She should go back for Phosyne; a little more cajoling, perhaps, and the woman would likely follow her in and leave Ser Voyne behind entirely. Treila saw the bruises on her, after all. Has put together a little of their dynamic. But that might take time, and the Loving Saint’s echo is still ringing in her head.

And she knows exactly the cost she has to pay to leave on her own. It’s small enough.

When she can will herself to move again, she slinks through the passageway. It’s easier this time, and not only because soon she can see the glow of Phosyne’s candle at the other end. It’s not roomier, exactly; if there were more space around her, she would fear getting lost. But it is simpler. She doesn’t scrape herself as often. The tight pinches aren’t quite as tight as she remembers them being.

At last she emerges into the grotto and sets about dressing once more. It’s quiet, save for the faint trickling of the water, the susurrus of fabric over her skin. No Phosyne, no Ser Voyne, no refugees, no saints. The air of simple safety is almost strong enough to make her forget to fear the creature in the darkness.

He doesn’t say anything to greet her. The candle, after all, is still burning.

Treila looks at the crack for a long time, flexing her hand at her side. The Loving Saint’s words echo in her head. If you have a way out, I would suggest you take it. Whatever the cost. You won’t have the choice soon. It could be a trap, of course; perhaps he said it knowing it would drive her down here. Perhaps whatever lurks in that crevice is a friend of his.

She knows that just because it felt genuine, the way he purred against her skin, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a good liar, down to the bone. He must be.

But she doesn’t think he was lying when he warned her to be careful of bargains. One half of an exchange. She will not get something for nothing. Any way out was always going to cost her.

Here is what Treila knows: there is no chance of survival here, and no chance of retribution, either. The Constant Lady has taken that from her, and no matter what the Loving Saint says, Treila has enough of a sense of self-preservation not to go toe-to-toe with a woman who can simply erase her from Ser Voyne’s awareness. Treila’s not happy with it, will never be happy with it, but there are other people still outside the castle who had a hand in her family’s destruction. And, perhaps, it is poetic to let the king and his attack dog rot here, even if it’s not Treila’s doing. Even if they’re barely aware of it.