"Guards!"
The word tore from her throat, raw and stripped of any royal dignity. It wasn't a command; it was the sound of someone who had just felt the ground give way.
The heavy doors hit the wall with a violent thud. Varis, Commander of the Ace, didn't just enter—he surged. He hit the floor at her feet, his armor clashing against the stone with a jarring, metallic screech that set Evangeline's teeth on edge. She stared at the top of his helmet, her vision blurring for a second with a memory that hadn't happened yet: Varis, his face a mess of blood and soot, begging for the honor of dying beside her while the capital burned.
"Your Majesty, command me!"
Evangeline's chest heaved, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thick to swallow. She looked at him and saw the ghost of his future shame—the way his eyes would look when he was eventually forced to abandon her. For a heartbeat, the rigid, frozen composure of the Queen didn't just "crack"; it crumbled.
"Sir Varis," she said. Her voice was thin, sounding more like a frightened girl than a Sovereign. "Look at me. Lift your head."
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
She didn't look away. She stared at him, tracing the lines of his face, looking for even a spark of the man who had died for her. Varis remained still, a wall of cold, indifferent steel. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt like it was lined with grit.
"Sir Varis," she began, her voice cracking before she could catch it. She cleared her throat, forcing a hollow steadiness. "The jester. Silver. Why haven't I seen him today?"
Varis didn't answer immediately. His brow knitted together—not in defiance, but in genuine, irritating confusion. "You mean... Silver? The Joker?"
"I don't have all day, Varis. Where is he?"
"Your Majesty..." Varis's voice dropped, becoming heavy with a caution that felt like a slap. He shifted his weight, his armor creaking in the silence. "Do you truly not recall your own decree?"
A cold, sudden dampness broke out across the back of her neck. Her skin felt too tight for her body. "What? What are you talking about?"
Varis hesitated, his brow knotting in a way that made him look like he was staring at a madwoman. "Silver? The Joker? He is..."
"Speak!" she snapped. The silence in the room was starting to crawl over her skin. "Why are you stuttering like a page boy?"
"Your Majesty..." Varis's voice dropped, laced with a caution that made her stomach turn. "Do you truly not recall the decree?"
Her heart didn't skip—it felt like a heavy weight dropping in her chest. A cold, greasy sweat broke out at the hairline of her neck. "What did I do, Varis?"
"He's in the pits," Varis said, the words coming out flat. He was speaking slowly now, the way one speaks to a child or a lunatic. "You had him dragged down two months ago. You said his latest performance 'offended' the King. You called him a rot on His Majesty's spirit. Have you forgotten that too?"
The blood vanished from her face. She felt lightheaded, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe.
I did that? In that other life, she hadn't been a Queen; she had been a dog. A fanatic. She had been so sick with the need to keep Julian happy—to keep his precious 'Golden Dawn' untarnished—that she had thrown the only man who actually bled for her into the dirt like kitchen scraps. She had traded Silver for a husband who didn't even like the way she smiled.
"I did that..." she muttered. The words felt like lead on her tongue. The guilt didn't "sting"—it felt like a slow, dull blade sawing at her throat.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Varis said. He was watching her now, his eyes fixed on the frantic pulse in her neck. He shifted his weight, his leather boots creaking in the dead quiet. His hand moved toward his sword with a chilling, mechanical ease. He was waiting for the only order that usually followed a conversation like this.
"Shall I send for the executioner?" Varis asked. His voice was dead, devoid of any emotion. "Is it time?"
"No!" The word tore out of her, louder than she intended. She saw Varis flinch—a rare, clumsy movement from a man of his stature. "No. Never."
Varis just stood there, his jaw slightly open, looking at her like she'd grown a second head. The 'Crimson Queen'—the woman who signed death warrants before her morning tea—had just passed up a chance for a headless corpse. The air between them turned heavy, awkward.
Evangeline leaned her weight against the doorframe, her fingernails digging into the wood until one of them snapped. She didn't feel it. She was too busy trying to claw through the mess in her head.
"I told him to stop the play," she muttered, her voice shaking so badly she had to bite her lip. "I wanted the noise to stop. I never said... I never told anyone to lock him up. How long has he been in that hole?"
"Two months," Varis replied. He sounded bored, the flat tone of a man who had grown numb to watching people rot.
"Two months!" The words felt like a punch to the stomach. Sixty days. She'd let a man who existed only to make her smile rot in the dark for sixty days, all because she was too busy kneeling at Julian's feet. She felt a sudden, sharp urge to vomit.
"Is there a problem, Your Majesty?" Varis asked.
He wasn't asking out of kindness. His knuckles were white against his scabbard, his body coiled. He was watching her like one watches a wounded animal—waiting for her to snap and take someone's throat out.
"No. Nothing. Go," she snapped. She sucked in a breath that burned her throat, trying to pull her face into something that looked like a Queen's again. "But the keys. Leave them. All of them."
Varis didn't argue. He reached into his belt and pulled out a heavy iron ring. The keys clattered—a loud, obnoxious noise in the quiet hallway. "Cell Fifty-Six, Your Majesty."
He turned to leave, his boots thudding against the floor. He leaned in toward the wall, whispering something so low she almost missed it: "It's a black day for you, Silver. I hope you keep your head."
The moment the sound of his footsteps died, Evangeline moved.
She didn't call for a maid. She didn't even look at her reflection. She grabbed a lantern from a bracket, the hot oil splashing and stinging her thumb, and ran.
Her white silk nightgown dragged across the red carpets, but as she hit the stairs, the warmth died. The air turned heavy, tasting of wet iron and old rot. The delicate hem of her dress began to grow heavy, catching on the damp stone and soaking up the filth of the lower depths until the white silk turned a bruised, ugly gray.
The dungeons were just malky corridors of shadow that seemed to swallow the meager light of her lantern. She hurried past row after row of bars, but her pace slowed as the reality hit her.
It was too quiet.
The silence wasn't peaceful; it was hollow. Cell after cell, cage after cage—they were empty. No one was chained to the walls. No one was moaning in the straw. Not even the sound of a single person breathing.
How? The question gnawed at her. She remembered the hundreds of warrants she had signed with her own hand. This place should have reeked of sweat, agony, and death. Instead, there was only dust and vacancy. Where were the people she had sent here to die? The realization that her kingdom was a hollow shell made her stomach twist, but she didn't stop.
She had a ghost to find.
She found the door. The brass plate was so black with grime that the number Fifty-Six looked more like a deep cut in the wood than a number. Her heart was thumping hard, a dull ache in the exact spot he'd driven the blade through in that other life. Her hands were slick with sweat, making the iron key slip twice before she finally jammed it into the lock. The tumblers didn't just turn; they shrieked, a sound of dry, rusted metal that set her teeth on edge.
The door gave way with a heavy thud.
She stepped inside, the air hitting her like a wet shroud—salt, mold, and something sweet and rotting. She held the lantern out. "Silver?"
The cell looked like a stone box filled with nothing but damp straw. Empty. But as the light reached the shadows near the ceiling, something moved.
A shape dropped from the rafters, silent as a falling shadow.
Evangeline stumbled back, a choked sound caught in her throat. The lantern slipped from her fingers, hitting the stone and bursting. A small, angry pool of fire flared up between them. In the orange jitter of the flames, a face appeared inches from hers—upside down, swaying slightly.
The silence stretched, heavy with the smell of burning oil.
"Has the Queen actually come down to the muck?" the voice rasped. It was dry, like paper rubbing together, mocking and bitter. "To see a wreck like me?"