Cell Mates

You glance around the cell, noting that it’s not unlike the modest room you had occupied in the men’s quarters of the palace. The space is long and rectangular, with no windows to provide a view or even the comfort of natural light. At one end stands a large, well-made bed, its covers neat but unadorned, and at the other, a small writing desk sits under the flickering glow of a mounted sconce. On the desk rests a plain pitcher of water and a plate with half-eaten mutton, the meat slightly dried and unappealing. The air is cool, tinged with damp stone and old wood, but surprisingly free of the stench of the dungeon’s harsher sections.

Finding a spot against the wall, you sink down and close your eyes, willing yourself to tune out Anora’s presence. She sits at the desk, watching you in silence. Her green eyes, vivid even in the dim light, gleam with an unreadable expression, neither anger nor resignation—just emptiness.

“Did you see Mother?” she asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You nod, hesitant. “I did.”

“How is she?” she presses, her voice soft but edged with tension.

You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “She’s... banged up, but alive.”

“They wouldn’t dare kill her,” Anora says, her tone hardening with resolve. “She may be a hostage, but she’s still the Queen. Unless she abdicates publicly, the throne will pass automatically to Viola upon her ****, regardless of who holds the capital.”

You grunt in agreement. “But what if they **** her into submission?”

“They may try,” Anora replies, her voice firm. “But she’s strong. If it’s clear that she’s been ****, the houses still loyal to Valencia will never recognize Persephone’s claim. The queendom would descend into anarchy.”

You lean your head back against the wall, sighing. “That leaves you, then.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Katarina told your mother that you’ll be tortured if she doesn’t willingly relinquish the crown.”

Anora’s expression flickers—fear, anger, and resignation flitting across her face in quick succession. Finally, she nods bleakly. “Then my fate is sealed. But Mother will never abdicate while Viola still breathes.”

You study her, unsure how to phrase the question lingering on your tongue. “Do you really think she’d sacrifice you?”

Anora lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Did you see her raise a hand to stop what happened at the ball?” She smiles bitterly, her green eyes shimmering in the candlelight. “She loves me, yes, but that love pales compared to her devotion to House Valencia.”

“For what it’s worth,” you say after a moment, “I’m sorry for what happened.”

“For forcing yourself on me at the ball?” she asks, her tone sharp but not accusatory. Her green eyes, softening slightly, seem to pierce through your defenses.

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off with a sigh, waving a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter now. I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you the truth.” She leans back in her chair, the wooden legs creaking slightly. “Mother asked me to throw the fight.”

You blink, confused. “But... why?”

“I am the younger sister,” she says plainly. “Viola may be a conniving bitch, but she’s the heir. And she’s not well-loved, especially among the nobility. Mother thought that if I publicly challenged her and lost, it might bolster Viola’s standing.” Her lips twist into a rueful smile. “Of course, things didn’t go quite as planned.”

You stare at her, trying to process this new revelation. “So... you planned for me to...” The words die in your throat.

“To lose? Yes.” She smirks faintly, though it lacks any real amusement. “I certainly didn’t plan for Viola to set those terms. And I definitely didn’t expect you to be so... substantial.” She shifts slightly in her seat, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face. “It’s been days, and I’m still sore in places I didn’t know existed.”

You look away, shame creeping up your neck. “I didn’t—”

“Stop,” she says firmly, cutting you off. Her gaze softens, the pretense of anger melting away as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “What’s the point? What’s done is done. My mind has never been clearer than it is now.” Her green eyes lock onto yours, intense and unwavering.

“If you’re still feeling guilty,” she continues, her voice low and measured, “why don’t you make it up to me?”