The first thing she noticed was the cold. Not the sort of cold that came from a busted office air conditioner or an overdue electric bill, but the deep, bone-gnawing kind that made her spine curl and her skin feel damp with something old.
Yselle opened her eyes slowly, groggily, her limbs heavy and stiff. She tried to move but couldn't—her wrists were bound above her head, her ankles shackled to the floor. Iron cuffs, thick and tight, held her in place. Her breath hitched as she looked around.
Stone walls. A flickering torch hanging near the ceiling. A floor stained with what she really hoped was just rust.
This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't a police station.
This was a dungeon.
A real dungeon.
"What the hell," she croaked, voice hoarse. "Where am I?"
She tugged on her chains. They didn't budge. Panic clawed up her throat, and she screamed. "HELLO?! Somebody better let me out right now, or I swear—!"
Someone stepped up to the bars. A single eye peeked through, watching her.
"Oi, stop screaming," the voice grumbled. It belonged to a man—probably a guard judging by the helmet shadowing his face.
"You, sir!" she snapped. "Where is this place?! At least tell me that much!"
There was a pause. Then, way too casually, he said, "You're in the Black Cell at Ashenhart Duchy."
"Ashen… what?"
But then the figure stepped away, and she was alone with the silence again.
She sagged in her chains, breathing hard. Ashenhart Duchy? That's not a real place. That's some fantasy world-sounding nonsense.
Slowly, a thought crept into her brain like a spider crawling up her spine. This really isn't Earth, is it?
Her arms ached. Her legs shook. Her back screamed in protest. She didn't know how long she hung there before the footsteps came—calm, measured, heavy boots clacking against stone.
It was him.
The man from the field. The one she had literally crash-landed on. The one she—ugh—accidentally kissed.
He stood in the doorway like a painting come to life, all sharp lines and colder eyes. His cloak swirled around his tall frame as he stepped forward, stopping just a few feet from her.
"Still alive," he murmured.
Yselle stared. "Oh wow, it's Mr. Sword Guy again. Great. Here to finish the execution?"
He didn't respond. Instead, he lifted a hand and made a small flicking motion with his fingers.
The shackles clanked—and suddenly dropped to the ground.
Yselle yelped, falling to her knees with a thud. She rubbed her wrists, wide-eyed. "What… the hell was that? Did you just—? What was that, magic? You've got to be kidding me."
The man didn't answer. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a strange object—about the size of a grapefruit, glowing faintly green with silver streaks running through it. It looked like something a fortune teller might use at a cheap carnival booth.
He handed it to her.
She blinked down at it. "...Is this an apology gift?"
"No."
"Is it going to explode?"
"Also no."
"Then why are you giving me a weird glowy crystal ball?"
"It reveals lies," he said calmly. "Hold it while I ask questions. If you lie, it turns red. If you speak truth, it turns blue. Simple."
Yselle gawked. "You have magic lie detectors? God."
He didn't answer. Just folded his arms. "Your name?"
"I told you before. It's Yselle."
The orb turned a soft blue.
"I'm not giving you my full name, though," she added, clutching it tighter. "That feels like a bad idea."
Still blue.
He eyed her carefully. "Are you an assassin?"
"God, no."
Blue.
"A spy?"
"Again, no."
Blue.
The man nodded slowly. "Where are you from then?"
"I already told you—I was just heading home and then… I don't know, I fell through whatever the hell that sky-hole thing was."
He sighed. "No. I mean what region. What kingdom. East Endria? South Verlon? The Outer Spine?"
Yselle blinked. "I… What? Those aren't real. I mean, not my real. I don't know any of those places."
Blue again.
The man then stepped forward, taking the orb back from her. He slipped it into some hidden pocket inside his cloak. As he did, something metallic clinked and rolled—a small silver coin hit the stone floor, bouncing once before spinning to a stop.
He bent down to pick it up.
"That's not fair," Yselle muttered. "You ask me everything and don't even bother to tell me your name? Rude."
He glanced up at her, still kneeling. "You really don't know who I am?"
"Am I supposed to?" she shot back. "I just fell out of the sky. Forgive me for not recognizing every brooding fantasy man in a cloak."
He stood smoothly and fixed her with a gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm Cassian Darnell."
"Oh."
He raised a brow. "That's all?"
"I mean," she rubbed her temples, "what do you want from me? It's not like you're some celebrity I'm supposed to recognize."
He played with the coin, spinning it between his fingers. Then, casually, he said, "I have an offer."
She squinted. "What kind of offer?"
"I will ensure your freedom. You'll no longer be treated as a prisoner. You will have food, shelter, protection from anyone who might see you as a threat or anomaly."
Her heart skipped. "And the condition?"
His lips curled ever so slightly. "You marry me."
Yselle stared at him. "I—what? Did you hit your head while I was unconscious?"
Cassian didn't blink. "Honestly, my head's pretty clear right now. You're the best option I've got."
Yselle opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "That's… the worst marriage proposal I've ever heard. And I watch reality TV."
He flipped the coin, caught it, then finally met her eyes with a look that was oddly gentle.
Without breaking eye contact, Cassian took a step closer. The space between them shrank until their faces were almost touching.
"I didn't say it was a proposal." His smile was faint, almost sweet—if you ignored the deadliness beneath it. "It's a deal that works out for both of us."