Chapter 115
“I can’t leave her behind,” Henriette muttered under her breath, determination hardening her features.
Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, spoken more to herself than to the still, suffocating darkness around her, but it echoed with fierce resolve, as if the very walls needed to hear and understand her commitment; her jaw clenched, her shoulders squared, and in her chest, her heart thudded like a war drum, steady and unyielding.
Without hesitation, she swept her hands along the cold stone walls of the vault, fingertips searching for seams or ridges, anything that felt out of place.
The damp chill of the ancient stones seeped through her gloves as her fingers brushed over each block, methodical and alert; the uneven texture scratched her skin, but she pressed on, eyes narrowed, mind focused solely on finding what logic told her must be there, another exit, another way.
Then her fingers caught on a faint groove.
Barely perceptible, the indentation tugged at her touch like a whisper through the stone, a whisper that hinted at secrets, long buried and waiting; her breath caught in her throat as adrenaline surged at the possibility she was right.
She pressed it. A soft click echoed through the silence.
With a quick push, the groove gave way under her hand, triggering a low, mechanical click that broke the suffocating stillness of the vault like a dropped pin in a cathedral, and in that moment, hope unfurled inside her like a flare in the darkness.
“Bingo,” she whispered, a flicker of triumph in her eyes.
The word slipped from her lips with a mix of relief and satisfaction, her voice laced with quiet victory, as though she’d just outsmarted fate itself; her eyes glinted in the faint torchlight, alive with renewed purpose.
The hidden door creaked open, and Henriette leaned in, peering into the dim space beyond.
The concealed panel shifted with a groan of rusted hinges, revealing a narrow passage choked with darkness and the scent of old dampness; Henriette leaned closer, eyes squinting to penetrate the gloom, trying to gauge the distance and danger that lay ahead.
The stale air carried the unmistakable scent of damp stone and despair.
It washed over her like a wave, heavy and cold, thick with mildew and the metallic tang of rusted chains, a smell that clung to the bones and spoke of suffering long endured and barely remembered.
It was the dungeon.
There could be no mistake, the suffocating air, the narrow corridor carved from unyielding rock, the oppressive silence that hung like a shroud, all of it screamed of imprisonment and forgotten souls.
She slipped inside, her footsteps light and cautious, each one swallowed by the shadows.
Moving like a whisper, Henriette eased her way forward, her boots barely brushing the stone floor as she descended deeper into the black, every step measured and deliberate, the shadows closing around her like a cloak.
The rows of cells stood empty, lifeless, except for one.
Each iron-barred cell gaped open or lay dark and silent, skeletal remains of captivity long abandoned, except for one at the far end, where the flicker of movement broke the stillness like a ripple in a stagnant pond.
There, slumped against the far wall, sat Queen Henriette, her face buried in her hands.
A figure draped in torn royal silks and heavy with sorrow huddled in the corner, her crown discarded, her once-regal posture collapsed into a portrait of defeat; her fingers trembled where they clutched her face, as if trying to shield herself from the world that had forgotten her.
Her shoulders trembled with quiet sobs, the sound barely audible over the distant dripping of water.
Each breath she drew hitched with grief, soft and ragged, the kind of crying that no longer begged for rescue but merely existed, suspended in the air, mingling with the slow, rhythmic plinks of water echoing down the corridor like a cruel metronome.
Henriette scanned the area for keys but found nothing.
Her eyes darted from one wall to the next, scanning for a hook, a peg, even a table—anything that might hold the means to unlock the door, but the space was bare, unforgiving, as though it had been designed not just to imprison, but to erase hope.
No hooks, no desk, no sign of a guard, until she edged closer to the exit and spotted him.
She moved cautiously along the corridor’s edge, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, until a figure came into view: a guard, slouched carelessly on a wooden stool just beyond the dungeon’s threshold, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, snoring with the kind of deep, careless sleep that only came to the truly unworried.
A lone sentry, snoring softly.
His breathing came in slow, rhythmic bursts, the kind of sleep that suggested boredom and routine, a man convinced no one would dare challenge the silence of the dungeon.
A heavy ring of keys dangled from his belt, clinking faintly with each breath he took.
The keys glinted dully in the torchlight, swinging just enough to tap against his thigh as he exhaled, the soft clinks a siren song that called to Henriette louder than any voice ever could.
Henriette drew in a sharp breath, her mind racing.
Her chest expanded with tension as she inhaled, her thoughts whirling with possibility and peril, every scenario playing out in her head, each one teetering between success and disaster.
She bit her lip. One shot. No mistakes.
The taste of copper bloomed on her tongue as she sank her teeth into her lip, grounding herself in the sting, there would be no second chances, no margin for hesitation.
‘Please be a deep sleeper,’ she thought.
Her eyes locked on his face, pleading in silence, willing the man to stay buried in his dreams, to remain blissfully unaware of what she was about to risk.
She moved like a shadow, every muscle taut, every step deliberate.
Her body became a study in restraint and precision, each movement fluid and silent, her breath measured, her heartbeat forced into rhythm with her steps.
When her fingers finally curled around the keyring, she held her breath.
Her hand trembled as she reached, the cold metal biting into her skin as she closed her grip; she didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, her entire body frozen in anticipation.
The metal was cold and clunky in her grip.
The keys felt heavier than they should have, the weight of hope and danger fused into every jagged edge and iron loop.
No reaction.
The guard stirred slightly, let out a snort, and then settled back into slumber, utterly oblivious.
She inched backward, never taking her eyes off the sleeping guard, heart pounding so loudly she feared it might wake him.
Each step back felt like a lifetime, her feet gliding over stone with the grace of a cat, all the while her gaze fixed on his closed eyes, her heartbeat hammering in her ears like thunder.
Back at the cell, the jingle of keys stirred the queen.
As Henriette reached the barred door, the soft clatter of metal against metal echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the silence like a call, pulling the queen back from the edge of despair.
She lifted her head, eyes wide with disbelief.
Her tear-streaked face rose slowly, her gaze searching, disoriented, and then locking onto the impossible vision of Henriette standing there, keys in hand.
“Henriette!” she cried out.
Her voice, hoarse with emotion and exhaustion, rose without restraint, full of hope and shock, cracking as though she hardly dared believe what she saw.
“Shhh!” Henriette hissed, shooting a sharp glance over her shoulder.
She winced at the sound, snapping her head back toward the hallway, eyes wide with alarm, and raised one finger to her lips, urgency radiating from every line of her face.
Her eyes flicked to the guard.