The Dark Prince stood close enough now that she could see the faint shimmer of silver in his irises — not a reflection of the torchlight, but something otherworldly.

"You have two paths before you, Guinevere," he said softly, his voice like silk drawn over steel. "One, you remain here of your own will. You will have food, warmth, safety... and my protection from those who hunt you."

Her pulse quickened. "And the other?"

His smile deepened, slow and deliberate. "The other is less... comfortable. You'll still stay. But you'll learn quickly that I don't tolerate defiance."

Guinevere's chin lifted despite the weight of his gaze. "Sounds like both paths lead to the same prison."

Finn chuckled under his breath, earning him a sidelong glance from the Prince. "Careful, Princess," he murmured in her ear, his tone a mix of warning and playful intrigue. "You're already treading the edge."

The Dark Prince stepped back, motioning toward one of the silken couches by the side of the pavilion. "Think carefully before you answer. Once chosen, there is no undoing it."

For a moment, the only sound was the low crackle of the fire in the brass braziers. Guinevere could feel both men's eyes on her — the Prince's, intense and claiming; Finn's, watchful and oddly protective.

Finn leaned closer, his voice just above a whisper. "If you're clever, you'll choose the path where you can move freely. Easier to survive that way... prettier, too."

She met his gaze, catching the faint smirk that softened into something almost earnest.

But before she could speak, the Dark Prince's tone cut through the air like a blade. "Well, Princess? Do you come to me willingly... or do I have to show you what unwilling feels like?"

Guinevere's mind spun.
The obvious choice was neither. But if she said that, she doubted the Dark Prince would give her a second chance.

She drew a slow breath, steadying her voice. "If I'm to choose, I'll need to know what willing looks like here."

The Dark Prince's lips curved in approval. "Curious. I like that."

He stepped closer again, circling her like a predator testing its prey. "Willing means you walk freely within my domain. You eat at my table. You sleep in silks, not in chains. And..." His hand brushed a lock of her hair from her shoulder, his touch lingering just long enough to make her tense. "...you speak to me as your prince. Not your captor."

Her heart pounded, but she kept her expression unreadable. "And unwilling?"

The Prince's voice lowered. "You will still be under my roof... but the nights will be colder, and the eyes upon you less kind."

From behind her, Finn's low murmur was almost lost in the fire's crackle. "Pick the silk cage, Princess. Gives you more room to slip through the bars."

She didn't dare look back at him, but his tone — half teasing, half serious — steadied her.

Guinevere tilted her head, pretending to weigh her options. "Then I'll need a night to decide."

The Prince arched a brow. "A night?"

"A night," she repeated firmly. "You've waited this long. Surely you can wait until morning."

He studied her for a long, silent moment. Then, surprisingly, he nodded. "One night. But at dawn... you will answer."

Finn's smirk returned as he released her wrist at last. "Looks like you've bought yourself some time, lass."

Time, yes — but as she followed Finn toward the guest chambers, her thoughts were already churning. A night might be enough... if she could find a way out before the sun rose.

The guest chamber was draped in deep red silk, the kind that seemed to drink the light from the brass lanterns. The bed was far too large, its coverlet embroidered with curling black vines. It was beautiful, but it felt nothing like safety.

When the guards finally left her alone, Guinevere sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers curling into the heavy fabric.

Her mind wandered — unbidden — to Nimue. She could almost hear her laugh, see the way her hair caught the light on summer mornings by the lake. Nimue would have told her to be bold, to fight, to find the thread of magic in even the darkest place.

Then Pym came to mind — sweet, stubborn Pym, always with a gentle word and a steadying hand. Pym would have scolded her for running from JJ's camp so soon. She would've insisted there was safety in numbers, even if the truth was more complicated.

And Arthur...
Her chest tightened. Arthur had been the steady stone in the chaos, the one she could lean on without fear of it crumbling. She wondered if he was searching for her now — or if he even knew where to begin.

But then... Lancelot.
The thought of him caught her off guard, a flicker of heat in her chest. The dark eyes that always seemed to see more than she said aloud, the roguish grin that made her wonder if he ever truly belonged to any one side. She wasn't sure if he was the one who'd save her... or the one she'd have to save herself from.

She sighed, leaning back on the bed, staring up at the canopy. She didn't know where she was — only that the walls were too close and the air too still.

And somewhere in the camp beyond, the Dark Prince was waiting for her answer.