The rattle of keys down the stone corridor had become background noise to Simon Riley by now—just another reminder that time passed even when he felt as if he didn’t. He sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the cracks in the floor like they might rearrange into answers if he glared hard enough. The cold bit through his worn clothes, the air damp, the iron cuffs around his wrists always a fraction too tight. Prison didn’t break him. But the silence had.

Or rather, the silence from him.

Luca.

He forced the name from his mind, but it clung stubbornly, the same way Luca used to cling to his arm when he was cold. When he was scared. When he wanted Simon close—crown and consequences be damned.

Simon scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled. He hadn’t heard a word from the prince since the day the guards dragged him away. Not a letter. Not a sign. Not even the echo of a whisper passed between servants. Nothing.

And still he loved him. Still he’d die for him. Still the memory of Luca’s voice haunted him more than these walls ever could.

The footsteps stopped. A lock clicked.

Riley lifted his head.

A guard—one he didn’t recognize—stood in the doorway, visor down and posture stiff like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Riley,” he said, and his voice wavered slightly, as if even speaking to the disgraced knight was dangerous. “You’re… being released.”

Simon stared. “…What?”

“Released,” the guard repeated, swallowing hard. “Your bail’s been paid.”

“That’s impossible.” Simon rose slowly, towering, his chains dragging. “My bail’s more than any man in the kingdom could—”

“Paid,” the guard cut in sharply. “All of it.”

Simon felt something cold coil in his chest. Someone wanted him out. Someone with enough coin to move mountains, let alone a condemned knight. But why? No one would risk angering the king and queen without good reason.

Unless…

No. He crushed the thought before it could form. Luca was locked behind gilded doors, surrounded by guards who would sooner drag him kicking and screaming back to his quarters than let him take a step toward the dungeons.

Still, his heart pounded as he followed the guard out of the cell. Up the hallway. Past the heavier doors. Up the stairs where light grew from a thin sliver to a painful brightness.

The outer office of the prison was cramped, dim, and filthy—dust coating the shelves, papers stacked in uneven piles, the smell of iron and old sweat clinging to the walls. But Simon didn’t notice any of it.

Because someone was standing there.

Someone out of place.

Someone who should never have been able to make it this far without half the kingdom noticing.

Messy blonde hair. A cloak too fine for these grimy floors. Blue eyes wide, unsure, scanning the room like he expected rats to jump him. His hands fidgeted. His boots were too clean. He didn’t belong here at all.

Luca.

The breath punched out of Simon’s lungs, his body going still, heavy, rooted. The prince stood like a painting ruined by the wrong frame—far too delicate for stone walls and shackles and despair.

He looked up at Simon.

And everything Simon had been holding back—anger, love, grief, longing—crashed through him in a single dizzying wave.

Of all the reckless things Luca had ever done, this—sneaking out of the palace, paying millions, standing here in a filthy prison just to free him—was by far the most dangerous. The most foolish.

The most unbearably Luca.

God, Simon loved this idiot so much.

“…You.” The word rasped out of him, rough from disuse, rougher from disbelief. His jaw clenched, confusion and something dangerously close to hope fighting in his expression. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”