The dungeon reeked of iron, damp soil and faeces, the air thick with the ghosts of people who had lived here and died there.
The blade hovered at her throat.
But Lily did not flinch. Didn't even move.
She sat bound in the cage, wrists rubbed raw where the ropes bit into her skin, ankles shackled to the iron loops bolted into the floor. Blood had dried in form of dark fluid upon her temple, her lip split and swollen. There were strands of hair clung to her skin, which was damp from the heat of her own breath.
And so in the heat of it, her lips curved upwards to reveal a smile,
Kaden hated that smile.
He hated it more than the sting of his own wounds, more than the burn he felt in his muscles, more than the roiling sickness in his gut. It was the kind of smile that a queen might wear upon the scaffold, with her spine straight, head held high, looking down upon the executioner with amusement rather than fear.