked down his back. He forced himself to look at where the iron chains rested on her skin…

It was impossible.

The Duke found himself taking a step back away from her as she cocked her head to the side and studied him. She looked at him, not as if she were eyeing her next meal, but in a way that made him wonder if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

At his retreat, the Prince stepped into the torchlight, ripping her attention away from him. A low growl guttered from her mouth as she looked at Thidal. The sound made Private Adams visibly wince and shrink back even further away from the cell door.

"My, my," Thidal chuckled lightly, "that is no way to greet your Prince," he smiled at her as if he was talking to a child and not a predator. Peterson could see the recognition and greed in the Prince’s eyes as he stared down at the prisoner. Thidal wanted her.

"You are not my Prince," she seethed as she slowly rose to her feet.

"But I could be," he said, taking a step closer to the female, "we are not so different you know,"

She laughed, actually laughed at the Prince. The sound was melodic yet harsh on Peterson’s ears. Her movements were so fluid, she looked like a shade floating across the floor, as she turned and walked away from them.

"We are as similar as a hawk and a snake," she purred. The comparison, Peterson had to admit, was almost poetic.

"Swear the blood oath to me, and you will be free," Prince Thidal said almost too casually.

It took every ounce of formal training Peterson had not to balk at his Prince's words. He was not entirely familiar with what a blood oath was, but it did not sound good. It sounded like magic, which was illegal to perform in Kilian. Even for the Crowned Prince.

"Never," she spat, her voice low and feral. For a moment, Peterson saw something in her face that he had not expected to see there. Fear. That was actual fear in her eyes.

"You will change your mind," Thidal held his chin high as he spoke. As if the words coming from his mouth were the absolute truth.

"I would rather die than be enslaved to a monster like you," the female snapped back. The truth in her words was like a physical weight falling into the room. It forced Peterson to look up from the file still gripped in his hands. He had known a lot about the prisoner, even before he looked at her chart, he had written most of the chart himself.

What he had realized now, from his few notes scribbled on the papers, brought him to only one conclusion. It was Prince Thidal himself who had staved off her execution thus far. Or at least someone in the royal family was protecting her. The Prince was the most likely reason that that Lady Death was still alive — when she should have been executed long ago for her crimes. But someone of her status required royal approval for execution, and each request that had been sent in had been quickly denied.

Prince Thidal just gave an amused laugh as he looked to Peterson. "Give her your worst," was all he said before disappearing down the dark corridor.

As far as his memory served, this was probably the most talkative he had ever seen 513. She had always been quick-tempered and usually expressed her opinions in growls, snarls, and violence in the past. Peterson had to admit, the female was far more intelligent than he had first given her credit for. Though he supposed her being a member of the royal family of Leona meant that she was far more educated than the typical prisoner of Arden.

That did not change the fact that she was a murderous beast. A monster who enjoyed killing his kind. Peterson carefully hung her records by her door. He said nothing as they pulled the dead body from her cell. The body dragged along the ground. Peterson's heart gripped at the sight of the dead man. A man who had a family. He had a wife and children. Peterson knew he would be writing that family a letter today. The cold reality of what exactly the fae were and could do ripped into him like a beast with fangs and claws.

"Take her to the pit," Peterson commanded the few guards gathered around him. He did not see the dead look in her eyes as they unchained her from the wall and placed iron bracelets on her wrists. He did not notice that there was no trace of fear on her too-perfect face. As if all of this, the pain and suffering, was just a minor inconvenience in her practically immortal life.

He was far too angry at the number of killed he had read on that chart by the door. This guard was just one of many she had murdered since her stay here. Most prisoners were executed if they even attempted to attack a guard.

He did not care if he had to write to the King himself. Lady Railynn Ashelin Tal was not some toy for the Prince to play with. She was a monster.