The sun had long since set, and night had draped its shadow over the dungeon. Inside one of its cold, damp cells, Cecelie sat motionless—like a statue carved from grief.
Her eyes were dull, emptied of light, her once-fair complexion faded to the pallor of marble. For days she had refused food and water, clinging to a stubborn will that seemed less about survival and more about surrender.
The loss of her husband and daughter had splintered her soul. No matter how she tried to push the memories away, they looped endlessly in her mind—merciless, inescapable.
She didn't stir when a shadow slid across the barred opening of her cell.
Her gaze flickered, but her chin stayed lowered, as though acknowledging him would give him power.
Carlo stepped inside, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. He took in the sight of her—a woman once proud and untouchable, now reduced to a fragile doll discarded in the dust.
