Far beneath Valaroth, where city stench could not reach, Princess Lirael trudged along the ancient aqueduct. The tunnel walls sweated cold, and the small of her back ached from hours bent beneath the low arch. Chains rattled with each step, metal grinding rune to bone. Every click was a betrayal of presence echoing down stone throats older than empire.
Her once-silver gown hung in tatters, soaked and black from runoff. Mud streaked her calves; a bruise blossomed at her collar where the suppression cuff pressed skin. She counted her breaths—one, two, three—finding rhythm in misery. It was the only rhythm she could claim for herself.
Up ahead, lamplight dipped where a slaver stumbled. The convoy's pace had slowed; even tormentors grew weary. Lirael's lungs burned, but she dared not lag. A stumble meant a lash. She had learned that lesson when dusk still lingered above ground.
