Zephyra's wrists ached from the heavy chains biting into them like iron teeth. Every movement sent a dull burn through her arms, and the bruises from earlier lashes throbbed like open wounds. She kept her head down, spitting the taste of copper from her mouth, when Luca stepped forward with the predatory grace of a wolf circling wounded prey.

"I've got something you might want to know," he said to Draven, his tone deliberate, almost savoring the moment like fine wine.

Draven, who had been leaning against the stone pillar watching her with mild amusement, straightened. "The cup," Luca muttered when he pulled something from behind his back—a simple silver goblet.

The sight of it seemed to harden Draven's face. His jaw flexed, and the room went silent except for the faint crackle of the torches on the walls and the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness. "What is this doing here?" His voice was cold as winter stone, but his eyes—those dark, unrelenting eyes—were locked on Luca.

Zephyra glanced between them, her expression carefully neutral despite the confusion churning in her chest. The goblet meant nothing to her, but the way both men looked at it told her it meant everything to them.

"This," Luca said slowly, turning the cup so the light caught the faint smudges along its rim, "is the one Renna drank from the night she died. And when I went through it..." He paused, letting the moment hang like a blade over her head. "There were no fingerprints on it except hers—" Another pause, this one longer."—and Zephyra's."

Draven's gaze snapped to her like a whip.

Zephyra lifted her chin, meeting his stare head-on. "That's impossible," she said, her voice hoarse but firm as bedrock. "I'm a princess. We don't serve, we don't pour drinks for guests. I never touched that cup, I swear on my mother's crown."

"Shut the fuck up, you witch!" Draven growled, his voice reverberating through the stone halls of the dungeon like thunder in a cave.

Luca's lips curled into a cruel smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You think being a princess makes you untouchable? You think it erases evidence? That cup doesn't lie, Zephyra. Metal doesn't have opinions or loyalties."

"I never touched it," she repeated, slower this time, each word deliberate as hammer strikes. "You can torture me until my bones turn to dust, but I will not confess to something I didn't do."

Draven took the cup from Luca's hands, turning it in his own like he was examining a murder weapon. He seemed almost calm, but Zephyra had learned enough in these past days to know that his calm was more dangerous than his rage—like the stillness before a storm breaks.

"You expect me to believe," he said finally, voice measured and deadly, "that Renna's dead, and the last thing she drank from has your prints on it... by accident?"

"Yes," Zephyra shot back, her voice cracking slightly from the strain of speaking. "Or someone put them there on purpose. Someone who wanted to make sure you had a witch to blame."

Draven's gaze darkened like storm clouds gathering. "Careful, princess. You're suggesting one of my men would frame you. That's an insult I don't take lightly."

"It's not an insult if it's the truth," she said, her lip curling despite the pain lancing through her split mouth.

He moved closer, so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek. "And why," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear, "would anyone want to frame you?"

She didn't answer right away, mostly because she didn't have an answer that wouldn't be twisted against. Instead, she kept her silence, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

Draven gave a short, humorless laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "You think your silence makes you look strong. It makes you look guilty."

"I think," Zephyra said, forcing her voice to remain steady, "you know my people didn't kill your wife. I didn't kill your wife, because witches do not go back on their fucking words, not in a kingdom like my mother's!" She yelled, coughing out blood again

The faintest flicker of something passed through Draven's eyes—annoyance, maybe even grudging acknowledgment—but it was gone in an instant, buried beneath layers of grief and rage. He turned to Luca. "Continue."

Luca stepped forward until he was just a few feet from her. "Renna didn't drink much that night. You know why? Because she said the wine tasted strange. Too sweet. She left half of it untouched." His eyes gleamed with something ugly. "And that, princess, was the last thing she ever said before collapsing."

Zephyra clenched her fists against the restraints, feeling the iron bite deeper into already raw skin. "And you think I poisoned her?"

"I don't think," Luca said, stepping even closer until she could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes. "I know."

"You want to know," she corrected sharply, fire burning in her chest despite the pain. "Because it's easier to blame the outsider than to look at the people who actually had reason to want her gone."

Draven's expression didn't change, but his voice cut through the air like a blade. "And who would that be?"

Zephyra met his gaze without flinching, even as her heart pounded against her ribs. "Ask your Beta."

Luca's face twitched, the mask of calm slipping for just a moment. "Careful."

"Why?" she asked, tilting her head slightly despite the way the movement sent pain shooting down her neck. "Does the truth make you uncomfortable?"

He stepped forward so quickly she barely had time to brace herself before his hand struck across her face. Her head snapped to the side from the blow, stars exploding behind her eyelids. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth again, warm and thick.

"Enough," Draven said, but there was no real reprimand in his tone—only control, like a man telling a hunting dog to hold back until given the order to kill.

Zephyra spat blood onto the floor, lifting her eyes to meet Luca's with unwavering defiance. "That all you've got?" she rasped, her voice like gravel.

Luca's fists clenched, knuckles white, but he stepped back at Draven's silent signal. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.

"I could end you right here," Draven said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "But I want the truth first. And if pain is the only language you understand, then so be it."

At his nod, the guards moved in again with practiced efficiency. One drove a knee into her stomach, and the air rushed out of her lungs in a harsh gasp that left her seeing spots. Another grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat, the position making her feel vulnerable as a lamb before slaughter.

"You think being royalty protects you here?" Draven said, watching her struggle for breath with cold calculation. "You're in my territory now. Your crown means nothing. Your title is just words, and words won't save you."

Zephyra forced herself to smile through the pain, blood staining her teeth red. "Then you'll have to do better than this."

"Gladly," Draven said, and there was something final in his voice that made her blood run cold.

The guards worked in brutal efficiency that spoke of long practice. One wrapped a strip of rough cloth around her wrists tighter, the coarse fibers biting into already raw skin until fresh blood seeped through. Another took a bucket of icy water and threw it over her, the shock making her gasp and her body shiver uncontrollably, turning her lips blue.

Still, she didn't look away from Draven. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

He stepped closer, placing the cup on the table beside them with deliberate care. "You've got one last chance to tell me what you did to Renna."

"I did nothing," Zephyra said, voice steady as stone despite everything. "And one day, when the truth comes out, you'll realize you tortured an innocent woman."

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Or," he said, voice soft as silk and twice as deadly, "you'll confess, and I'll grant you a quicker death than you deserve."

"I'll take my chances," she said, voice hoarse but unyielding as steel.

Draven's jaw worked as if he were chewing over her words, weighing whether she was lying or simply too stubborn to break. Then, with a flick of his hand that dismissed her like refuse, he turned away. "Leave her here. She'll talk when she's ready."

Luca leaned in close to her ear as the guards stepped back, his breath hot against her skin. "You will break, princess. And when you do, I'll be the one standing over you, watching the light fade from your eyes."

Zephyra met his glare without flinching, chin raised in defiance that came from royal blood and unshakeable will. "Then you'd better not blink."