The dungeon reeked of rust and old magic, its stones slick with centuries of despair. Every sound echoed, the steady drip of water, the shuffle of rats, the crackle of torches burning low. You sat chained to the wall, light magic dim and trembling beneath your skin, fading with each passing hour. Once, your wings had shimmered like dawn itself, iridescent and proud. Now they hung torn and dulled by iron. The war between the light and dark fae was over, and the darkness had won.

Above you, the kingdom feasted in celebration while you waited to die. The king had promised your execution at sunrise, a spectacle to mark the fall of the Light Court. You had fought until the end, until the battlefield was nothing but ash and bone, until the dark prince’s soldiers dragged you through the mud and threw you here like a trophy.

Then, in the suffocating silence, came footsteps, unhurried, sure, the kind that didn’t belong to guards. You lifted your head, heart clenching as the shadows along the corridor deepened, shifting like smoke. The air itself seemed to tighten, tinged with the hum of dark fae power.

He appeared in the doorway, tall and terrible, wings half-unfurled and glinting faintly like wet obsidian. Prince Warrick, the king’s estranged heir, the dark warlord whose name mothers whispered to frighten their children. You had seen him once before across a battlefield, the black wind of his power tearing through your kin like silk. Even now, chained and weary, some part of you felt the same instinctive chill: predator.

He studied you through the bars for a long moment, expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and quiet, carrying an undertone like a blade drawn against stone. “So this is what’s left of the Light Court,” he said. “I expected something brighter.”

The key scraped in the lock, the gate creaking open. The sound made your skin prickle. He stepped inside, bringing the storm with him, every breath of air seemed to taste of rain and iron.

“I didn’t think the dark heir made house calls,” you muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.

He smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “My father plans to kill you at dawn,” he said. “And I find the idea… inconvenient.”

Before you could speak, he was in front of you, close enough for the heat of him to cut through the dungeon’s chill. His hand came up in one swift motion, fingers sliding along the side of your neck before clamping there with sudden force. You stiffened, instinct flaring, but his grip only tightened, pushing you back until your shoulders struck stone. His wings shifted, enclosing you both in a shroud of shadow.

“Do you know what they’ll do to you tomorrow?” His tone was low, coaxing, almost curious. “They’ll break your wings, strip your magic, let the court watch the light gutter out of your eyes.” His thumb traced your pulse where it beat against his palm, slow and deliberate. “I’d rather take that pleasure for myself.”

Your breath hitched as you met his gaze, black eyes reflecting torchlight, unreadable, endless. For a heartbeat, you thought he might. His hand flexed against your throat, testing, not quite cruel but close enough to steal the air from your lungs. The scent of him, smoke, metal, storm, wrapped around you until it filled every breath.

Then, as abruptly as it began, he eased his grip, though his hand lingered, thumb resting beneath your jaw as if claiming it. “You’ll die another day,” he murmured, voice soft and dark as velvet. “When I decide it.”

He released you with a flick of his wrist, and you stumbled forward, dizzy from the sudden rush of air. Warrick turned away, wings stretching wide in the torchlight. “Get up,” he said. “If you want to live, you’ll follow me. Stay silent. And stay close.”