The Crypts

The Crypts beneath the University were older than the city itself. They smelled of damp earth and centuries of decay.

Elara had been thrown into a cell that was little more than a hole in the wall with a rusted iron gate. Her hands were bound behind her back.

She sat in the darkness, shivering.

It was over. Enzo would marry Giulia. He had to. He wouldn't risk Elara’s life.

Tears pricked her eyes. She wasn't crying because she was going to die—she was crying because she had almost had him. For one beautiful, terrifying moment in the library, she had believed he loved her.

"Stop it," she scolded herself aloud. Her voice echoed in the damp cell. "You are Elara Vance. You are the Strategist. Think."

She took a deep breath, forcing the panic into a box in her mind.

* Situation: Locked in. Guard outside (she could hear him breathing). Hands bound.*

* Assets: A hairpin. A knowledge of historical architecture.*

Elara wiggled her fingers. The rope was tight, but it was hemp. Coarse. She rubbed her wrists against the rough stone wall behind her. It hurt. It scraped her skin raw. But she kept sawing. *Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.*

It took an hour. When the rope finally snapped, her hands were bleeding, but they were free.

She crawled to the gate. The lock was a simple tumble mechanism—ancient technology.

She pulled the hairpin from her messy bun. She closed her eyes, visualizing the diagram from her *history of security* textbook.

* Lift the third pin. Twist.*

The lock clicked. It sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

The guard snored on.

Elara pushed the gate open. It shrieked on its hinges.

The guard jolted awake. "Hey!"

Elara didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy stone from the floor and swung it as he scrambled to his feet. It connected with a dull thud. The guard crumpled.

She didn't kill him. She wasn't Enzo. But she searched his pockets, finding a ring of keys and a dagger.

"Now," she whispered, stepping over him. "I have a wedding to crash."