"Don't make eye contact."
The new guard, Kit, turned his head just enough to catch his senior's profile in the gloom of the dungeon corridor. The man's face was etched in the flickering torchlight, grim and serious.
Kit's eyebrows lifted a fraction. He'd been hired for this post specifically, plucked from regular duty because of his "brilliant excellence in following orders." He was experienced. He'd guarded nobles, escorted prisoners, held a line against drunken rioters.
He'd never received rules like this before a shift.
"That's the first rule," the senior guard, Stevan, continued. "The second rule is, don't talk to her. Never. And while you're at it," he added, his eyes finally sliding to Kit's, the warning in them absolute, "also don't look at her. At all. Just don't."
Kit gave a slow, careful nod. The orders were clear, if bizarre. But the prohibition lit a dangerous, professional curiosity in his gut. What manner of prisoner warranted this?
