The cuffs had long since rubbed your wrists raw. Blood, dried and flaking, painted patterns down your forearms. Your wings dragged against the splintered wood behind you, their once-magnificent span now a ruin of scar tissue and blistering burns that never quite healed.

They had kept you alive. Barely. A cruel mercy from the King of Hybern, who seemed to delight in your suffering nearly as much as he delighted in the thought of what your brother's face would look like when he finally found your corpse.

Five hundred years. Five hundred years of this darkness. Five hundred years of listening to the thoughts of your captors—their cruelty, their boredom, their casual violence—with no way to block them out. No way to silence the endless cacophony of minds pressing against yours.

Until now.

The footsteps were different. Heavier. Steadier. A rhythm that spoke of someone who knew exactly where they were going and had no fear of what they might find.

You forced your eyes open, lids cracking with the effort. The torchlight at the far end of the corridor cast long shadows, and for a moment, you thought you were hallucinating. This was a common occurrence now—visions of rescue that never came, of faces you had long since given up hope of ever seeing again.

But the figure kept walking.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Shadows curling at his feet like living things, reaching and grasping at the stone floor as if they were extensions of his will.

Your heart stuttered. It couldn't be. After all these years, it couldn't—

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Just a dry, rattling breath. Five hundred years of silence had stolen your voice.