Somewhere else, Padrin followed the guard silently through a prison. Thick stone walls lined with moss seemed to press in from all sides. Torchlight flickered weakly along the narrow corridor, casting shadows that stretched unnaturally far.
The deeper they went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Iron bars lined both sides of the corridor, some holding quiet, half-broken souls, others empty but no less grim. Some prisoners whispered among themselves; others just stared forward, numb or hollowed out.
"You have an hour," the guard said finally, stopping at a thicker iron door that separated this section from the last row of cells. His voice was cold, almost rehearsed. "Don't make me regret allowing this."
Padrin nodded stiffly. "Understood."
The guard reached into his belt and pulled out a heavy iron key, but before handing it over, he stopped short, pulling it back just as Padrin's hand moved to take it.
"But," the guard said, his voice lowering and laced with warning, "don't even think about doing anything foolish. Even if you manage to kill me, you won't get out of this building. And if anything happens to me, every one of them will hang. You understand?"
Padrin's gaze didn't waver. "I know," he said quietly. "I didn't come this far, give up this much, just to lose everything now."
The guard looked him up and down, as if weighing his words, then finally handed over the key. "Last cell on the left."
Padrin took it without another word and pushed through the final door alone.
This corridor was different—darker, quieter, colder. It felt abandoned, like even the rot and rats refused to linger here. The torches were fewer, and the silence made the sound of his breathing far too loud.
He walked slowly.
The first few cells held faces he recognized. A few of the outlaws from Celeste's group slumped on the ground or lying on their backs, staring at the ceiling. None of them spoke. They just looked. Eyes dull, lifeless, or defeated. But some of them had different expressions. Some of them were angry, annoyed that it had to happen.
Finally, at the very end, he found her. Celeste.
She was seated on a wooden bench bolted to the wall, her hands resting limply on her lap. Her hair hung in tangled strings over her shoulders. Her face was pale, and her eyes were hollowed out. Not lifeless. Just… quiet. She had the look of someone who had stopped fighting, not because she was weak, but because she was tired of being strong.
Padrin stared through the bars for a long time. His fingers trembled as he fit the key into the lock.
He opened the door slowly. "Celeste…" His voice cracked at the name.
She looked up slowly, her eyes locking onto his. For a moment, she didn't speak. Then, quietly, like someone waking from a deep, heavy sleep, she said, "Padrin… it's really you?"
He laughed faintly. Not from joy—more like from disbelief, or weariness. "You still didn't realize that?"
Celeste blinked at him, the smallest crack of emotion forming at the corners of her eyes.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. There was no chair for him, so he sat on the stone floor, facing her, back against the cold wall.
There was a silence that hung for a while. But it wasn't awkward.
"What will happen to us?" she asked.
Padrin sighed through his nose. "I don't know," he admitted. "But one thing I know for certain—" he looked at her directly "—you're coming home."
Celeste stared at him, and for a moment her eyes filled with confusion, then disbelief. The word 'home' sounded distant. Like something she'd heard in a dream.
"I came to bring you back," Padrin said softly.
Celeste looked down at her hands. The skin was dry, dirt clung under her nails. She wasn't bruised or beaten, but the damage wasn't always physical.
"I wouldn't be able to get you out if not for your family," Padrin continued. "Turns out even a killer of a noble can walk free if there's enough gold on the table. They're paying for your release."
"My family…" Celeste repeated, stunned.
"They still care." Then he added painfully as he looked aside. "Unlike mine about me..."
"But what will happen to the others?" she asked again, her voice lower this time, more weighted.
Padrin lowered his gaze. "I… I don't know."
Celeste pressed her lips together, her jaw tightening as her eyes fell to the cracked stone floor.
"I don't want to leave them here," she continued, her voice firmer now. "I can't just walk away and pretend I'm the only one that mattered."
Padrin looked back at her with disbelief. "Why?" he asked. "Why are you still so attached to people like them? They're outlaws, Celeste. Robbers. Some of them murderers."
Celeste's eyes narrowed, her tone shifting. "And what does that make me?"
"You're not like them!" Padrin said quickly, stepping forward. "I know you. Something must've happened. You wouldn't have ended up here if—"
"If what?" she cut him off, her voice rising slightly. "If I didn't fall?"
Padrin flinched. Her words struck deeper than she knew. She wasn't just defending them—she was defending herself.
"They're my family, Padrin," she said, softer now. "Not by blood, but by fire. By hunger. By wounds. They're the only ones who didn't leave me when everything fell apart."
The words hit him like a blow. He looked at her, mouth slightly open. Then he looked down, and for a moment the air between them felt heavy with something like guilt. Or shame.
"Do you think I had a choice?" he murmured.
Celeste blinked.
"I didn't leave you," Padrin said, his voice rough. "You think I just gave up on you? When that cart fell… when everything went wrong, I—" He stopped, breathing harder, forcing his words out. "I thought you were dead."
She stared at him.
"I lost my mind," he said, trembling slightly. "I didn't know what else to do. I thought I failed you. I thought I let you die. I killed a noble in broad daylight. I didn't care what would happen to me."
His eyes met hers again.
"You heard what happened back there. I searched. For years. But I thought maybe… maybe it was too late."
Celeste's eyes were still guarded, but something had changed. A faint light behind them. A flicker of the way she used to look at him—when they were still playing together, laughing about things they didn't understand.
"Don't you remember how we were?" Padrin said, his voice softening. "Before everything turned to dust? We would have died for each other, Celeste. That hasn't changed. I never stopped looking for you. I never stopped… caring."
Celeste looked away, but not to hide—more like she was trying to keep herself from breaking.
"Please," he said. "If there's anything you still believe in… believe that."
For a long moment, there was only the faint sound of dripping water somewhere deeper in the dungeon.
Then, at last, she looked at him.
And for the first time since he stepped into the cell, she didn't look hardened or distant. She looked like someone remembering how to be herself.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly. But she didn't look away.
She took a breath. It shook.
"When it all happened…" she began slowly, her voice cracking under the weight of memory, "when the cart fell… I thought I would die…"